Free A Certain Latitude by Janet Mullany Page B

outside, and grabbed the quilt from Mrs. Blight’s bed. “Come here.” He tossed the quilt to the floor and pulled her down with him. “Tell me how you like it,” he repeated.
    She looked confused.
    What the devil had her lover been about?
    “You know, on top, on your side, standing up, sitting, from behind…let’s try a few positions and you can tell me what works best.” He positioned her on her back, spread her legs and thrust forward, making, to his great embarrassment, a small whimpering sound as he entered her.
    He wanted to come. Oh, Christ, he wanted to come.
    “Well, this is quite pleasant,” she said in a voice of cheerful determination that made him laugh again.
    “If I were a more sensitive soul I might slink away and kill myself. ‘Quite pleasant,’ indeed.”
    “I beg your pardon. Ecstatic, wondrous, like me to make me swoon?” She frowned. “I did it this way before.”
    He sighed in mock dismay. “Miss Onslowe, please do not boast of your conquests to me. It is most unseemly. Unless”—he bent to nip her ear and she squirmed beneath him in a most satisfactory manner—“unless you seek to arouse me unbearably by recounting an experience of absolute filth.”
    “I’m afraid I didn’t find it particularly arousing then.”
    “No need for apologies. Let’s try this.” He turned onto his back, hoisting her on top of him, admiring the neat drop of her breasts into his hands.
    She looked at him, confused, aroused.
    “Move, darling,” he said, thrusting upward.
    “Like this?” She rose, slid, sank. And again.
    “Oh, yes.” He gripped her hips, his balls and buttocks tightening. “Clarissa, I won’t last like this. Let’s try another way.”
    “Mmm,” she said, swiveling her hips in a most distracting way. “Oh. Oh, I like this. I can rub myself against you.”
    He gritted his teeth. “We’ll come back to this later, I promise.”
    “Promise?” She raised his hands to her breasts.
    “Yes.” With a heroic effort he unbalanced her, tipping her off. “On your hands and knees, if you please.”
    She hesitated.
    “You’ll like it,” he said.
    “It’s most vulgar,” she said, presenting her backside to him. “Why do you want to look at my arse?”
    “Because,” he said, guiding himself in, entranced by the sight of his cock disappearing into her quim, “your arse is ‘ecstatic, wondrous, like to make me swoon’.”
    She made a snorting sound of disbelief and rocked back against him.
    “Also, I can do this.” He slapped one creamy buttock.
    “Ow! Don’t!”
    “Or this.” He reached his hand round, seeking her clitoris, and found it swollen and hard. She was closer than he thought, or possibly than she knew herself. She moaned, moved with him, sighed. He moved his hand to her breast, so he could watch the wet slide of his cock, the tense and sway of her buttocks.
    “Allen?”
    “Yes, my love?”
    “May I go on top again?”
    He groaned. “In a moment.”
    “Please.”
    He’d promised to pleasure her, and so he would. Allen Pendale kept his word, so even though he thought it would kill him, he withdrew one more time and flung himself on his back.
    Damn her, the coquette took her time mounting him, rubbing shamelessly against his cock and leaning to kiss him—which he quite enjoyed, or would have enjoyed more, if he had not been so eager to rush to the finish. She wriggled around, fine-tuning her position on him, while he tensed and moaned beneath her.
    “Do you like this?” She pinched his nipples with her fingers.
    “I—I don’t know. Maybe.” He thrust into her, impatient now.
    “Stop!” Her face had an expression of intense concentration. She moved slowly, finding a rhythm to her liking, and he prayed he could hold out for her. He sought frantically in his mind for distraction: Latin declensions thrashed into him at school—no, too much effort; the Catechism—forgotten, and surely he would rot in hell—while she drove him on and on…Kings of