“You’re damned right you are,” he growled, giving her what she wanted then, his tongue, his mouth.
Not his. Never his. Mine.
The words were in his mind, echoing without end, the refrain of a song that wouldn’t cease. Here was how he could claim victory over that damned footman. Everett sucked hard on hertender nub, gratified when she tightened on his fingers yet again as she bucked beneath him, caught in the throes of another release.
He would have tried for a third if he thought he could withstand it.
As it was, he was near to coming on the bedclothes like a green, untried youth who had just seen his first quim.
He jerked his mouth from her with great reluctance, savoring the richness of her on his tongue, the perfume of her on his face as he positioned himself and notched his cock to her entrance. For a moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of looking at them thus, his ruddy shaft nestled against her glistening folds. Then he pushed forward, watching her yield to him, inch by inch of him disappearing into her.
She was so wet and so hot, circling his aching prick as if her body had been made for his alone. Another thrust and he was fully seated, deep within her velvety depths. Only then did he tear his gaze away, looking down at her instead as he slowly lowered the rest of himself over her.
Her lips were parted, her hair an unruly tangle across the pillow. Her gray eyes were on him, wild and smoky, her long lashes half lowered. She looked even more beautiful this way, impaled on him, naked beneath him.
With a victorious snarl, he lowered his head, taking a nipple into his mouth and drawing on it as he began to move inside her. Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging in as she held him to her. She needn’t have worried he would leave. He bloody well never wanted to withdraw from her. He wanted to stay this way, buried inside her, her cunny milking his cock as she drained him of every drop. And then he wanted to stay longer.
Fuck.
This was her fault.
She had ruined him for every other woman.
And she loved another.
That misery in his mind, he thrust harder. He took her other nipple in his mouth, alternating between suckling and nipping her with his teeth. His hips pumped faster. Took him deeper.
Finally, when he was barely hanging on to his frayed control, he moved to her mouth, kissing her, feeding her his tongue as he reached between them and strummed over her clitoris. He felt the moment she splintered apart, her body seizing, her cunny clamping on him and nearly forcing him out.
He was having none of it. He gripped her hips and thrust once, twice, and a final time before he spilled into her, throwing his head back as bliss overcame him, her name on his lips.
CHAPTER 12
Nearly one month into her stay in London, and nothing had changed, Sybil thought grimly as she surveyed the bustling ballroom that was the result of weeks of planning and preparations with her mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and mother’s help. It was what anyone would deem a rousing success, a crush by society’s standards, as the dowager had gleefully informed her earlier. The flowers were fresh and glorious. The musicians were unparalleled in their skill. The chandeliers were glowing. The champagne was being merrily passed around.
Anyone in her slippers would have been well pleased.
She was the Duchess of Riverdale. Diamonds twinkled at her throat and ears. She was wearing a gown of pink and purple silk that hugged her figure perfectly. Scarcely anyone had declined an invitation to her ball, making it one of the most sought-after fêtes of the season.
But the champagne in her glass was tasteless on her tongue. Whirling about the dance floor with a number of gallant gentlemen, including her husband’s own dear friend, the Duke of Whitby, had failed to thrill her. Oh, her partners had beengraceful and polite. Some of them, like Whitby, had even been droll and delightful.
Still, they hadn’t been her husband.
Her husband, who could bring her to his knees with his lovemaking and then treat her like a stranger in the next breath as he had last night.
“When are your courses to come?” he had asked her coolly, as if he had not just shattered her world with his tender touch.
She had tried to tamp down her hurt at the blatant reminder that she felt far more than he did. That she always had and likely always would. That this marriage of theirs had one purpose only as far as her husband was concerned. And that it should have a sole purpose where she was concerned as well. She had tried, too, to recollect that after she completed her obligation, she would have a town house of her own and freedom to do as she chose.
But the notion had felt hollow by the grim glow of the firelight last night.
Sybil had thought, trying to recall when she had last had her courses. “I’m not certain. Two weeks ago, perhaps.”
“Then I will come to you again tomorrow evening. When they arrive, you will notify me.”
She had felt as if she were reporting to a stern governess instead of a married woman speaking to her husband.
For the last month, aside from the few days when she’d had her courses in the midst, he had invaded her bedroom every night. Each night, he had pleasured her until she had been witless and breathless, awakening her body to sensual marvels she had never dreamed existed. With every visit, he made her fall in love with him just a bit more.
