Page 31 of The Best Marquess

“Anything. Do anything. Just don’t stop.”

With one hand resting over her mouth to muffle sounds, he rocked the fingers of his other hand back and forth, penetrating further. Now, what was the movement they did in the novels? Beckoning?

Finn stretched his fingers, exploring her tight channel. Then frowned as he felt something different, almost a rough patch within the silken clasp of her pussy. Experimentally, he pressed with one fingertip. “There?”

Pippa bucked against his hand. “Mmmmfff!”

It seemed that was indeed the spot.

Settling into a rhythm, he moved his fingers in and out, nudging that tiny rough patch each time. Pippa began to writhe on his lap, but his arm across her breasts was too secure for her to fall. Then she arched with a sobbing cry and her pussy clamped around him like a vise, the waves of her orgasm pulsing and rippling and gripping his fingers in a most satisfactory way.

All hail explicit romance novels and their wonderfully detailed scenes. He had wanted very much to learn how to pleasure a woman, but not visit a courtesan to be instructed. To know that he could make Pippa come, make their play enjoyable when he wasn’t at all the experienced rake that she thought him to be, well, he’d never been more relieved in his life.

Finn carefully withdrew his fingers from her pussy and took his hand away from her mouth to instead stroke her cheek. “Satisfactory?”

Pippa made an unintelligible sound. “I think you may have graduated all the way to acceptable.”

“I’m humbled.”

“In a few minutes, when my wits return, I should like to touch you.”

Yes. If his cock got any harder, it would snap in half.

“Would you now?”

“Yes please,” she said, interlacing her fingers with his, and he actually thought his heart might burst.

Was there a chance? That Pippa might fall in love with him in return and make this pretend betrothal a real one? His foolish heart certainly thought so. It was already planning a wedding and pondering locations to rent a townhouse so they could both escape their family homes and the associated bad memories. With a large library, naturally, to shelve all their romance novels and her Latin textbooks.

Eventually, Pippa wriggled off his lap so she sat beside him on the leather seat. Then she lifted the blanket and stared pensively at the outline of his straining cock. Thankfully his betrothed didn’t lower her spectacles and peer over them, if she’d done that he probably would have come in his trousers without a single touch, and that would be hellishly embarrassing.

“What would you like to do, Pippet?”

She hummed as she removed her gloves. “Unfasten your trousers. May I?”

Finn nodded, then silently counted backward from twenty as Pippa fumbled with the buttons on the flap of his trouser fall, her knuckles brushing his engorged length. At first, he thought her nervous, but when she did it a third time, his gaze narrowed. “Having trouble with the buttons, are we?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord,” she replied, fluttering her lashes as she trailed the knuckle of her right index finger around the bulge.

He gripped the side of the curricle. “I’m hanging by a thread here.”

Pippa cupped him and gently squeezed. “Good. I don’t recall any mercy shown to me. In fact…I had to ask nicely.”

“Pretty please may I have an orgasm, Lady Pippa? My very own betrothed?”

Her lips curled in an exceedingly naughty way. “I shall certainly give your request serious consideration.”

Then, with a flick of her fingers, she attended to the buttons with no trouble whatsoever and finally freed his aching length from its fabric prison. Finn might have swooned in pure relief, but she proceeded to stroke him from his heavy balls to the swollen tip of his cock and he groaned instead as a trickle of pearly moisture bathed the head.

He’d not considered death by denied orgasm as a way to depart this realm, but it might in fact be possible, the way his heart was threatening to beat right out of his chest.

Pippa was touching his cock.

And it felt so damned good he wanted to roar in triumph.

“Yes,” he gritted out, as one of her soft hands tentatively closed around the girth.

“Good lord,” she said. “I cannot quite make my fingertip and thumb meet. You have a very thick cock, just like the comte…I must say, I always snorted at the satin over steel description, but it is quite accurate. Far more helpful than a Latin textbook at least. Should I rub? Or squeeze some more?”