“Oh,” she sighed, helping him with the motions now that she understood.
“Christ, Pippa. You feel so good.”
So did he. He felt better than good. There was not an extant word that could suffice. Description was impossible. As were words. She moved faster, discovering a new world of pleasure, one which she controlled. She flattened her palms on his chest, his heat radiating into her, the muscled wall so broad and strong, though hidden from her by his half-undone shirt and coat. A travesty. She wanted to touch those lovely sinews she had only witnessed when she had happened upon him exercising at his London townhome.
Had he exercised here at Wylde Park? She thought about how handsome and forbidden he had appeared that day, shirtless and barefoot, in nothing but his trousers. Her head fell back and she gave herself over to the gloriousness of the sensation. Beneath her, Roland met her thrusts. Together, they lost control. There was nothing but pleasure and sounds, their bodies seeking each other, their soft sighs humming through the night. The stars above were forgotten, as was everything else.
One of his hands slid from her waist, traveling over her bodice to cup her breast. How she wished she was not wearing a corset, that she might truly feel him. Her nipples ached.
“I have been dreaming of this moment,” he said, his voice raw, his breathing harsh. “Ever since Oxfordshire.”
Five years. Could it be? She was tearing apart. Her heart was raw, her need for him wild. Nothing made sense, and yet everything did. She rose on her knees, then impaled herself on him, taking him deep once more. Ever since Oxfordshire? Her mind was jumbled.
Questions.
So many questions.
But they would wait.
Faster, faster. More wetness. She was tingling, aching, needing. Reaching for something she had never known possible. About to fall. Teetering on the edge of something magnificent.
His hand left her breast. Slipped beneath the skirts pooled around them. Unerringly, he found her center. Found the swollen, needy bud waiting for him. Pressure, circles.
Bliss.
She came harder than she had the first time, sliding down on him, the intensity of her orgasm sending pinpricks of light over her vision.
“Yes, Sunshine. Come on my cock. Take me deep.”
He was saying things. Wicked things. Wanton things. She cried out into the night. Splintered. Fell apart. Collapsed onto his chest, falling forward. And then he was crying out too, the warm rush of his seed sending her into a fresh series of spasms as she gasped out her pleasure.
He held her to him tightly, whispering her name. Feathering kisses in her hair. She absorbed the frenzied pounding of his heart, the night once again still and silent around them. Their marriage had been consummated.
She could not summon a single regret.
Chapter 15
Roland had made Pippa his wife in deed as well as name on a blanket on the ground.
It had not been one of his finer moments.
And it was most certainly not the manner in which Roland had planned to spend the evening when he had arranged for them to watch the stars together. His intentions had been innocent enough. But all that innocence had dissipated when Pippa had turned toward him.
Beforethen, if he was brutally honest with himself. From the moment her hand had crept over his, his restraint and ability to resist her had disappeared.Hell.Had he ever been able to resist her?
No.
The evidence was on her hand now. On his, too—gold bands symbolizing their new lifelong bond. And the less savory evidence? On the handkerchief he had used to clean her in the aftermath of their passion—currently, stuffed into the pocket of his waistcoat.
Roland shepherded Pippa through the quiet halls of the manor house, thinking he would need to dispose of the thing in some suitable fashion before his poor valet happened upon it. They ventured through the portrait gallery, where the eyes of a half dozen forbidding former dukes seemed to follow them. Including his sire’s.
His father had always found fault with Roland. His coloring had been too like his mother’s. Too American. Too uncouth. Too much the embodiment of the rumors which had always dogged Mama concerning her Oneida ancestry.Savagewas an epithet he had been called not just by his schoolmates at Harrow.
“Is something amiss?” Pippa asked as they made their way through the seemingly endless chamber.
Mounted high on the walls were remnants of the bloodthirsty prowess of Dukes of Northwich past. Antlers and heads and hooves. Mama had taught him that the lives of animals were sacred, and he could not help but to wonder if any of the poor creatures—long since slain—adorning the walls had been killed in honor or in sport.
“I do not like this room,” he said, as if that were all that ailed him. Most definitely, it was not. The recriminations of his lack of control were falling upon him now, with the driving force of a bitter hailstorm.
