Free A Certain Latitude by Janet Mullany Page A

turned her around to face him, cupping her breasts in his hands. “You’re a pretty woman, Miss Clarissa Onslowe. And I’ll do all of that for sure to you. But first…”
    His cock reared dark and hard against her belly. She stroked one finger down its length and smiled as it jumped, a drop of fluid stretching and dripping onto her hand.
    He caught her wrist to stop her. “Later.” His voice was rough, and she realized then his excitement matched hers. “Sit down. On my box, I think.”
    She sat.
    “Open your legs for me.”
    “What—”
    He knelt before her, put a hand on each knee and pushed her thighs wide apart, quite firmly, as though not brooking any argument. Her secret parts were exposed, vulnerable to his gaze—he was looking between her legs, at her cunny. She was wet and swollen, embarrassed, vulnerable, excited.
    He raised his gaze to her. “You want to come, don’t you?”
    “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.
    “Oh, you’ll come, Clarissa.” He stroked one finger slowly, too slowly, down the ridge of her clitoris—she shook with pleasure—down between her swollen labia, pushing just inside her for one moment, and then back up, circling. “I’m told women like this way the best.”
    Before she could protest he dipped his mouth to where his fingers played and replaced them with his tongue. She’d heard maids at Thelling’s whisper of it, tipping the velvet, giggling to each other that it was the best thing a man could do, although they thought so highly of their cocks … and, oh, yes, what a strange and wonderful thing it was. Who would have thought a tongue— tempting and wicked in her mouth—could be used so, and his lips, and even a hint of his teeth. His hands stroked up her sides, closed on her breasts and pulled her nipples hard, and she gripped the edge of the box tightly, torn between wanting to watch what he did and flinging herself back to enjoy his touch. She caressed his head, the springing curl of his black hair, pushed against him— yes, Allen, please —then grabbed with both hands to steady a world flying apart. Coming, oh, not nearly enough of a word for what happened, for the glorious tumult of spiral, rolling, boiling over-ness—she laughed, still gripping his head, and repeated his name. Allen. Allen. Allen.
     
    She slumped forward, her head on his shoulder, gasping for breath and still laughing. He’d never before had a woman who laughed when she came, and he wondered whether he should be insulted. But, no, it was a splendid thing in its own way; he certainly preferred it to women who wept. At least this way he could be certain she’d enjoyed herself.
    “Thank you,” she said, which made him laugh too.
    “My pleasure. No, your pleasure. Our pleasure.” He touched a finger to her open quim, wet with his saliva and her own excitement, stroked and watched her face. “Shall I do it again?”
    “Oh.” She looked quite thrilled, like a child at a fair being offered a second gingerbread man. Then she glanced at his erection and giggled.
    “And what is so funny?” He tried to sound appropriately outraged.
    “It’s—would you like to—to fuck me?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and this extraordinary woman who had avidly watched him finger and tongue her cunt and play with her breasts actually blushed. “I thought you might be uncomfortable.”
    “Uncomfortable with lust for you? That’s one way to put it.” He grabbed her legs, locking them around his arse, his cock bumping up against her. “How do you like to do it best?”
    “Best?” she echoed him.
    He glanced around at their surroundings. If he took her on a berth he’d get splinters in his arse, and there’d be nowhere for his knees and…he wanted a big feather bed with bedposts to tie her to, and big and soft enough to spread her out and fuck her and fuck her…somehow the fucking part would happen here, but he wasn’t sure how.
    He stood and opened the door, shoved the tub and bucket