A whimper.
He’d made this extraordinary woman whimper.
She’d likely never whimpered in all her life.
And here he was pulling whimpers from her.
And he would do it again.
He caught her eye, emboldened. “I wonder where else you’re wet.”
He grabbed her skirts and shoved them up to her waist, baring legs clad only in white stockings and frilly pink garters. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but his cock grew harder. He hadn’t been able to rid his head of the image of her in Apsley House, pressed against the wall, cunny bare and ready. As if intuiting the direction of his thoughts, one stockinged leg wrapped around his waist.
His fingers slid along her slit, and her eyes fluttered shut, a sigh of utter abandon escaping her. She liked his fingers.
“Oh, you’re wet, my sweet,” he said into the crook of her neck.
Her nimble fingers began working the fall of his trousers. His manhood sprang free, and her eyes grew dark with lust. Her hand wrapped around him and tugged. Now it was his eyes drifting shut and ragged groans escaping him. She pulled on him again, her hand moving in slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing him closer. The head of his cock dragged along her wet cunny, and her heel dug into his arse cheek and her hips angled, opening her to him completely. “I need you,” she whispered. “More,” she demanded.
Driven by her words—by instinct—he clutched her hips and drove into her with a slow deliberateness that had her squirming, gasping, groaning, pleading for more,demandingmore. “More like this?” In and out, he drove into her, stroke after relentless stroke.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, her fingers curling into his hair, her hips matching his rhythm as he gave her what she wanted, what sheneeded…more.
This wasn’t going to be a long tup; he understood that from her increasingly sharp gasps and protracted moans and from the tightening in his manhood, release beginning to coil inside him. But not until she found hers first.
He slowed his strokes and a whine escaped her. “Trust me, sweet.”
Her lust-filled eyes found his and held. “I do,” she said. “I trust you—oh—I trust you.”
He had her trust. Now to properly earn it. Again and again, he thrust in and out of her. Her fingers slid beneath his shirt, her fingernails dug into his skin, spurring him on, driving them both to the brink. Against him, she inhaled a ragged gasp and her body held. She’d reached the edge, teetering, waiting… He moved with slow intention, and she broke, her quim pulsing its release around his cock, her fingernails surely drawing blood from his shoulders, her parted mouth emitting his name on a scream of pleasure.
It was all he needed, and release was upon him. He held on to her, his hips driving with a primal abandon as he tumbled into an ecstasy only the two of them knew. Only the two of them would ever know.
Here, they stood, suspended outside time, ravished, only his larger body pressed against hers holding her upright, chests heaving, hearts pounding in union, her pulse beating against her ivory throat in moonlight that now streamed through the skylight. The storm had passed.
“Can you stand?”
She nodded, avoiding his gaze.
He moved back to give her space, and fastened the fall of his trousers, keeping half an eye on her as she made haste to return herself to presentable. He wished she wouldn’t. He liked her like this, unkempt, out of control.
At last, she looked up. “That was—”
She couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. He could. “Inevitable.”
Her eyes agreed, even as she shook her head. “The last time.”
Every cell in his body disagreed. Not if he had anything to do with it.
She began to shrug off his greatcoat.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I can’t wear this.”
“Why not? You’re my wife.”
“And several inches shorter than you. It will drag on the ground and be ruined.”
