His forever, just as he had said.
“My God,” he gritted. His gaze was pure fire as it skated over her curves, lingering on her breasts, lowering to the mound between her thighs, sliding down her limbs. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She would have laughed and flushed had any other gentleman made such a proclamation, for she would have known it flattery at best and falsehood at worse. But this man—this strange and perplexing and delicious man she had married—was different. His charm was sparse. He was cool and remote, vexing and confusing, harsh and unrepentant. He was a sharp blade that could cut deep.
And so, when he uttered those words—when the Marquess of Searle told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—she believed him.
Freddy’s directives returned to her then.Make him weak for you. Gentlemen like to be touched.
Because she felt bold, and because she felt beautiful, and because nothing about either her marriage to Searle or this seduction in the midst of the day had been expected, she decided to dare. For the first time, the wallflower was ready to break free of her mold. The periphery of life could go to perdition for all she cared.
She wanted action. Touch. Passion. She wanted everything she had never had.
“I want to see you,” she told him.
*
Morgan inhaled sharplyagainst a sudden burst of violent need. Leonora stood before him, entirely nude.Lord God, she was a vision to behold. Better than he had imagined, and he had spent every night since seeing her for the first time, imagining her whilst stroking his cock.
She was all creamy curves and sweet pink perfection, a mouthwatering marriage of the innocent and the wicked, the musky perfume of her desire redolent in the air, mingling with the floral notes of her fragrance. He had never wanted another woman—or another damned thing for that matter—more.
He clawed at his clothing like the wild beast he was, tearing open the knot of his cravat. She did not need to tell him twice. He stripped off his jacket and waistcoat. Flung the linen of his neck cloth to the floor. His shoes and stockings were next, then he undid the fall of his breeches, tugging them down.
He paused before removing the final garment shielding him from her—his shirt. His back was a macabre mural of lash marks, and burn scars marred his chest. One of his captors had taken great joy in stubbing the glowing tips of his cigars upon Morgan’s flesh in an effort to get him to reveal privileged information about the movement of English troops. Others had preferred whipping him while he was tied to a post as if he were no better than a mule.
Morgan did not wish to horrify or disgust her, and he had no way of knowing how she would react. No one had ever seen them but him and the doctor who had tended his infected wounds when he had finally escaped and made his way back to English forces. Instead of removing his shirt, he caught her waist in his hands, marveling at the silken smoothness of her flesh. So soft. So lush.
So his.
And then he took her mouth again. He kissed her with all his desperation and need, his burning desire. He could kiss this woman forever and never have enough of her lips yielding to his, of the husky sounds of surrender emerging from her throat. He lifted her and settled her gently on the center of his bed, nudging her thighs apart and settling between them as he joined her.
He rocked against her wet heat, against the gentle swell of her cunny as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sinking inside the way he longed to plunge deep within her. She was slick, so soaked for him, his cock glided over her folds.
My God, she was a revelation. This desire between them was something he had not anticipated, and it was potent and raw and real. Though he had fantasized about bedding her, he had never once imagined she could surpass the wickedness his mind had cooked. That she would want him as much as he wanted her. That she would be brazen and bold in her passion, her body so responsive, he feared all he need do was stroke her pearl once before she would explode.
He kissed his way down her neck, finding her collarbone, exploring the roundness of her shoulder before sinking his teeth into her. She made another husky sound of desire, so he soothed the perfect skin he had just marked and then bit again. This one would leave a mark he would see tomorrow when he stripped her bare and bedded her again. He liked the notion of seeing the evidence of himself upon her flesh. It made his prick harden even more.
She cried out in earnest, hips swiveling against him in an effort to bring her swollen flesh into greater contact with him. He had been right about her on the day of their wedding. She was curious. Curious and hungry, and he would give her what she wanted.
His fingers dipped into her folds, connecting with the engorged bud he sought. He bit back a moan as he kissed his way to her lush breasts. Damnation, she felt good. Too good. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, then caught it in his teeth and tugged. Then the other. She grew restless beneath him, her breath coming in faster pants that told him she was on the edge.
He hummed his approval and flicked a tongue over one distended nipple. “Spend for me,” he commanded, and then he increased the pressure over her pearl.
She did. Oh, how she did. When she came, she was even more splendid, a goddess come to life, her white-blonde curls a halo about her face, her cheeks rosy, mouth open, eyes closed. Her back arched, her breasts like ripe offerings just for him, all for him. He worked her until the tremors rocking her subsided, admiring the sight of her coming undone, of his hand buried in her golden curls, of her thrusting shamelessly against him.
Barely holding his own desire in check, he raised his fingers, glistening with her juices, to his lips and sucked them clean. Tomorrow, perhaps even later, he would take his time and would make her spend on his tongue. For now, he was not going to last, and he would have to satisfy himself with this sweet taste of her instead.
Her eyes were upon him, shocked and dazed, glazed with pleasure, her cheeks tinged pink. He expected her to protest. To offer some maidenly shock. It had been so long since he had been with a woman—and then never an innocent lady like her—that he had no inkling of what would make her swoon. He was acting upon instinct alone, driven by his raging lust.
“Your shirt,” she said, her fine-boned fingers snagging in the fabric, tugging it.
She surprised him, not just by the demand in her tone but by the request itself.
“I have scars,” he bit out.
“I have a lame leg,” she countered.
“You are perfection,” he said, meaning it. She was glorious, lovely, and he knew a moment of guilt at claiming her with such bitterness in his heart, such rancor and murderous rage in his blood. The ugliness festering inside him should not dare touch the woman beneath him.
