Free A Certain Latitude by Janet Mullany

his balls and pulled back his foreskin to wash his cock.
    “Does that give you pleasure?” her voice was a throaty murmur, as she watched his cock harden in his hand.
    “Yes. And particularly knowing you watch me.” He stroked himself, just to see her reaction.
    She paused in combing her hair, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips.
    And this woman thought she needed tutoring in the amorous arts? He grinned with delight and finished washing—arse, legs, feet—then squatted to rinse himself.
    She took the bowl and poured water down his back, following the stream with her cool hand, running her hand over his shoulder-blade, down his spine. She knelt next to him, her face close to his. She’d tied her hair back with a ribbon; it fell between her shoulder-blades in a wet club.
    “Clarissa.” He took her chin in his hand, tilting her mouth to his. He wanted to kiss her properly, tease her with his lips. Her mouth was cool beneath his: she tasted of herbs and salt spray, and he had a sudden urgent desire to taste his semen on her lips.
    “We’ll concentrate on your pleasure this time. I trust that is agreeable, Miss Onslowe?” he whispered into her mouth. He wanted to be formal with her, a prelude to the reversal of formality when they would obey a different set of rules. 
    Her small gasp parted her lips to the tip of his tongue. Just the tip, no more; give her a taste, make her want him as much as he wanted her.
    He moved his mouth to her neck—good, she was sensitive there, flinching a little, but only a little, as his bristles rasped against the tender skin, his tongue and teeth giving her a small taste of what might follow.
    “Your pleasure?” he repeated.
    She shivered against him in a satisfying way. “Quite. And the next time?”
    “Oh, we’ll think of something, I’m sure. We could do some very…indecent acts of an advanced nature.” His fingers crept into her shift and closed over her hard nipple.  He pinched, not intending to hurt her, but not too gently. “Do you have any preferences, Miss Onslowe?”
    “I…I don’t know.”
    “I trust you’re prepared this time, Miss Onslowe?”
    “Yes. Mr. Pendale.”
    He liked the thought of her, shift raised, one slim hand reaching between her legs, inserting a sponge for his pleasure. He’d watch her do it when she was less shy with him.
    “Good. I intend to come inside you. Several times.”
     
    When she stood, and he stood too, drops of water falling against her shift, dampening it against her, she thought her legs might collapse with pleasure and nervousness. His erection pushed blatantly against her, his hand was still at her breast, and she wanted to touch him everywhere, barely knowing where to start. She reached her hands behind him and touched his back, the wet cool skin.
    “You’re wet,” she gasped idiotically.
    “Am I?” He nipped at her ear. “Probably not as wet as you are for me.”
    Oh, God, he’s crude. Wonderfully crude. He stepped from the tub in a shower of tepid drops, so he stood behind her.
    “Part your legs for me, darling. Pull your shift up.”
    “What about my pleasure?” As his cock bumped against her naked buttocks, she was afraid he’d take her there and then, when she wanted his delicious teasing to continue.
    “Hold your shift up. That’s right. Now watch.” His hand, dark and square against her belly slid between her thighs, parting her, touching her exactly where she yearned to be touched. His other hand pinched and stroked her nipple. He murmured that he wanted to frig her all the time when he wasn’t fucking her; he wanted her to come and come; he wanted her lovely quim squeezing his cock; he wanted her wet and soaking him, milking the honey from his ballocks—crude, shocking things in his beautiful, resonant voice, words that made her pant and moan with excitement.
    Then he stopped as her thighs tensed for her orgasm.
    “But, first, we’ll take off this shift.” He stripped it from her and