Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 56 - Fifty Six

"How," she asked, her voice a small, serious whisper, "can a woman make a man feel comfortable... in times like this?"

Carcel, who had been expecting... anything but that... anything but this gentle insane question... broke.

He smiled. It was not his mischievous smile. It was not his pained smile. It was a new, slow, utterly devastating smile of surrender. This woman was going to be the death of him. And he was, he realized with a jolt of terrifying clarity, looking forward to it.

"Comfortable, Ines?" he rumbled, his voice a low, dark, and suddenly very, very amused sound.

He did not answer her question. He simply acted.

He straightened up, his full, towering height returning. And he pulled her.

He grasped her by her upper arms, his hands warm and strong, and lifted her from her crouched position as if she weighed nothing. He brought her to her feet, pulling her forward, into his space, until she was standing directly between his legs.

"Just... stay right there," he whispered, his voice no longer amused, but thick. Rough. "Like that."

She was standing, trapped, her body just inches from his. She could feel the heat radiating from his unbuttoned trousers, from the very source of her research.

His hands moved. They went to her back, sliding under the velvet robe, under the thin, silk nightgown. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Ines gasped, a sharp, shocked, hiss of air. His hands were on her bare skin.

"Carcel..." she breathed, her own hands flying up, flat against his chest, as if to stop him, but her fingers... her fingers were clutching his shirt.

"Just... stay," he growled, his voice a pained, guttural sound.

His hands began to move. They slid, slowly, up her back, his calloused palms a delicious, agonizing friction against her smooth skin. He was caressing her. He was learning her. His fingers traced the delicate, sharp line of her spine, the dip of her waist...

And then, with a low groan, his hands slid lower.

He was... he was cupping her. His hands, both of them, were splayed wide, covering her, holding her, his fingers digging into the soft, full, bare flesh of her bottom.

He pulled her, hard, against him.

Ines cried out, a muffled sound against his chest. There was no space. There was no air. She was pressed, flush, against his arousal. She could feel it, all of it, hot, and hard, and impossibly large on her thighs.

"Right now, Ines," he groaned, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut, "just... just staying right where you are... is enough."

It’s so hot, her mind sang, a single, dizzying thought. It’s... it’s like being pressed against a furnace.

He held her there, his hands kneading, possessing her, and he began to move. Just a small, slow, rocking motion. He was pressing himself, his hardness, against the soft, yielding, and suddenly very, very wet, center of her pressed thigh.

He was, she realized, using her.

His head fell forward. He buried his face in her hair, at her neck, his breath coming in hot, fast, ragged gasps against her skin.

"Ines," he panted, his voice a raw, desperate, broken sound.

She tilted her head back, her body on fire, her mind a spinning, glorious, receptive void. She could feel his hot, damp skin. She could smell the brandy on his breath, the soap on his skin, the dark, musky, male scent of his desire.

She looked at his eyes. They were open, just a fraction, staring at her, and they were black with a hunger so profound it terrified her. He was asking. He was asking if he should continue.

I am willing. Her heart sang.

She wrapped her arms, which had been pressed, uselessly, between them, up. She wound them around his neck, her fingers tangling in his damp, thick, wonderful hair.

And she pulled him down. She kissed him.

Carcel groaned, a low, animal sound of relief, and his mouth crashed down on hers.

All the pent-up emotion, all the guilt, all the confusion, all the desperate, agonizing desire of the last two weeks, of the last two years, unleashed in a single, brutal, devastating kiss.

He was devouring her. His tongue swept into her mouth, hot, and hard. He was claiming her, marking her, and she... she was letting him. She was kissing him back, her body, of its own accord, moving against his, answering the slow, rocking rhythm he had started.

He broke the kiss, his mouth moving, hot and wet, to her jaw, to her ear, to her neck. He was panting, his body a single, coiled, tense, shaking line of control.

He held her, his hands still gripping her, pressing her, grinding her, against him.

"Ah, Ines," he whispered, his voice a broken, pleading, desperate sound.

Ines let out a soft moan, her head thrown back, her entire body a live-wire.

"I want to have you all to myself," he growled, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a fresh, sharp, delicious shock through her. "I want to... I want to feel your inside... clenching... around me."

Ines let out a soft gasp. My inside... clenching around him...

How good would that feel? her desire screamed. It feels so intense. Just... just this. But if he... if he held me... if he... if he entered me...

She was lost. She was gone.

Carcel, he was... he was trying to keep his voice low. He was trying to be quiet. But he was shaking.

"Ha," he panted, his hands tightening, his grip almost painful. "I’m going crazy. Ines... I want to... I want to thrust into you. Right now."

His speed increased. His hips, his powerful, strong hips, were moving faster. Harder. He was not just rocking anymore. He was... he was thrusting. In and out. Between her thighs. The friction, the heat, the wetness... it was... it was... so overwhelming.

He gave one, final, hard thrust, his entire body going rigid. A low, sharp, agonized groan was torn from his throat, muffled against her skin.

He shuddered, once. Twice. A long, violent, racking tremor.

And then, he was still.

He just... held her. His face was buried in her neck, his body, which had been hard as iron, was now... boneless. He was panting, his breath hot and wet, his arms around her, holding her up, as if he, too, would collapse.

Ines was in a daze. Her legs were shaking. Her... her insides were... trembling. And...

She felt something.

Something... hot. And sticky.

It was on her thighs. It was... it was on the floor.

He had... oh.

He let her go. He stumbled back, one hand bracing himself on the desk, the other hand coming up to cover his face. He was breathing hard, his chest hesving. He could not look at her.

Ines, her body still thrumming, her mind a complete, dizzying, wonderful blank, left him.

She looked down.

There, on the dark, rich, polished wood of the library floor, and... and on the inside of her thighs... was a small, white, sticky... puddle.

She bent down. She was... she was fascinated.

Carcel, his voice ragged, his eyes still covered, heard her move. He knew what she’s capable of. "Ines... don’t... don’t touch it."

It was too late.

She had already, with a single, curious, finger, touched it. She looked at the whitish fluid on her fingertip.

"This is... this is it, isn’t it?" she asked, her voice a small, innocent, awestruck whisper.

Carcel nodded, his head still in his hand. He was a defeated, ruined, and utterly, hopelessly... man. "Yes," he groaned. "It’s... semen."

"Semen," she repeated. She had read the word. She had never seen it.

"It’s the thing... it’s the thing that makes babies, when it gets into a woman, right?" she asked.

Carcel finally, finally, dropped his hand. He looked at her. She was crouched on the floor, in her robe, her hair a wild, beautiful, reddish-brown mess, inspecting his seed on her finger with the same intense curiosity she had shown his trousers.

He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. A clean, white, linen square. He walked over to her.

"It doesn’t... necessarily... make babies every time," he said, his voice raw, as he knelt, with a weary, aching groan, beside her. "But... yes, that’s right."

Ines was not listening. She was... she was examining it.

She looked at the whitish fluid on her hand. She... she smelled it. It smelled... strange. Sharp. Like... like chestnuts?

She checked its texture. It was... sticky.

A slow, bright, triumphant smile, a smile of glee, spread across her face.

"I should write this in my novel," she said, her voice full of pure, innocent, happy delight. "The texture. The scent. This is... this is wonderful! My readers will be so..."

Carcel took her hand. Gently. He took his handkerchief, and, with a pained, weary, and utterly defeated tenderness, he wiped her fingers and thighs clean.

Then, he used the same handkerchief to wipe the... evidence... from the floor.

He looked at her. She was still beaming at him. She was... she was happy.

He chuckled.

It was a low, soft, broken sound of astonished defeat.

He bent down, his forehead resting, for a brief, weary, second, on her hair.

"Ines," he whispered, his voice a mixture of awe, and exasperation, and a strange, new, and terrifying tenderness. "I really, really... cannot handle you."