The dialogue with Saunders and the gardener had been steeped in polite formality. All the while, Hudson had kept his coat draped over his arm in an effort to hide the erection which refused to completely abate. The blood had still been roaring in his ears, the need for completion as fierce as any sensation he had ever known.
But he had stood there making small talk as if he had not just had his tongue buried in his wife’s perfect, wet cunny. As if he were not a rutting beast who had rolled about with his new duchess in the grass at the first opportunity. As if he were not thoroughly disgusted with himself for his behavior and yet simultaneously completely cognizant of the fact he would do it again when he had the chance.
His desire for her was quite shameless, and whether it was the novelty of having a wife or merely the woman herself, he could not say. He ran his tongue over his lips, searching for more of her although she was gone. Likely, he had frightened her away, and he could not blame her if he had. She had stood at his side dutifully, her hat slightly askew, her hair escaping its confines to curl around her face, looking like a rumpled, debauched goddess.
After a few minutes, she had excused herself and returned to the manor house alone, winding along the path as his gaze hungrily followed. He had been painfully attuned to each sway of her hips. Paying attention to Saunders and the gardener as they made tentative plans for which overgrown roses might require thinning and what dead branches ought to be removed from this or that tree. He had never intended to be responsible for an estate as vast as Brinton Manor. Or, hell, for any estate. His life in London, his simple bachelor’s quarters, had contented him well.
And he had been still too overwhelmed by lust and self-castigation—a cruel, curious mix, that—to give a damn about the crumbling terrace wall or the bloody syringa. When his wife’s luscious form had disappeared from view, he had remained, shifting weight from one foot to the next, feigning interest in the conversation. Yes, the row of beech might be shaped up properly, and indeed, some daisies and shrubbery about the malfunctioning fountain would be good form after the thing was working once more.
Then, he, too had excused himself and returned to his chamber.
There had been no sound from the room next door, and he imagined she was hiding away in some far-flung corner of the house. Perhaps in the library or the leaky-windowed salon. Part of him had felt the need to find her and apologize for losing control. Part of him had wanted to find her and finish what they had started.
But he was a man who clung to honor, if little else. And so instead, he had stripped himself of his damp clothes and lowered his body into the warm, oil-scented waters. The oil was a luxury he had never previously allowed himself. But he had to admit that the addition of scent was one nod to unexpectedly acquiring a dukedom he could accept.
The aromas swirled around him now as the warm water lapped at him, and he surrendered to thoughts of what might have happened had he returned to the house in time to locate Elysande. His hand tightened on his cock and he stroked beneath the water, knowing he was already close. He laid his head against the rim of the tub and closed his eyes, imagining a different end to their morning at the lake.
Elysande was beneath him, her orgasm still trembling through her, his tongue deep in her cunny. To prolong his own pleasure, he made her come again, licking the plump bud of her clitoris until she was thrashing beneath him, begging. His name was on her lips.
“Please, Hudson.”
Yes, that was what he wanted. He wanted her desperate and needy and out of her mind with wanting him. He wanted her writhing in the grass with her skirts around her waist and the mounds of her glorious breasts pink-tipped and waiting for him, begging to be sucked. He wanted her moaning and screaming and taking whatever he would give her and then pleading for more.
He returned his attention to her pearl, then plunged his fingers deep into her channel. She was so tight and hot, all his. So sweet and responsive on his tongue. He buried his face deeper into her slick folds and inhaled. Her hips were working furiously as he pumped into her, alternating between licks and sucks. She came again on a moan and his name.
Yes.
Fuck yes.
In the tub, Hudson palmed his length with faster, more furious motions as he held his breath. He was hovering on the edge of ecstasy, his ballocks drawn taut, ready to explode. He could not recall ever taking himself in hand and experiencing so much desire. That was how bloody much he wanted her, how wild she had made him.
Nothing but an animal.
He lashed her cunny with his tongue and sank three fingers deep in her as she tightened and spasmed and coated him with her dew. When the hold he maintained on his restraint threatened to break, he raised his head and pressed a kiss to her mound.
“Tell me what you want,” he told her.
“You,” she said. “Your cock in my mouth.”
The Elysande in his mind was bold and filthy and he bloody well loved it. He rose over her, feeding her his cock, and those pretty pink lips latched on his shaft, taking him deep down her throat…
With a hoarse cry, Hudson came, the violence of his orgasm taking him by storm. His seed jetted into the warm bath waters, draining him, and he gasped out a breath as his pounding heart threatened to tear from his chest. He had never come so hard, or so much, with nothing save his hand. All because ofher.
Damnation.He required distraction. To think of anything other than Elysande, his desire for her, and what he had just done. Dimly, he recalled the correspondence Greene had left for him, sitting forgotten on a salver within arm’s reach.
The first missive on the pile was enough of a shock to pull him from the almost delirious fogs of lust. The scrawl was familiar, from the Duke of Northwich. Hudson’s last case had involved the duchess, whose previous husband had been part of an insidious crime ring, quite unbeknownst to her.
Hudson quickly reviewed the contents, shock and denial hitting him with the force of a fist to the face. The words swam together…
He sat up in the tub, sending water crashing over the lip and nearly dropping the letter in the process. It was painfully clear that a return to London was in order.
Today, in fact. Not a moment could be spared.
He hastily finished his bath and then dressed before asking Greene to oversee the packing of his meager belongings. Despite what he had shared with Elysande that morning, Hudson could only think that his departure would be for the best.
* * *
Although Brinton Manorhad appallingly few servants to assist in the running of the household, even the paltry number of maids and footmen created quite a flurry when tasked with a cohesive duty. And that was most assuredly what was happening now. Trunks were being carried. Footsteps and voices interrupted Elysande in her place of hiding.
