Page 18 of The Notorious Lord Sin
She swallowed hard the lump in her throat that formed at the sound of his apology. Nothing he did or said could make her forgive him for the wrong he did, not only on her behalf, but that of her daughter too, she reminded herself. A youth or not, he ought to have known better.
Play the game, Paris. Teach him a lesson in love that he will never forget ...
Determination coursed through her, and she rallied. She would play this game of seduction, take what she wanted, give him hope, and then strip him of it when he least expected it.
Revenge was a cruel mistress, and Lord Astoridge was about to discover how cruel she could be.
"Your apology is accepted, my lord," she said, leaning back again on the pianoforte.
He met her eye, and she shivered at the determination, the desire that burned within his gaze. He reached out, his large hands clasping the hem of her tunic.
She swallowed as he bit his lip, slipping the silk of her gown over her knees to reveal her thighs. "So damn beautiful," he whispered, pushing her legs wider. "You have no idea how much I have dreamed of being with you again. Of having you in my bed."
Paris bit her lip as he slipped her gown about her hips, exposing her to his hungry gaze. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against the skin on her thigh, paying attention to the sensitive flesh beside her knees.
She sighed, clasping the piano stool with determination to stop from reaching for Dominic.
"Damn, I want you so much," he admitted, sliding his tongue along the inside of one leg before he came to her mons. He slipped her legs over his shoulders and pulled her against his mouth.
She gasped as his tongue slipped between her folds, laving her cunny with a hunger that left her reeling. His mouth moved on her with ravenous strokes, flicking and delving into her with relentless perfection.
Paris fought not to moan, not to cry out at the exquisiteness of his touch. Over and over, she reminded herself they were at a ball. No place to be so bold, but nor could she ignore what he did to her.
Her body was alight with need. Moisture pooled at her aching core, and the sweet sense of satisfaction slowly edged ever closer with each lick, each flick of his tongue.
"Oh yes," she breathed, fisting his locks into her hands.
He growled against her quim, moving his hand to touch her there. His finger sank into her, filling her as he once had, and she moaned. "I want my cock where my hand is," he admitted.
She looked down and watched him slowly take her with his finger, in and out in glorious repetition that left her incapable of speech. She licked her lips, wanting the same, but not tonight. This night was for him to do as she wished. To give her pleasure. She would be damned if she would waver with her plan and give him satisfaction too.
"Soon," she promised.
He dipped his head, his strokes with his hand increasing, thrusting deep, sweet pleasure that taunted her to no end. She closed her eyes as his mouth came down on her again. He suckled her nubbin, and it was too much.
Waves of pleasure crashed over her, and she rode his hand and face, took what she wanted, and allowed the delight to thrum through her until she was weightless with fulfillment.
"You taste wicked and sweet," he said, wringing out every ounce of her orgasm. "I'm so fucking hard," he admitted, taking himself in hand.
She sat forward, slipping her legs off his shoulders, and pushed him back. Her dress settled about her legs as if they had not just partaken in something utterly scandalous. "I thank you for your service, my lord. I do so hope we get to do this again. It was most enjoyable." Paris stood and stepped past him.
She heard him stumble upright before he wrenched her to a stop at the door. "Paris, where are you going? I thought ..."
She patted his chest before tidying up his toga, which had crumpled a little from their rendezvous. "You thought what, my lord?" she asked, wanting to hear him say the words aloud.
He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. The confusion on his handsome face made her anger falter, but a moment before, she remembered why she loathed him still.
"It is nothing," he said, seemingly understanding that she was to receive pleasure but no one else this evening.
Paris pushed down the guilt that rose at her actions. The words that two wrongs did not make a right ran through her mind. But was that entirely true? She was a woman, and they were the sex that always earned the worst part of any bargain. Why could she not come out on top, for this night at least?
"You best return first, and I shall follow you in several minutes. We do not wish to get caught together. I know how much that would displease you."
Paris turned on her slippered feet, unlocked the door, and fled. Were his words a little affront toward how she had treated him this evening? Letting her know that he understood that she had used him to get what she wanted? Just as he had used her before leaving without a backward glance.
Instead of returning to the ball, she climbed the stairs to use the retiring room. Thankfully the space was empty, and she strode to a window and wrenched it open, breathing deep the cool, night air.
She could do this. She could remain aloof and unaffected by him. Use him and hurt him. She could. She had to.
