Page 12 of Joy to the Earl

“I was bigger a few years ago,” said Rosalind in a tight voice, like she was embarrassed about something.

“Bigger?” he said absently, transfixed by the lush, full globes that fitted exactly in his hands.

“I fed Felicity myself rather than getting a wet nurse. Caused quite a rift in the family. My late mother-in-law didn’t speak to me for months, until the nasty matter was completed...oh…”

Jack looked up from where he’d started tracing the silvery lines with his tongue. “Something wrong?”

“N-no.”

“Good,” he said, unable to resist the temptation of feeling Rosalind’s nipples under his fingertips. Circling around, he rubbed the taut peaks until they stood high and firm and a darker pink than before. Then, as an experiment, he slid his index and middle finger on either side of her left nipple and gently squeezed.

Rosalind moaned. “Harder.”

This time he gave it a firm pinch, and when she whimpered and arched her back, he leaned down and lashed the tip with his tongue. Again and again he pinched and licked her nipple, until she wriggled on his lap, one hand winding around his neck and the other cupping her breast and lifting it nearer to his lips.

Groaning, he took her swollen nipple into his mouth and sucked hard while pinching the other with two fingers, reveling in Rosalind’s panting breaths and low cries of pleasure.

Without warning, she took his hand in hers, tugging it away from her breast.

“Rosalind?”

Instead of replying, her gaze never leaving his, she slid his hand down the bunched bodice of her gown and under the hem, then along her inner thigh until his knuckles brushed the hair shielding her cunt. Again, experimentally, he nudged farther in, parting the hair and gently massaging the slick, hot folds with one knuckle.

“Oh God,” she whimpered, her eyes closing as she ground against him. “More. Cup me, Jack. Put a finger inside me. Please.”

“No.”

Her eyes flew open. “What?”

“That’s better. I want to see your eyes. So you know it is me who is giving you pleasure.”

Rosalind shuddered, and a fresh trickle of moisture bathed his fingers. By touch alone he trailed his middle finger along her cunt, coating it in her wetness before gently pushing it all the way inside her. Christ, she was so hot and snug, her silken inner walls melting around his finger, and he had to take several deep breaths at the thought of his engorged cock being where his finger was. Inching his finger back and forth, side to side, he watched her face intently to discover what she liked best, and it seemed stroking a certain spot nearer to the front and at the top of her cunt left her writhing and moaning in his arms.

Greedy to make her come, to know the satisfaction of giving an orgasm, he stroked that special spot with his fingertip while pressing his thumb against her clitoris, and ever so lightly bit her nipple.

Rosalind buried her face in his shoulder and screamed, her hips jerking, her inner walls clamping around his finger as waves of release pulsed through her body.

Joy surged through him. He’d done it. He’d bloody well done it.

For the first time in his life, he’d got something right.

* * *

Oh God.

Still quivering, Rosalind clung to Jack’s shoulders and fought the urge to do something thoroughly embarrassing like cry all over him. That wondrous, soul-shaking, whole body turning inside out and flying to the stars feeling was a climax. The thing she’d spoken so thoughtfully and knowledgeably on to so many men and women, and laughably never experienced for herself. No wonder her couples looked so jubilant when they were finally able to give each other real pleasure for the first time, adding that deep sexual intimacy and closeness to the caring friendship that already existed in their marriages.

Envy tore through her so strongly, she winced. Imagine being wed to a kind, hardworking man she was madly attracted to, one who regularly brought her to climax and loved her as much as she did him. A man who would give her more children, as many as she liked, and would care for Fliss as if she was his own. A man who would converse over the breakfast table and discuss books and hold her while she slept…

No, not a man.

Jack.

Shaken at the depth of her longing, Rosalind shifted in his lap. “I must be crushing you,” she said awkwardly, not able to suppress a sigh of delight when Jack swirled the thick, blunt finger still lodged inside her against her acutely sensitive inner walls.

“Hardly,” he replied, and she could almost hear the smile in his voice. “You fit right nicely where you are.”

“Well then. What if I don’t ever want to move?”