The wife he had not wanted.
The wife he could not fathom his life without.
The wife he wanted so much that he ached with it.
Good God, he was losing himself, losing himself in her, and it was as physical as it was metaphorical. She clenched on him, drawing him deeper, a sound of satisfaction rolling from her lips and straight into his mouth. He kissed away the sound, swallowed it down, made it his. He surged forward, one hand splayed on the blanket behind him for leverage, sinking his cock as deep as he could. Her perfect cunny tightened over him, milking him, drawing him into oblivion.
They rocked together, a blend of breath and lips and tongue, his cock buried inside her to the hilt, her luscious body riding his, taking and withdrawing, taking and withdrawing again. His other hand found her waist, gripping, guiding, urging her to find her own pace. To fuck him as hard and as fast as she liked.
It didn’t take much urging for her to settle into her rhythm. Watching her ride him was so arousing that he was about to come inside her, without preamble.
This would not do.
He pulled out and held her above him, his hand gripping her waist. “Touch yourself.”
Her eyes were smoky with desire, lips swollen and red and glistening from their frantic kisses. Without a word, she slipped her hand between her thighs, and though her abundant skirts pooling around them obscured the erotic sight of her pleasuring herself, the knowledge was enough. A soft moan fell from her opened mouth, her head tipping back so that he could admire her throat’s creamy elegance. He longed to feast on her there, but he would not lose control. Not now, with her hand moving quicker, her breath expelling in short bursts.
Dew dripped from her, bathing his waiting cock. She was a bloody goddess. His goddess. His forever, and he could never get enough of her. He watched, waiting until she was on the brink of ecstasy before he guided her back down. Her slit, slick and hot, beckoned, and he notched his cock to her entrance. In one swift thrust, he was seated deep at home.
“Oh, Spencer.” She tightened around him, clutching his engorged rod like a fist.
“Don’t stop,” he ordered tightly, barely holding himself in check. “Don’t ever stop.”
On another moan, she worked her clitoris, hand moving faster beneath her skirts. And then, her pussy clenched and trembled. She rode him to oblivion, taking her pleasure, slamming up and down, up and down.
Gritting his teeth, he allowed her the full rapture of her spend. When the last tremor worked through her, he withdrew, fisting his cock, coming all over her inner thigh. Boadicea collapsed against him, panting, and his breaths were every bit as ragged as he held her to him, embracing her, burying his face in her hair.
He wished he had come inside her.
The fervent thought, arriving out of nowhere, took him by utter surprise and frightened the hell out of him. He could never be so reckless, could never take such a foolish chance. He would have to steel himself, learn to control these wayward impulses coursing through him. Or he would have to keep his distance from her. It was as simple as that.
Why then, did the realization leave him feeling empty and cold, even with her wrapped in his arms and the sun blazing high above? Why did it make his heart feel as if it had seized in his chest? Why did it make his head a confused jumble of past fears and present worries?
“Unless I am mistaken,” his wife murmured into his neck then, “that is what the book referred to as riding a St. George.”
She was right, though it was a phrase he had heard well before ever coming upon it in her bawdy book. A startled laugh tore from him, and just like that, the anxiety clouding his judgment dispelled, and it was once again the two of them, Spencer and Boadicea, holding each other in the glorious late-summer sun. The ghosts of the past—for the moment—were buried firmly where they belonged once more.
He kissed the place where her jaw began, just below her ear, smiling against her skin. “Good God, I think your wickedness is rubbing off on me.”
“I certainly hope it is,” came her throaty response, “for there is nothing I would like more than to ride a St. George with you again.”
o’s heart fluttered at the soft knock at the dooradjoining her chamber to Spencer’s. After riding back to Ridgely Castle, they had shared a bath in the massive tub, alternating between washing each other and kissing until she had once again ridden him with the warm, fragrant water lapping at their skins. From the bath, they had gone straight to Spencer’s bed, where their intention to nap had proven impossible once Spencer’s wicked mouth had begun an inquisition into her body that ended between her thighs. He had feasted on her like she was the finest sweet, and when she had climaxed, he’d turned her over and taken her from behind while his fingers played over her pussy.
Dinner had been a proper affair, quite interminable, with Bo counting the minutes until she could once again be alone with her husband. As he walked through the door now, his sculpted lips quirking into an intimate smile that was just for her, a fresh tingling began in her core, her nipples going hard. She pressed her thighs together in an attempt to stave off the ridiculous need that overcame her whenever she was in his presence, but it only made the ache worse.
While he had been all refined elegance at dinner, this was how she preferred him, nude beneath his black dressing gown, his bare feet and strong calves visible to her admiring gaze. The ache turned into a steady pulse as she met him halfway across the chamber. Already, she was slick and ready for him, and he had not even touched her yet.
He took her in his arms, his seductive pine scent settling over her senses. “You are so bloody lovely.”
Her heart thudded in her chest as she looked up at him, flattening her palms on his chest.How I love this man, she thought, before chasing the sentiment away. It was too much for him, she knew, and far too soon. Besides, she was not ready to make herself so vulnerable, to allow him the chance to break her heart. The darkness remained within him, simmering beneath the surface, his past a mystery she had yet to unravel.
Slowly, she reminded herself.Proceed slowly and with caution.
“I could say the same to you,” she said, taking in the perfect masculine symmetry of his face. He was all hard angles, from his high cheekbones to the sharp swath of his nose and the wide plane of his jaw. Only his lips were full and supple. He was so beautiful, so beloved. She never could have imagined, upon their initial introduction, just what he would come to mean to her.
That he would be hers.
That she would be so irrevocably his.
