Sexual Secrets. Melissa MacNeal
He suckled her then, and when his coarse mustache tickled her skin she giggled like a little girl.
He rose up, his gaze riveting hers.
“I—I’m sorry!” she wheezed. “I wasn’t laughing at you or—”
“Laugh, damn it! You’re making me feel like quite the man again.” He teased a nipple with his tongue then, holding her waist to keep her from wiggling away from this riot of sensations.
Camille closed her eyes. As her head lolled back and her husband’s lips tormented her sensitive skin, it was Heath she saw in her mind. He wanted her…Heath wanted to make love to both of them, Colette had said. She couldn’t keep still, and as she imagined what her sister’s handsome husband would be doing to her, her arms encircled Rutledge’s beefy shoulders. He moaned, low and primal, as he squeezed her softness against his rough cheeks. He kissed her breasts with silly, teasing smacks then, inciting more laughter as he stood up.
Without warning, he shoved her backward and threw her skirts up over her waist. A wineglass toppled, unheeded, as he slipped a finger into the slit of her drawers. Camille gasped, resisting his intrusion, but he grabbed both her hands in his. “Has a man ever thrust his tongue up your cunt?” he asked slyly.
Her mouth opened but no sound came out.
“Good. It’s only fitting that I be the first.”
What did he intend to do? And why would a man want to—
Rutledge parted the crotch seam of her drawers again, and Camille screamed at the first contact of his inquisitive, wet lips. Her legs flew apart, and then she squeezed his head with them, and then—well, she didn’t know what to do about the shocking sensations of his probing tongue and his rough mustache as he kissed her down there. “My God, you shouldn’t be—you surely can’t mean to—”
He pressed the bridge of his nose against a bone that nailed her to the table. Never mind that wine was now seeping into her hair as her head tossed to and fro, and that she felt indecent and exposed and—
Suddenly it was Hadrian Swann’s handsome face she imagined between her legs. Camille began to buck and cry out and whimper for more, even as she feared this loss of control. Desire like she’d never known spiraled hot within her. She strained for more solid contact—more pressure from his textured, pointed tongue. And yet, if she gave in to these thunderbolts of shameful pleasure, she would surely—
Erupt. You will feel like a volcano as you erupt—
In her mind’s eye, Hadrian Swann had unfastened his pants to thrust himself inside her, as mad with need and desire as she. Camille was doomed but she didn’t care. As waves of sensation carried her into a fit of moaning and writhing, she gave in to the unspeakable need to convulse. Spasms racked her body. Her hips wiggled as though possessed by a demon she’d never dared to dream about in her innocent state. This forbidden lover had lustrous bronzed skin and a thin mustache that matched his black soul, and he delighted in her cries for mercy…her helplessness…her shameful pleasure. And he knew she wanted more. Much, much more.
Camille collapsed. As she caught her breath, she peered through the slits of her eyelids. Rutledge was wiping her wetness from his mouth. Her palm itched to slap the victorious smirk from his face, but she knew better. Were men always so damned proud when women succumbed to them?
She allowed Rutledge to help her sit upright, but before he could launch into a discourse about the joys he’d just shown her—the glories that awaited her now that he’d flung open the gates of her passion—Camille scurried from the dining room. Was that snickering she heard in the butler’s pantry? Did she feel the weight of their maids’ secretive gazes from behind other doors as she removed her shoes?
She was beyond caring. As Camille ascended the grand staircase, the slap-slap-slap of her stocking feet on the marble taunted her like the sound of lovers’ thighs. All she could think about was a hot bath.
At the locked double doors on the landing, she raced to the left, toward the wing she shared with Lord Bentley. She entered her room and nearly rang for Mrs. Douthit out of habit, but then she stopped. When there came a day she couldn’t draw her own bath, she would be helpless indeed! Two hard twists of the faucets sent water gushing into the tub. Camille smugly hooked the bathroom door and removed her cerise gown, eager to be free and clean. Wine dripped from her scalp and a sticky warmth oozed down her legs: she was wet at both ends and saw nothing romantic about it. The unsightly claret stain on her shoulders would never come clean, and she’d only worn this gown twice.
Hairpins pinged on the floor. Silken underthings fell around her feet, and then Camille stepped into the steaming tub. In her agitation she dropped an entire box of bath salts, and then watched the force of the water whip them into a dense lemon-scented froth around her knees. She sank into the porcelain tub, closed her eyes, and pinched her nostrils shut. Slowly she slid down until she was submersed in the hot water…rubbed the stickiness out of her hair and from between her legs. When she could hold her breath no longer, she sat up again, sputtering.
Why had Rutledge finally shown an interest in her now? Had he uncannily guessed at her secret plan to leave him for Heath? If so, she and her sister were in deep trouble before they’d even made the switch.
And what if, after she and Colette swapped men, Heath’s attentions sent her scrambling to cleanse herself, as well? What did it say about her if a man like Colette’s hot-blooded husband made her feel so slimy, so soiled…so indecent that she retreated to a tub of hot water? Locked herself in the bathroom to escape him?
Camille inhaled the lemon verbena steam to calm her thoughts. Some questions had answers she didn’t want to know. No lock would keep Heath Bentley out of the bathroom if he wanted to be there, however, and that randy thought tickled the nerve endings between her legs.
She stood up and grabbed a fresh towel. This evening’s surprises had agitated her to the point she must see Rubio Palladino, immediately! She would demand that the seer conjure up a safer fate—a future that held answers rather than so many unsettling questions.
The dainty mantle clock in her bedroom chimed nine as Camille stepped into a simple gray skirt and a cream blouse. She tied her wet hair back with a ribbon, slipped into her cloak, and then took the service stairs to the back door nearest the carriage house. As Colette had reminded her, she was the lady of Briarcliffe and she owed none of the staff an explanation—least of all Charlie, the young blond man who eyed her with a speculative glint as she approached his quarters alone.
“I’ve dress designs to complete,” she announced. “Please drive me to the shop at once! I’ll be using the back entrance to avoid attracting attention, thank you.”
The footman had sense enough to turn away and button his pants before protesting. “Lord Bentley would never approve my taking you into town unescorted at this hour of the—”
Camille placed a hand coyly on his cheek. “I’m considering you my escort, Charlie,” she murmured. “Lord Bentley doesn’t need to know everything, does he?”
6
Wicked, wicked, wicked! Camille grinned in the darkness of the curtained brougham as it clattered along the London streets. Never had she dared to defy her husband! By now Rutledge would be ensconced in his own room, sipping brandy and smiling smugly over the day’s Inquirer and Daily Telegraph because he’d taken the little wife by surprise. Even if he thought to check on her, he would have no idea where she’d hidden herself…would assume she had gone to her sister’s wing of the mansion. It would never occur to him that she’d left the estate. Not meek, biddable little Camille.
Not anymore, I’m not! When the carriage came to a halt it felt oddly liberating to open the door herself, and then she allowed Charlie to help her down. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so you’re to wait here outside the shop door,” she instructed him. “Lord Bentley would insist that you keep watch. He’ll probably reward you for protecting my reputation during this little escapade, don’t you think?”
The