Diamonds in the Rough. Portia Da Costa
freedom. Water against her skin was even more seductive than air. It was like being embraced by cool silk that flowed everywhere, tantalizing her most sensitive zones. Her very soul seemed to open like a flower, subtly stimulated, not only by the water, but by the presence of her handsome, provocative companion with his probing silvery eyes and his strong, masculine body. She knew she would have to face up to both when they eventually left the stream again.
Invigorating as the swim was, Adela knew she couldn’t stay in the river forever, so as she felt herself beginning to tire, she made for the bank. Not giving herself even a heartbeat’s hesitation, she climbed out of the water, trying to move as elegantly as she could.
Once on the shore again, she felt the cool breeze lick her skin, and began to shiver, her teeth chattering.
Oh, fiddle, how on earth am I going to dry myself? She’d have to use her petticoats, but then they would be damp when she put them on. Wonderful as her dip had been, second thoughts rushed in, in abundance.
The slosh of water as Wilson emerged, too, made her turn around, even though she’d not planned to. His eyes narrowed, and she knew he’d seen her shivering.
“Sit down on my dressing gown. I’ll dry you.”
“But—”
“No buts. Don’t be silly, woman.”
Adela did as she was told, and the moment she was settled, Wilson snatched up his white shirt and began rubbing her vigorously with it, massaging her skin and stimulating the flow of blood as well as drying her.
The sensation was delicious, warming to the senses and unexpectedly relaxing. Adela almost purred as her circulation heated and surged.
“Better?”
“Blissful!” She said it without thought. It was true, too, but a second later, dangerously revealing. Here she was, being handled by a man, with only a layer of fine cotton between his fingers and her body—and Wilson didn’t hold back; he was drying her everywhere. He rubbed the shirt over her breasts, the action slower and more circumspect, in respect of the more delicate nature of her anatomy there, but with his hands curved in a way that was cupping and caressing. Adela knew she should command him to stop, and tell him that she’d deal with those areas herself, thank you very much. But she couldn’t. She liked it. She liked it a lot. Coming up on her knees, pretending to investigate her bedraggled hair, and her half-collapsed chignon, she invited him to take further liberties.
Wilson doubled up the cloth of the shirt, slipped it between her thighs and began to rub it gently back and forth.
Adela grabbed his shoulder. Their eyes met. The shirt moved slowly, but he was silently asking the question, Shall I stop?
This was scandalous. Forbidden. Beyond daring. Yet so heavenly that Adela could not resist. She dug her nails into Wilson’s bare shoulder and let out a small, indistinct sound of assent.
The soft, slightly damp cloth molded to her sex, and she could feel his fingers through it. They sought and found her most sensitive spot, dividing her curls. He moved beside her to gain better purchase, his other hand settling on the small of her back. Adela bore down, rocking now, and moaning at the heavy, gathering sensation. She knew what it was. The books in her grandfather’s library said very little about a woman’s side of things, but her faster classmates at the ladies’ collegiate had seemed to know all of it, and their racy talk fired her to experiment. The pleasure she’d experienced had been intense and shocking, and even though the whispers at the collegiate had implied it was a wicked sin, and perverse, Adela didn’t think so. Something so lovely couldn’t be all that bad.
And it wasn’t bad now. It was wonderful. Even though she was taking the most enormous risk, letting her disreputable and infuriating cousin do it to her.
“Shall I stop?”
The words shocked her far more than Wilson’s touch ever could. “No,” she managed to reply, her voice cracking as she threw her arms around his neck, holding him in a death grip. Nothing was going to stop her reaching her goal, not even Wilson’s conscience and second thoughts. She nearly throttled him when he withdrew his hand, but it was only to toss away the now redundant shirt. A breath later, his bare hand replaced it in the niche between her thighs.
The exquisite artistry of Wilson’s fingertips rubbing and circling her clitoris was too much. She was too excited. Almost immediately her core began to ripple and clench, and, with breathless pleasure surging, she spent. Her arms tightened around him, and another time, she might have realized she was probably hurting him, but all she wanted now was to keep him and his divine hand closer than close. She buried her face in his neck to muffle her cry of release.
Her entire body was hot now, fired by her orgasm, but somehow what she’d felt still wasn’t enough. There had been other matters discussed at the collegiate, and despite the dangers, Adela would not be denied. She wanted more.
Falling back onto Wilson’s dressing gown, she hauled him down with her, feeling a triumphant rush of desire as his body pressed against hers. He was hard as iron, his member shoving against her belly.
This was uncharted territory, a world away from girlish dreams of romance, and her imaginings of what the matrimonial embrace might be like. This was darkness and danger on a brilliant summer’s day, and the rebel in her reached out for the risks...and for Wilson’s sturdy cock. He groaned as she folded her fingers around him. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, but it seemed to her that a man was sensitive in this particular area, and to treat him like a pump handle might be more painful than pleasurable. With a light grip and a slow stroke, she began to caress him, half her mind still amazed at what was happening.
“Oh, Della, Della, you have the touch of a courtesan,” he gasped, his hips pushing in time to her fondling. Adela faltered, doubting for a moment. Did she want to be compared to a light o’ love? And what did Wilson know about courtesans, anyway?
“Oh, don’t stop, darling girl, your caress feels wonderful. You have magical hands.... It must be the artist in you.”
Flatterer.
She was glad to please him, though. He’d certainly pleased her, and she was all for fair play, for gratitude expressed. But it was more than that. The way Wilson’s cock felt to her hand was intriguing, fascinating and delightful. It almost seemed like a discreet living entity of itself, rather than a part of him. It was the very essence of life, and of man.
He made strange noises. Rough groans and grunts, muttered words, some of them very crude, but raw and exciting. The very sound of his voice was a reciprocal caress, stirring her without even touching her.
“That’s it, Della...that’s it...bring me off....” The words were harsh, but she sensed he was still trying to contain himself and not shock her or grab at the pleasures her flesh represented to him. Did he think she was afraid? Did he think she was cold and indifferent, now that she’d had her release? Well, he was wrong. Her appetite had only just begun to stir.
Adela pushed her body against Wilson’s even as she played with his cock. She was on fire again, her belly alive with a gnawing hunger, and emptiness for which there was only one answer. It was madness to give in to the urge. Her rational mind knew that, but good sense and logic were being washed away by a force as inevitable as the flowing stream.
She took a firmer hold on Wilson’s erection and, parting her legs, drew him to her, wiggling around until she was right beneath him, open and ready.
“Della! What are you doing? We can’t do this!”
Adela’s eyes shot open and she looked up into Wilson’s. At their center they were black as night, giving lie to his words, just as his cock did. He wanted her, he hungered for her, but the learned man, versed in physiology and biology, was fighting to remain in control...and yet losing, in the same way her own wits were addled.
Yes, we can! I can’t bear it if we don’t!
She didn’t speak. She wasn’t capable of it. But she knew Wilson understood her completely.
“Oh,