Unraveling the Earl by Lynne Barron

his boyish charm. “Perhaps some
women use the right hand while others use the left.”
    “Which do you use?”
    “The right. The left is for tweaking my titties.”
    Hastings dropped the pheasant leg onto his plate and fell
back against his chair with a groan.
    Georgie let him stew on that while she dug into her meal,
discovering with the first bite that she was quite ravenous.
    And why not? She’d been pacing the warped boards of her
rented rooms for the better part of three days with her stomach in knots,
undone by the news that the Countess of Hastings had passed away.
    “You’ve beautiful breasts,” the earl said some minutes
later.
    Looking up from her plate she eyed him suspiciously, not at
all certain he wasn’t toying with her.
    “Truly,” he assured her with a grin. “Quite the loveliest
titties I’ve ever seen.”
    “Thank you,” she replied on a huff of laughter.
    “Your nipples are like ripe berries,” he continued, his eyes
dropping to her chest.
    Georgie looked down, not the least bit surprised to see the
sensitive buds clearly visible beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. Under
their combined regard, the tight buds hardened and lengthened, pressing against
the fabric. Heat pooled between her legs and it was all she could do not to
squirm in her seat.
    She might have erred when she’d decided to torture the man
for his transgressions, most specifically spending his seed in her body and
failing to recognize the gift of her climax. The diddling of her quim and
fondling of her nipples likely weren’t subjects destined to put the earl to
sleep.
    “Eat your dinner, my lord,” she murmured, plucking up
another piece of bread and heaping butter on it.
    “Henry,” he corrected, apparently not inclined to adhere to
her gentle command. “I’d much rather eat your berries.
    “Does that sort of nonsense customarily work for you?” she
asked, genuinely curious.
    “Nonsense?”
    “Eat your berries,” she mimicked. “Play my pipe. Has that
ever worked for you?”
    “I seem to recall you on your knees before me not too long
ago,” he pointed out with a soft chuckle.
    “It wasn’t because you’d compared your prick to a pipe, of
that you can be certain,” she replied, amused by his arrogance.
    “I don’t give a fig as to the why of it,” he said.
    “No, I don’t suppose you do,” she agreed knowing full well
he’d be less than pleased if he knew the true reason she’d fallen to her knees
before him.
    Deciding it was time, beyond time, the handsome gent took to
his bed, Georgie feigned a yawn, daintily lifting her hand to cover her mouth,
watching him to see if he reciprocated.
    “Are you tired, Georgiana?” he asked, his voice a smooth,
silky caress. “Perhaps we ought to retire.”
    “But you have not finished your dinner,” she argued,
disconcerted to realize the man wasn’t tired at all. No he had another reason
entirely for wanting her in his great sultan’s bed.
    “I’ve had all I want,” he countered, his gaze dipping to her
breasts once more. “Of food that is.”
    Good lord, the man was as randy as a boy. Twice she’d
brought him to release and still he was intent upon bedding her. When the
ladies whispered of his amazing stamina, she’d mistakenly believed they’d meant
he could stay hard above them for hours at a time. Clearly the ladies of the ton believed a man need only have the ability to get hard repeatedly throughout the
night to be considered an exceptional lover.
    So be it. She had a trick or two up her sleeve for the
handsome devil who apparently had never watched a woman pleasure herself. She’d
tease him with a few well-placed caresses until he took himself in hand. Then
she would tuck him to sleep beneath his luxurious counterpane.
    Georgie scooted her chair back from the table, angling the
seat so that the lord would have an unimpeded view, before whipping her
borrowed shirt over her head and shaking out her hair.
    “Christ, you’re lovely,” he