Page 32 of The Best Marquess

Finn’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head when Pippa did both, squeezing his cock and gently rubbing her thumb back and forth across the dripping head. “Like that. Just like that.”

“Hmmm. Seed has an earthy scent. Interesting.”

He might have laughed at such a bluestocking comment, but what she was doing felt too good, a series of up and down movements he recognized from a memorable scene in The Highland Marauder.

“I will come…harder than the laird,” he warned, battling valiantly for control. The alternate pressure and release of her grip around his throbbing cock was damned near perfect. “Do you…do you have a handkerchief?”

“Yes,” Pippa replied, sounding mildly insulted. But she reached for her reticule with her free hand, opened it, and retrieved a neatly folded square of linen.

“Drape it…around the end. Fuck, Pippa. What you’re doing is…splendid.”

Like a true heroine, she gripped his cock just a little harder. Finn braced himself against the curricle seat and groaned, mindlessly thrusting against her hand, harder and harder, until he reached a point of no return. One of her hands closed over his mouth, muffling the sounds of ecstasy as his cock erupted, spurting seed into the handkerchief with the force of a goddamned geyser.

Eventually he sank back against the seat, utterly drained and unable to string a sentence together. He’d made himself come with his hand on countless occasions. Never had it been like that.

“Finn? Are you well? Do you need a restorative caramel?”

“Yes,” he croaked, because words were difficult, but then his perfect woman slipped a sweet into his mouth as she carefully wiped his cock clean with the handkerchief.

He loved her practical nature. And her attention to detail.

Ah hell, he just loved her.

Finn sighed. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” she beamed. “After two orgasms I am entirely in charity with the world. Although I wonder if the horses are pondering slipping their bridles and bolting. Actually…I think I see a few curricles in the distance. We might need to continue on.”

He quickly attended to his clothing. Then climbed down from the curricle on unsteady legs and unhooked the reins from the tree branch, before returning to his seat. Pippa smoothed her hair and put her bonnet and gloves back on, then curled her hand around his arm, making him smile.

It might not yet be noon, but already this was the best day of his life.

Chapter 7

Most days, London was so cold and dreary that hope could be difficult to muster. But right now, high up in this curricle snuggled next to Finn, the whole world appeared brighter.

Pippa took a deep breath and gazed all about her. The air seemed fresher, the temperature warmer, the sun was trying to peek through the heavy cloud, and best of all, she could see joy. A pie cart owner cheerfully handing over piping hot pasties to a couple. Children laughing as they played with a rambunctious puppy. Women walking arm in arm and sharing secrets. A line of prosperous merchants purchasing newspapers from a young lad with a bulging satchel over his shoulder.

What a difference a few orgasms made.

Even now, her body still thrummed with happiness. And she understood why lovers risked all for pleasure, even in public places, although Georgiana taking part without receiving such a reward remained incomprehensible. In truth, had they not been perched up on a curricle in the middle of Hyde Park, she might have permitted far more.

Finn’s fingers warranted the commissioning of a statue as a marvel of the age. Making herself come while reading an explicit book was wonderful, but it didn’t compare to skilled fingers, neck kisses, and wicked words whispered in her ear. That had resulted in orgasms of a cataclysmic nature and needed to be repeated in the near future. Preferably tomorrow.

“What are you thinking, I wonder,” said Finn curiously, as he halted the grays to allow a delivery cart stacked high with firewood to pass.

“Statue commissions,” she replied.

“Really?”

“Well, I was thinking that, but then I remembered how disrespectful birds can be.”

Other people would have looked at her askance or enquired about her health, but Finn was unperturbed. “Tis a sad state of affairs when not even a king, saint, or celebrated warrior is immune from a passing pigeon. A statue of what in particular?”

“Your fingers,” Pippa blurted. “But in light of the aforementioned facts, an ode would be better. All hail Finn’s fingers, the delight lingers. If not again tomorrow, I’ll feel tremendous sorrow.”

His cheeks flushed. “Did you hear that breast-beating wail? That was Byron, knowing he will never pen anything so concisely elegant or heartfelt.”

“Oh, that man. Poetry is a secondary occupation to obeying his wandering cock. Perhaps if he’d invested more time in his marriage, his wife wouldn’t have left him and taken dear baby Ada with her. I hope when you marry, you’ll halt your rakish ways. Actually…I hope you’ll halt them for the duration of our pretend betrothal. If you are pleasuring me, do not pleasure anyone else.”