She angled her hips to meet his questing fingers, which could not seem to let her cunny alone now they’d touched her once more. “I want you so much I ache with it. From the moment I saw you in my drawing room until now, I have not stopped wanting you. I have not stopped wondering what it would be like if we were to be free with each other again. If we were to be as we once were.”
Neither had he. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? For now, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the need pulsing between them. The hunger that would not be denied. She had been lost to him for eight years, and his body remembered what they’d had. His heart remembered too.
“It would be like this,” he murmured as he withdrew from her and coated his erection with her juices. In one swift thrust, he was sheathed inside her. She was hot and slippery, squeezing his cock so hard she almost pushed him from her body. The breath fled from his lungs. She felt so bloody good, so bloody perfect.
It was like coming home.
For a beat, he held still, buried deep, half afraid if he moved, it would be over. Or this was a dream and he would wake in his empty bed, alone and desperate for her. But then, a sigh escaped her, along with a one-word demand.
“More.”
Yes. Bloody hell, yes.
He stroked her pearl as he slid his cock almost completely from her sweet cunny only to slide inside again. A grunt tore from him. A moan emerged from her. His control broke. A flood tore through him—memories, desire, need—and he was awash in it. He was lost. The delicate nuances of lovemaking were beyond him. He pounded into her, not giving a damn about anything other than their mutual hunger.
He was savage in that moment. He became an animal. His hips pumped. The rhythmic, wet sounds of their fucking filled the chamber, mingling with her breathy pants and his harsh breaths. He bit her ear, wishing he had her entirely naked and beneath him. Wishing she was his.
But she was not, and she never had been.
And this was all they had, this mad desire, this frantic rutting between two strangers. But she wasn’t a stranger, was she? She was a warm body against his beneath the midnight stars. She was laughter and frantic kisses. She was sunshine and roses. She was his first love, his only love.
The mother of his son.
He increased his pace, taking her with such frenzy the bed creaked. She arched her back, meeting him thrust for thrust, the soft sounds hatching from her throat making him even more mindless. In and out, hard and fast. Long and deep.
She clenched on him suddenly, crying out as a new release claimed her. She trembled, a fresh wetness spilling down his cock. Her body slumped forward, her face pressed to the counterpane, which muffled her cries as she spent all over him.
He wanted to hear her moans. He wanted to remember them, to plant them in his memory for when he slid from her body and he was once more the man tasked with her protection.
He sank his fingers at last into the glorious temptation of her hair. It was silken, so damn soft, and he tugged gently, bringing her head back as he fucked her harder still. Her cries were loud, echoing in the chamber.
It was all he could take, hearing her throaty moans, feeling her climax tremor through her as she milked his cock. His ballocks drew tight, and he could no longer avoid his own release. With one last, unrestrained thrust, he withdrew, gripped his cock, and spent all over her lacy white drawers.
Chapter Sixteen
“How are yousettling in here at Harlton Hall, Your Grace?”
Ara glanced up from the untouched food on her dinner plate to find Clay’s mother giving her a warm smile. Her thoughts took a moment to gather themselves, to form a semblance of coherence. For a beat, all she could think was this woman’s son had made love to her. Had been inside her hours before. Had spent all over her drawers before tearing from the chamber and disappearing.
She had not seen him since. How awkward this dinner was, two women who were utter strangers, one mother and the other lover, though she felt certain his mother was blissfully unware of what had transpired earlier. Edward had gone to bed early, tired from their travels, and her host had not reemerged since their frantic coupling of hours before.
And then another strange thought walloped her with the force of a storm gale. This woman was her son’s grandmother. Had Clay told her? Would he tell her?
She swallowed, wondering how much his mother knew. “Very well, thank you, Mrs. Ludlow.”
“I am so very sorry to hear of the circumstances which have necessitated your stay here,” Clay’s mother continued, seemingly unaware of Ara’s extreme discomfit.
Clay’s mother preferred bold colors and made no effort at subduing them, her evening gown a rich, bright shade of red. She was lovely and elegant, a radiant woman with a melodious voice. She resembled Clay, her almost ebony hair shot with silver, her eyes dark, her nose the same slashing blade, her mouth held in almost the identical, stubborn fashion.
The same as Edward’s.
Ara reached for her wineglass, bringing it to her lips for a long and indelicate draught. “It has been a difficult time indeed.”
“I can only imagine,” his mother said, her expression one of commiseration. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Your Grace. The Duke of Burghly was an excellent politician.”
Yes, Freddie had been.
He had fought valiantly for the causes in which he believed. She inclined her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Ludlow.”
