The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
Her voice sounded breathy to her. Jonathon was gazing at her with something akin to awe in those beautiful eyes.
‘Now you know.’ His own voice was husky and it occurred to her that while she’d found release he had not, not physically any way.
Her own audacity got the better of her. ‘May I do that to you? For you?’ Suddenly, she wanted more than anything to give him pleasure, to watch him find pleasure and know she’d been the one to give it.
His eyes glittered, dark with want as he spoke a single word. ‘Yes.’ His hands moved to the fall of his trousers, but she pushed them away.
‘Let me.’ She wanted to do all of it, be responsible for all of it. Her hands trembled as they worked the flap. She could feel him hot and ready beneath the fabric, already in a state of arousal. Pleasuring her had already brought him pleasure it seemed. A smile took her. Her response had pleased him, had been, in fact, exactly what he’d hoped.
The realisation made her bold, confident. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, his body open to her, exposed as she had been to him. He was hers for the taking, every inch of him magnificent. His phallus stirred under her gaze, starting to strain. It was all the invitation she needed. She closed her hand about him, hearing the sharp intake of breath at her touch and then an exhalation of pleasure. ‘You feel so damn good, Claire.’
She slid her hand down his length, exploring, testing the power of her touch to rouse him, to pleasure him. And then up, to be welcomed by a bead of moisture at his tip. Up and back, her hand made the journey, his body arching into her stroke, until it gathered itself, giving her warning that he, too, was about to shatter. Only it wasn’t a shattering, a breaking apart when it came, but a surging, potent and hot as she held him, feeling the strength of the shudders racing through him, watching the arch of his muscles and then the relaxation taking him as pleasure ran its course.
He reached for her, pulling her close against him with the last of his waking strength and she went, laying her head against his chest, fitting her body to his and for a while they slept, but she already knew, as exquisite as the pleasure had been, it hadn’t been enough. Tonight had not satisfied as she’d hoped. It had only provoked, proving it was nothing more than an appetiser on passion’s plate, and when she woke, he would most likely be gone, perhaps in more ways than merely the physical.
Lucifer’s balls, what had he done? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that question since leaving Claire’s in the wee hours of morning the same way he’d got in. By now he was quite familiar with what he’d done. Jonathon twirled the stem of his brandy snifter in idle frustration. Maybe the more important question was what was he going to do? He’d been sitting here since early morning. The sky had still been grey when he’d banged on the door of White’s. Since then, he’d progressed from coffee to brandy. This was his second glass. That was saying something considering it was only one in the afternoon. He was no closer to an answer.
He’d starting drinking at eleven instead of going to French lessons. He could not go to Claire until he had an answer. They’d both tacitly pretended last night had been a night out of time, a night that existed apart from the realities of their world. But he had not bargained on the pleasure being so exquisite, so meaningful. No, that was a lie. He would not have gone if he hadn’t thought the possibility existed. He’d taken no small risk in climbing that trellis. He’d known very well what lay at the end of that journey. Last night, it had been enough to simply discover it, claim it. But today, he wanted more of it and today, he couldn’t have it. Reality intruded.
He owed it to Claire to stay away now that they both understood what lay between them. He’d kept his promise. She’d had pleasure and she had not been ruined. But he could not dare anything more. It would not be fair to either of them. So, he’d sent a note informing her he wouldn’t be there for his lesson. He’d played the gentleman in that choice, but he felt like a coward. As for the planned trip to Fitzrovia and the French market, he let the weather do the rest.
It had been pouring since ten o’clock, keeping everyone inside and ruining the possibility of another excursion even if it had been possible. Jonathon had to settle for an afternoon spent at White’s which offered plenty of time to read the foreign newspapers and reflect on the fact that doing so was nowhere near as exciting as reading in a French bookshop with Claire, or climbing into bedrooms with Claire, or Claire’s hand on him bringing the most personal of pleasures.
‘May I join you?’
Jonathon looked up from the French news to greet Preston Worth. He smiled at his old friend and motioned to the empty chair. ‘Please. I could do with some company. The weather has driven everyone to ground.’
‘Unless one fancies ladies’ tea parties.’ Preston took a seat and gestured for a waiter to bring him a drink. ‘I hear you’ve been doing the pretty. My mother tells me you came to Lady Morrison’s at-home the other day.’
‘Not on purpose.’ Jonathon laughed and held his hands up in mock defence. ‘I was looking for someone.’
Preston gave him a sly look. ‘Does it happen to be a brunette with chocolate eyes who’s taken a newfound interest in clothes and speaks flawless French?’ The allusion was unmistakable.
‘Cognac, her eyes are the colour of cognac, not chocolate and dammit, Preston, this is why one’s friends shouldn’t go into intelligence. Do I have no privacy?’
Preston smiled smugly and overlooked the dig about intelligence. ‘So you were looking for Claire Welton.’
‘She is my French tutor, as you well know, apparently.’ He was a bit chuffed Preston knew. For his sake and Claire’s, Jonathon would rather have kept that bit of information under wraps.
Preston leaned forward, triumph leaving his expression, replaced by sincerity. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Having friends in intelligence also means they know how to keep a secret. You can trust Owen and me. We are souls of discretion.’
Jonathon shifted in his seat. ‘Owen doesn’t know.’
Preston chuckled. ‘Doesn’t know or you think he doesn’t know? Owen knows the colour of the king’s underwear on any given day. The man knows everything.’ Preston paused. ‘Speaking of “everything”, how’s the French going? Is it coming back?’
Jonathon rapped the small drink table between them with his knuckles. ‘For luck,’ he explained. ‘I would hate to jinx things now. I think so, better than I hoped. Claire is a fine instructor.’ It had been on the tip of his tongue to mention the outing to the bookshop, but he thought better of it. He preferred the idea that he had some secrets at least.
‘Claire? First names and all? I would say that is progress indeed.’ Preston drained his brandy. ‘She’s a fine dancer, too, and don’t cut up at me for noticing. You’ve danced with her every night lately. It’s not a secret. Anyone who cared to notice could. Is that part of your tutoring as well?’ There was a veiled edge to his tone.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Jonathon answered with an edge of his own.
Preston twirled the stem of his snifter with an idle nonchalance. ‘I don’t know what it means, Jonathon. That’s why I’m asking you. Does it mean anything at all?’
Jonathon was glad the club was nearly empty. Preston’s voice suddenly seemed louder than necessary, but he couldn’t ask his friend to lower his tone without implying that perhaps something was indeed afoot. Implication was all the bone Preston would need to dog him about it until he confessed.
I took your sister’s friend out yesterday without a chaperon and ravaged her in a French bookshop until the shopkeeper threw us out. Then we finished what we had started in her bedroom last night. Just with hands, though, no damage done.
He didn’t need an especially creative imagination to know how that would go over. Preston had always been protective of