Black Silk. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ clenched around him, pulsating. Her eyes closed as she tumbled into delight. He knew, of course, and let go of the ropes to caress her sensitive breasts. Her nipples…oh, yes. He plucked them, and she arched.

      “Be merciless,” Maryanne hissed, for it was so good.

      He laughed, drawing his cock back, and he pumped again.

      Her cries spilled out into the night sky and flew out over London. Her screams shattered the quiet of the park—below came male laughter, and then cheers.

      She should be shocked. Embarrassed. But she was still rocking with her climax.

      Dash knew he couldn’t last longer, and the basket jerked as he grabbed the stays again and braced to fuck hard. Verity was tight and wet and still coming around him, and her screams were loud enough to wake slumbering London.

      Raucous shouts of congratulations came from below, but he ignored them. He never let another man’s chants urge him, affect him. This wasn’t a competition or sport, this was blessed heaven—he focused solely on fucking, and his reward was escape from pain.

      Her bottom was slick with their sweat and juices. It would be rubbed raw from the rough hair on his groin, but she was urging him. “Hard and deep. Yes!”

      One more…just once more and he could surrender.

      “Oh!”

      The signal he could let go. His orgasm exploded inside, ripping through his brain, shooting down his back, roaring from his balls. God, it took him so ferociously he almost stumbled. His eyes shut, his face contorted in agony, and his body bucked as his seed shot out.

      Deep into his luscious Verity.

      He felt the jerk of the basket, the fight of the balloon—it tossed them about.

      He wrapped one arm tight around Verity and moved his hips back. On a flood of hot juices, his cock slid out.

      “What is happening?”

      “They are lowering us, love. We’ve completed the task.”

      Even after two passionate climaxes, her mask was in place, keeping her a secret. She possessed an air of innocence—she was most definitely an ingenue but not untutored. And even the most willing virgin knew to barter that precious barrier.

      So why had he never encountered her before?

      Dash opened the vent, leaned over the edge of the basket, and saw the torches come closer. The basket shuddered, swayed, and his gut jerked with the motion. Christ Jesus, his head swam and began to pound again.

      He had to stay focused. He had to discover who had been here. And he had to control the blasted balloon as they descended.

      Verity was a warm bundle in the crook of his arm, her heartbeat pounding deliciously against his palm. Alive. Still recovering from the little death. Her scent was rich with sex aroma now, but he still caught the trace of demure lavender. A simple perfume, when most courtesans used exotic brews to entice.

      He wanted to push everything aside and delve into the mystery of Verity.

      He wanted to forget about that night when he had let his cousin Simon die—when he had been blind and soulless with rage and had let an innocent man die.

      Dash saw the ring of men in torchlight and realized Verity was trying to smooth down her skirts. Beneath his hand, he felt her heart speed up; it was now fluttering inside her chest. She was truly frightened. Perhaps she feared the other men would want her now? If it frightened her, he wouldn’t allow it.

      “Easy,” he murmured by her delicate ear. “I won’t let harm come to you.”

      They were close enough to see the men’s laughing, leering faces. The gypsy’s face was like reflective bronze, dark eyes alight with admiration. “Congratulations, my lord. Madam. In truth I didn’t think it could be done.”

      “Blast, you mean we’re the first?” Dash asked as young Tanner swung into the basket to replace him at the flame.

      “Aye, that you are,” the balloon tender answered. “You and her ladyship”—he jerked his head toward Sophia, who sat in her carriage giggling with Ashton—“are well ahead of the pack.”

      Dash stared thoughtfully at Ashton. Did the duke still hold a grudge over the time he’d shot Ashton’s leg in a duel? The duke looked interested mainly in nuzzling the swells of Sophia’s breasts.

      “The blond courtesan—was she here?” he asked.

      “No, my lord.”

      Dash drew a bundle of notes from his pocket and allowed only the gypsy to see them. He eased them back into place. “I believe I am to receive a clue?”

      With his arm around Verity’s waist, he lifted her out of the basket. Poor sweet—she held tight to the basket and gave a sigh of relief as her slippers touched earth. He took her hand and led her back toward his carriage. The gypsy, as he’d hoped, followed.

      The other men restrained the balloon as Sophia swept down from her lover’s carriage to experience what had been Dash’s most unusual setting for lovemaking.

      “Who employs you?” he asked the gypsy. “I want the name of the man who pays you and where he can be found.”

      “Mr. Phibbs.” The gypsy rattled off an address in the City.

      “What is he like, this Phibbs?”

      “Slight and pale. Wears spectacles. A rabbit, milord.”

      “So I expected. And who employs him?”

      “I don’t know, milord. Not my business to know. And here is your clue, milord.”

      As the card was thrust at his hand, Dash slipped a few notes to the gypsy. Tipping his cap, the swarthy man turned and sauntered back to the scene at the basket. Sophia was laughing with delight, lifting her skirts to climb aboard.

      Verity was nibbling her lower lip. “She must be in trouble. Why else would she not be here?”

      “Because she’s on her back with a lover? I’ve never known Georgiana Watson to claim a friend amongst the female sex. I wonder what exactly she had planned for you.”

      “What do you mean?” Fire flashed in her eyes, dark and mysterious behind the mask.

      He leaned close, wrapping himself in her scent—simple and pretty and combined with the earthy smell of sex. A feminine allure that provoked his libido, even in his sated, exhausted state.

      A wave of his hand brought his carriage forward, horses snorting, traces ringing melodically as hooves clattered on gravel. Impulsively he tipped up Verity’s chin, held the point of it between thumb and forefinger. “Come home with me—for an hour or two. I don’t want our night to be over yet. I’ll tell you then.”

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