Free Rake's Honour by Beverley Oakley Page A

was nothing sly or forced about this contact.
    Excitement took on a life of its own as Lord Fenton's mouth, a hot, wet cavern of mystery and delight, became a playground of tangling tongues and panting desire.
    A desire that became increasingly mindless in response to her throbbing need as he bent to clasp her knee, hooking her leg over the armrest of the Egyptian sofa. He cupped her face before burying his mouth in her décolletage, his lips probing, his hands massaging until her breast burst free of its confinement and his tongue curled around her nipple.
    Delighted, she moaned, arching against him, prickles of excitement shooting from her breast to her lower belly, the apex of her legs now a mass of quivering sensation. When he cupped her mound she cried out with frustration at the intrusion of her clothing against heated skin, an unnecessary layer that kept them apart. For they were destined to be one—she felt it in the basest regions of her mind, body and soul.
    “Oh, God!” she gasped as the laving of his tongue heated the tip of her nipple beyond endurance. In an agony of ecstasy she rained kisses upon his crisp, dark curls, unsure whether to push him away or hold him closer.
    She thought she had reached the summit of her pleasure, but it was just the beginning, she realised, as he insinuated his hand beneath the hem of her gown. She held her breath, poised on the edge of she knew not what as he trailed gentle, probing fingertips up her leg. He massaged the heated, highly sensitised skin of her inner thigh with agonising slowness, until he reached her mound, slick with the juices of her desire.
    “You like it?” His voice was hoarse as he stroked the contours of her body with a tenderness at odds with the hard masculine strength of his own. It seemed he had barely the strength needed to groan, “Just say the word, and I’ll do whatever pleases you, my love.” The tension and effort it clearly cost him to remain gentle only intensified the thrill. He was hers to command and she was enthralled.
    Gasping as he gently parted her folds with probing fingers to resume his secret exploration, she felt as if her soul were on a string he was pulling ever tighter. And tighter. The rhythmic motion was creating needs she had never known she had. She held her breath, digging her fingers into his back and shoulders as he pleasured her, the tension within building to almost unbearable limits.
    His breath, husky with need, tickled her ear. “I want you like I’ve never wanted any woman.” Briefly, he held her face with both hands and she breathed in the scent of her own desire—a musky, heady fragrance that made her mind swim into a nether realm where her life existed on another plane and her body was a temple to this man whose touch unleashed such dangerous, forbidden impulses.
    She clenched her jaw in sudden determination that overrode every sensible notion her mother had ever instilled in her when it came to weighing up her future.
    Lord Slyther was a sure bet. She’d marry him tomorrow and perhaps be a widow within the year. Or ten. Meanwhile Fenton would wed another.
    She couldn’t let it happen…wouldn’t let it, whatever the sacrifices she must make. Fanny had never truly desired anything with complete and utter conviction as she desired Fenton as her legal wedded husband in that moment.
    Whatever it took, she would…
    All rational thought was sucked out of her brain by his next exquisite ploy.
    Fanny gasped, shuddering with shock and excitement as Fenton slid two fingers deep inside her. Rhythmically, he moved them in and out while cupping the back of her head with his other hand.
    Then, suddenly, he was on his knees, easing her down upon the sofa while he bent before her, parting her legs and glancing up at her for but a moment before she felt the sweep of his tongue across her slick opening.
    She bit down upon the ecstatic moan that burst from her, managed to gasp, “Oh, dear God, what are you doing?”
    But