“Did you have a pleasant journey?” His gaze darted around his study, apparently unable to find a place to land.
“Yes, smooth travels. We were fortunate the weather has cooperated, and we haven’t received any snow lately. It was a quick, half-day journey.”
“Excellent. Excellent.”
They stood there awkwardly; him finding his ceiling fascinating and her twisting her skirts in her fingers. Evidently, he wasn’t going to invite her inside. How had they reverted to this? They had seemed to be making such progress. She thought he was becoming more comfortable around her. But this? This was just as bad as her first week at his country estate in Kent.
“You look well.” He said it to the ceiling.
She thought he might have meant it for her, though. And she was going to count that as a small victory.
She dared to approach him. Perhaps she could make him more comfortable. She had no idea how to navigate a relationship, romantic or otherwise. He was always more at ease after a bout of lovemaking. He seemed to like her then. She ignored the pang in her gut that thought caused. Plus, she’d always wanted to be tupped on a desk. Yes, that was probably the answer. A tupping. Lust had never failed to make her feel, to make her forget.
She stopped before him, ivory skirts swirling around his gray trousers. His amber gaze finally settled on hers, and a breath puffed from him, his entire face softening with what she really hoped was longing. A face going soft could only be a good thing, right? All she knew was the way he was looking at her, those rich, amber eyes swimming with indecipherable emotion, had her heart melting.
She reached out and took one of his clenched hands and slowly pried his fingers apart and ran her thumb over the back. Staring at him, she whispered, “I missed you, husband.”
He nodded.
Her lips quirked. Not really an applicable response.
She went up on tiptoe and pressed a soft kiss to his lips before gently falling back down. He sucked in a breath and stilled. She waited, pleading with her eyes, pleading for him to kiss her back.
Pleading for him to want her.
Want me.
32
Fitz
Fitzreally,really,reallywanted his wife. She was standing there, blonde hair in a loosely woven plait, tendrils falling about her heart-shaped face, lips parted, pink and pleading. Pleading with him to kiss her back. He didn’t always catch physical cues. But his wife’s green eyes, dark with dilated pupils, lips glistening from where her tongue had just coasted over them? He didn’t need any help to decipher that.
The problem was his wife had absconded with his wits with that soft brush of her lips. He couldn’t think straight when she looked at him like that, when her thumb coasted over the back of his hand whisper-soft, when she’d left a hint of drinking chocolate on his mouth from her kiss. But now seemed like a moment better fit for not thinking. Honestly, Fitz was better off if he avoided thinking altogether.
He reached up to cup her face and tilted her chin up to him. Lord, she was small. He felt like he had clown hands, cradling her dainty face. He always felt like a clown—like Joseph Grimaldi, not just in performance, but in life. Yet his wife seemed to want this clown. Visions of white-painted faces and attire covered in colorful spots flashed in his mind. Lord, he hoped that wasn’t another one of her desires.
She blinked up at him, soft puffs of chocolate-scented breath coasting over his skin. He should probably kiss her now. But he took delight in looking at her. She was so lovely.
He closed the distance, and his lips fell on hers. Her hands fell on his chest. Soft, comforting, familiar. He slid his tongue over her lips, and she opened instantly, allowing him inside. He basked in the warmth of her mouth, the flavor that was Georgiana. Except one thing was missing. That cinnamon-sweet taste he had grown so accustomed to. The one that tasted like comfort, like home. He made a mental note to inform Cook to prepare spiced biscuits. Every day.
He groaned, and her fingers dug into his waistcoat. Her tongue flicked against his, soft at first—hesitant—and he had no idea why. His wife wasn’t ever hesitant.
Fitz didn’t have to worry about that thought overlong. Her tentativeness quickly vanished, and her tongue grew bolder, harder. He turned them, pressing her into his desk, and she sighed greedily into his mouth. Her hips rocked against his, and her hands clawed up his neck to push into his hair.
This was escalating quickly. Just as quickly as his pulse. But there was something about this woman, about her presence, about the feel of her in his arms, about the taste of her on his tongue, that had all his well-laid-out plans fleeing out his study door. Because he hadn’t planned on this. He hadn’t planned on kissing her at all. He had planned on avoiding her, actually.
When he had returned from Adelaide’s earlier, after securing a copy ofFanny Hill,he had set out reading, starting withLetter XI.And that was how his wife found him, engrossed in the part of the woman’s memoir when she was taking a rod to her backside. It was while reading that, that Fitz decided it was best he wait until he received the information from Adelaide before he attempted anything with his wife. Because he was out of his element. Which wasn’t saying much, since Fitz was out of his element much more often than he was in it. But he wanted to ensure he did this…flagellation properly. If that was what his wife desired.
One of Georgiana’s hands fell to the front of his trousers, tracing the outline of him. God, he ached for her. It wasn’t enough, the tease of her fingers over fabric. He needed fingers on flesh,aroundflesh. And his wife delivered, her hands already having his placket undone. His mouth dropped to her neck, and when her fingers wrapped around him and stroked, he bit down softly, groaning into her skin. Her touch was torture. Pleasurable, ecstasy-inducing torture.
Her breath caught, and she moaned, her fingers tightening. “Yes, Fitz.” Her words were mere breath, and she arched her neck, giving him better access. “Bite me harder.”
He moved down her neck, sucking and licking, relishing the taste of her skin. Then he sank his teeth into her shoulder, and she cried out, her hips jerking into his. Something snapped in his wife. She turned wild, rabid, frantic—rucking up her skirts in front of him.
She tugged on his wrist, pulling his hand between her thighs. Between her thighs where she was very much hot and wet. He growled softly. His fingers swirled over her, and his cock jumped. It wanted her—he wanted her—with a fierce, frenzied, deranged need.
He sank two fingers inside and—fuck—she tightened around him so sweetly. His thumb went to her clitoris, and she fluttered around his fingers. Lord, she was responsive. He swirled over her, gentling his pressure, and she tried to rock into him, seeking. This was something he could give her easily. Vanilla custard pleasure. But that wouldn’t ever be enough for her. Fitz was all too familiar with what it meant to be lacking. He didn’t want to be lacking for his wife. She wanted dark; she wanted rough; she wanted untamed.
