Lust raced through his blood, his cock twitching at the idea of her mouth taking him deep. Distracted at the mental image, he was slow to react as she opened his trousers. “Wait, you don’t have to do this. It’s not proper for . . .”

The words died on his lips at the withering glare she sent him. “Not proper for your chorus girl?”

He swallowed his complaints. Florence knew her own mind, knew what was best for her. It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit, but he didn’t wish to anger her again. He folded his hands behind his head. “Not proper for me to be wearing so much clothing,” he said absently as she started on the buttons of his undergarment.

“I see. You could help, you know.” She flicked her eyes to his vest.

His fingers flew along the black buttons. He tossed the silk vest to the floor just as she reached into his undergarment to grasp his penis. The touch of her skin to his, hers cool on his burning hot flesh, caused him to groan. He rocked his hips, pressing upward. Begging.

She laughed quietly as she curled over him. He held his breath, muscles locked, as the tip of her tongue touched the smooth head of his cock, licking him. Gasping, he screwed his eyes shut. He’d never last if he watched her.

“It would help,” she said, the sultry air from her mouth gusting over his skin, “if you told me what you like. I’ve never . . . I mean, there’s not much opportunity to practice these skills with the other dancers.”

Had she done this before? God, the idea that his cock would be the first one inside her mouth made him crazed, like a lunatic on Blackwell’s Island. It was barbaric, this sense of possession, but the animal side of his brain relished it. Craved it.

Requesting this was wrong, but he would not treat her like a fragile princess. If she wanted to proceed with this, he only knew how to be himself.

“Suck me,” he growled. “Take me in your mouth as deep as you can. Use your tongue, your hand, your lips . . . use them all on my cock.”

She apparently liked the words because her gaze went hooded, dark with desire. Was it the power of controlling his pleasure . . . or the way he spoke to her? Those inept uptown lovers had likely used silly euphemisms like “love stick” or “mizzen mast.” Loads of “please” and “thank you,” along with fumbling in the dark.

Clay had been raised in the streets. Knew every curse word invented, and some others he’d come up with on his own. If a woman didn’t care for dirty talk, she was better off bedding a different man.