She licked the tip of him, finding a slit where a bead of moisture had seeped out. The taste of him was salty and earthy on her tongue.
With another growl, he gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock to her lips. “Open.”
She did.
And then he slid inside her mouth. Not all of him, for he was too large to fit. But enough. He felt good, sliding against her lips in shallow thrusts, his skin silken and firm. Most pleasing of all was his moan that told her he enjoyed her attentions as much as she enjoyed giving them.
“Suck,” he instructed. “Take as much of my cock as you can, and suck.”
Once more, she listened, his coarse language heightening her own desire. Her sex ached and throbbed as she returned the pleasure to him. She found a rhythm, moving with his body, listening to the cues of his voice and his hitched breaths. The act was so shockingly intimate, and yet she was not ashamed. She felt suddenly powerful, knowing she could make this handsome, experienced rake so desperate for relief.
“Fuck, yes,” he growled. “Ah, God, Izzy. Your mouth is so hot and wet, just like your cunny. I’m going to—”
The warning arrived too late.
The sudden hot spurt of his seed hit the back of her throat as he came in her mouth. She swallowed, the taste of him on her tongue as her surroundings slowly returned to her just in time to hear a feminine voice from the doorway. Izzy hastily disentangled herself, rocking back to her heels, but it was too late to attempt to hide, for footsteps were approaching.
“Zachary? I heard a noise. Are you…?” The query trailed off in a shocked gasp.
“What the devil?” Anglesey bit out.
Izzy glanced over her shoulder to find the widowed countess watching them, standing directly before Anglesey. Humiliation washed over Izzy.
“Christ,” he said, hastily buttoning the fall of his trousers.
On a strangled gasp, Lady Anglesey turned and fled.
CHAPTER9
Last night, his former lover had watched while his future wife had sucked his cock. It had not been one of Zachary’s finer moments.
“You look a bit weary this morning, old chap,” Wycombe observed, grinning like a bastard who had undoubtedly made love to his wife in the privacy of a bed chamber like a civilized person.
Of course, Wycombe never would have done something as beastly and foolish as what Zachary had done. Wycombe, fashioned of honor and determination, was a true gentleman. Unlike Zachary. Wycombe would never have allowed his betrothed to go on her knees for him in the library as if she were a seasoned courtesan.
Feeling like the world’s greatest scoundrel—which he was for his appalling lack of restraint the night before—Zachary ruefully passed his hand along his jaw. “I did not have much sleep.”
For the obvious reasons.
And for the less-than-obvious variety as well.
He had stayed up too late attempting to set a household about which he knew less than nothing to rights. And then he had gone to the library for distraction and ended up experiencing one of the most erotic encounters of his life.
Until it had been interrupted.
“Nor did I,” Wycombe conceded, glancing around the great hall. “Ordinarily, I sleep like the dead, but being in a strange bed never fails to keep me awake until I surrender to the insomnia and rise.”
Thankfully, no one else appeared to be awake at this obscenely early hour except for himself and the duke. The fire had burned out in the grate overnight and a decided chill had settled in. Or perhaps that was just the pall settling over his soul. If his final destination had not already been predetermined thanks to eight years of swiving himself silly, last night would have been the clincher.
The devil had best prepare the chariot, for he was going to hell.
Damn, he was already wallowing in a form of it now, was he not?
“Strange beds are horribly familiar to me,” he joked, but there was a bitterness in his words he could not hide.
Self-loathing, that ever-rising tide, threatened to drown him. What had he been doing all these years since Beatrice’s betrayal? Trying to exorcise her by sinking his cock into every willing quim in London? He disgusted himself. So much wasted time. So many lovers he had never given a damn for just as they had not cared a whit about him. A means to an end.
Wycombe was eying him shrewdly. “I have held my tongue because you are my friend and it is none of my concern as long as my wife’s sister has agreed to this marriage, but do you intend to be faithful to her, to make her a good husband?”
