And then he was gone.
No!
She chased him, but then froze. Large hands skimmed over her ankles. He was touching her. Up over her calves, knees, to settle above her winter wool stockings on bare skin.
There was a great chance she’d expire on the spot. If her lungs started working again, she’d be fine.Come on, lungs, blast and damn.She couldn’t expire now. Not when her husband’s fingertips were skimming lightly over her thighs. And thank all that was holy because she sucked in a blessed, life-saving breath.
He slid his hands up and down, each time closer to where she ached. His dark eyes bore into her, the bright amber gone, a murky mahogany left in its wake. His mouth was soft, lips parted, hovering close but not close enough. Heaven, help her, that stare. It gripped her like a hand wrapped around the nape of her neck. Helpless and completely at his whim. It was torture—his presence, his teasing touch—building a need in her core at a dizzying pace.
Up and down.
Closer.
Advance and retreat.
Closer.
So close to where she needed him. But always denying.
He slid back up and paused, his thumbs just below where she burned, throbbed for him. His fingers dug into her inner thighs.
“May I?” he asked hoarsely.
She whimpered at the coarse rumble of his tone, at the firm, possessive hold of his hands, her flesh only too happy to be at his will. It was delicious. Unexpected. Curious. A curiosity that was imperative she explore.
“Yes, anything. Just, yes.”
His thumbs slipped over her center, and a soft cry left her. He watched her. And she watched him. Warm brown eyes nearly black, lips swollen, still wet from their kiss. A choked sound left him, almost like a half-sob. A desperate noise.
“Così bagnata. Così calda,” he murmured against her lips. “So wet. So hot. For me?”
Oh, mio Dio. Did this man speak Italian in bed? Because if so, Georgiana was in very real danger of coming on the spot.
“For you, Fitz. It’s all for you.” The words were nothing but a whimper, barely coherent, because his thumb was destroying her.
He slid softly over her, spreading her wetness across swollen flesh. Gliding up and circling over where her body pulsed with a delirious want. Then he sank two fingers inside. Georgiana’s hips bucked. Fitz groaned. She moaned. Apparently, her husband hadn’t been lying when he had said he didn’t require an instruction manual. Her body clenched around him, demanding.More. She needed more.
Their lips dragged over each other, neither able to muster an actual kiss, just a frantic skim of mouths, breathing each other in. And, as though he knew, he gave her more. He sank another finger inside, thrusting in a painfully sweet rhythm. He curled his fingers and swirled his thumb over her. The anticipation from the past few days had her blood heating to near unbearable extremes, fever hot. Every touch heightened, charged. Her mouth dropped open, small cries she couldn’t control coming from deep in her throat. And each cry elicited a hitch in her husband’s breathing. Like her pleasure gavehimpleasure.
Lord, this man should writehis ownmanual. Her husband knew exactly where all the right places were. Like that place deep inside that had even taken her a while to find. But Fitz knew. Oh, heknew. Another breathy cry left her.
“Micetta mia. Adoro come fai le fusa per me.”
Her husbanddefinitelydidn’t know she could speak Italian. Because—she whimpered—oh heavens. Fitz calling her his kitten?I love how you purr for me. He would never if he knew. And like hell was she going to tell him and have him stop. Her chest threatened to crack open. She was feeling too much, the pleasure pulsing through her veins too potent.
“Così bella, bellissima. Non ce la faccio più.”
She couldn’t take it either. She was so close. Just a little more pressure, just a little more—
Knock, knock, knock.
Click.
“Fitz, I need to speak to you.”
And that was how Georgiana found herself unceremoniously shoved underneath her husband’s desk.
19
