Hidden Paradise by Janet Mullany - Romance>Fantasy
Louisa Connelly, a recently widowed Jane Austen scholar, needs some relief from her stifling world. When a friend calls to offer her a temporary escape from her Montana ranch, she is whisked into a dizzying world of sumptuous food, flowing wine...and endless temptation.
She's an honored guest at Paradise Hall, an English resort boasting the full experience of an authentic Georgian country-house weekend. Liveried servants tend to every need of houseguests clad in meticulous period costume: snug breeches, low-cut silken gowns and negligible undergarments.
It's Mac Salazar, a journalist immersing himself fully, deeply, lustily in the naughty pleasures of upstairs-downstairs dalliances, who piques Louisa's curiosity--and libido--most. He's a dilettante straight out of a novel: uninhibited, unapologetic and nearly insatiable. But Lou's not romantic about this much, at least: Paradise Hall is a gorgeous fantasy, nothing more. A lover like Mac is pure fiction. And the real world beckons....
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She would not answer the phone.
Not now, when she was coming awake to the slide of skin against skin, coming awake to the possibility of coming, sleepy and lazy, his cock prodding against her.
"Yes, like that," she said. Or maybe he said it. Maybe they both did, finely tuned to each other, reading minds and touches.
"Tell me to open my legs." That was her, quite definitely. He liked it when she gave orders, or when she talked dirty and got crude, because she didn't do it all the time. There was an element of surprise, of the unexpected, and he reciprocated with his own sort of crude roughness. Sometimes, afterward, she'd find red welts on her breasts from his stubble—she'd remember much later in the day, when her bra rubbed against the abraded skin.
She'd feel what he did next later, too—the push of his fingers inside her before she was quite ready. At least, she thought she wasn't, but he knew her better than she knew herself and laughed softly when she gasped in surprise and shock. Gasping and greedy, both of them now, and then the shock of cold air seeped in from outside as he lifted the quilt and climbed on top of her. Again, she thought she wasn't ready, but she was. Quite definitely ready.
Don't answer the phone. Ignore it. If they really want to talk, they'll call back later.
"Shove it inside me. Hard." She told him what to do, but she was helpless and at his mercy as he hoisted her legs onto his shoulders.
He caught and held the moment, extending it with exquisite care. His cock reared high, thick and ready, but he slowed to look at her pussy.
"Pretty," he murmured. "Pretty."
She loved him for thinking her pussy was pretty when it was flushed and wet and the seam swelled apart into a crevice. Sometimes she heard the tiny crack it made as it swelled and opened, a sound like a small kiss, as he kissed her or even just looked at her, sometimes hours before they'd even touched or undressed. She could melt with that special look across a room full of people, or just the two of them alone, a look that said tonight, or in the next ten minutes, I am going to fuck you good.
His eyes gleamed with anticipation.
She raised her hips and told him again to shove it in her hard, like this was the last time, so this time it had to count, it had to be worthwhile. He slid his hand up his shaft, almost as though he was unaware of his action.
But he knew exactly what he was doing, conscious of every moment, every scent and touch and sound. And he knew precisely the effects each small movement had on her.
Words and her imagination were her allies now, shifting the power back to her. She whispered to him to do it now, now. She would allow him to pretend she was one of his hot little undergraduates, like the one who'd let her legs fall apart, oh so casually, revealing a narrow band of thong, while he was teaching. Because in real life, when that had actually happened, he'd looked once and then away, and wondered if he'd imagined it. At home, he was slightly embarrassed, more embarrassed by his excitement, as he related the tale.
In the safety of their bed, where anything could happen, she whispered to him that this time he would look again. And again. He would watch a strap of her sundress fall, a pink tongue emerge to lick glossy lips. With absolute precision, in a suddenly empty auditorium, her hand, tipped with shiny bloodred nails, would undo his zipper and release his cock.
The fucking phone again, shrilling in her ear, ripping the moment away from her. She rolled across the wide expanse...