He lusted after her. He liked her. He admired her, yes. He respected her mind and her cunning and stubborn determination. He enjoyed her naked beneath him in bed. Her cunny was a thing of devious, devilish magic, and he could not wait to sink inside it once more. She had been so tight and wet, and she had milked him dry of every last drop.
His cock surged beneath the bedclothes, demanding attention.
All those things were true. But love? Love was a fantasy, a fiction, an implausibility. It was a chimera latched on to by few who truly experienced it, and millions more who never had a chance of finding it. Rarer than a diamond. More dear than gold. Love was impossible.
“What else do you know?” she asked him, dashing his thoughts with her honeyed voice.
And that was the precise moment he knew for certain. As he sat there in bed, wrapped in her embrace, their lips a breath away from the next soul-searing kiss, nothing between them but her chemise and her determination to cling to her homeland loyalties, the most stunning, staggering, horribly awful realization struck him. It happened in much the same manner he imagined a man about to be run down by an omnibus experienced. One moment, he was on his feet, alive, going about his day, and the next, he was staring down his own demise, unable to move in time.
Boom, he was struck. The force of the blow sent him reeling. He flew through the air figuratively, landing on his metaphorical arse in a pile of allegorical horse dung.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He loved her.
He loved Bridget O’Malley, the Duchess of Carlisle, and there was no turning back now.
“I know that I want you.” It was the most honesty he could give her for now.
Until he determined where they stood—and where he would stand with the League, given his marriage to a known Fenian sympathizer, who had a brother in jail for plotting the death of the Chief Secretary for Ireland—he did not dare offer more. He could not hide the facts from the Home Office and his agents forever.
Everything had changed for him now their marriage had been consummated. The truth would have to be faced, and when it was, he had no doubt he would pay a substantial price.
But that day had not yet come, and Bridget was all soft, warm, womanly curves in his arms. Her lips were only a scant inch from his, awaiting his possession. Repercussions could wait. For now, he had her, and while he had once considered her a burden, he now saw her for the gift she was, the light to his darkness. So he kissed her again.
She made a sweet sound of surrender, her mouth moving with a frenzy to match his own, her arms twining around his neck. The weight of his responsibilities and duties fell away, replaced by her silken skin, her lush lips, her tongue moving against his. They would find a way, he vowed. He would save them both.
Their kisses deepened, hands rediscovering each other’s bodies as though they had not just made love mere hours before. She was on his lap, her chemise riding high around her creamy thighs, legs splayed. Through the bedclothes, his straining cock pressed into the moist heat of her core, and he could not resist thrusting into that delicious friction. Wanting more, needing more.
He swallowed down her moan, coasted his palms up her hips, skin on skin as she rocked against him. Her body had been awakened, and though he had been no innocent, in a sense, his had as well. Never before had he experienced such a deep, abiding need. A hunger so fierce it threatened to shatter him into a thousand jagged pieces of himself. Desire so potent it made him forget everything and everyone but her.
His hands were on her waist now, guiding her as she ground against his cock like she was riding him. Oh how he wished she were, her tight, drenched cunny clenching him like a fist. But she was likely sore, he reminded himself, and he had no wish to bruise the tender flesh which had only been breached for the first time that morning. There would be more mornings, more nights—a lifetime of them—to satiate the desire roaring through him.
This was about Bridget. About giving her pleasure. About watching her come undone. He kissed down her throat, licked her ear, tongued the smooth dip behind it until she gasped, writhing against him. Then lower, a starving man attempting to consume the feast laid before him. Through the fine barrier of her chemise, he latched on to a nipple and sucked.
She caught fistfuls of it and yanked it over her head until she was naked. He allowed himself the glorious pleasure of looking upon her for a moment. Her midnight hair was a wild tumble down her back, her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, mouth swollen from kisses. She had not stopped moving over his cock, and with each aching pass, her breasts, full and tipped with hard pink nipples, swayed like offerings. Her cunny was spread over him, glistening with the evidence of her renewed desire, the sweet jewel hidden in her folds visible with her every undulation, then hidden again.
“Christ, you’re beautiful, banshee.” The words were torn from him. Breathless. Half prayer.
She was every brilliant sunrise he’d ever seen, each awestruck breath he’d taken, the sum of every little miracle bestowed upon him; all these things and more, so much more. She was a goddess and he wanted to worship her as she deserved. How had he lived his entire life without knowing her, without touching her? It was impossible to imagine, for he could not go a day without her now.
He had never believed in fate until a governess in a gray gown had upended his world. But the governess had turned out to be an Irish rebel with a soft heart. A heart he would make his.
She continued working herself over him, finding the rhythm and pace she liked, head thrown back, hair cascading like a curtain of ink. She had never been more beautiful, and he was a sinner. A horrible, imperfect sinner, because he did not give a damn about his duty in this moment.
Leo lowered his mouth to a breast, sucking, biting. His fingers dipped into her sex, finding her pearl. She was so slick, so engorged, and he could not resist giving that responsive bud a stroke. Then another.
“Leo.” His name on her lips was one-half moan, one-half beg. “I want to touch you.”
Fucking hell.
He wanted it too. So badly, he caught her around the waist with one arm, lifting her while his free hand whisked away the bedclothes. Cool air licked over his heated skin, and then the wet kiss of her cunny was on his bare thigh as he settled her back down.
“Oh,” was all she said as her tender flesh connected with his. Her gaze lowered to his cock, rising against his stomach, rigid, thick, and full, seed already seeping from the crown. “May I?”
“You never need to ask, darling. My body is yours.” He took her hand, guided it to his painfully hard prick, and wrapped their fingers around the shaft as one. Slowly, he showed her how to touch him. How fast to slide her fist, how much pressure. Together, they worked him into a frenzy, until his hips were twitchy with the need to thrust and the pleasure pulsed in his ballocks, a sign he would soon spend. All the while, she continued to restlessly move against his thigh, seeking relief.
“I want you inside me, Leo.”
