He shoved into her with one hard thrust, impaling her on his cock.
The hot, hard glide of him in her depths was exquisite. She wrapped her other leg around him, tightening them, holding him deep inside her.
His head tipped toward hers, their foreheads meeting, his breath falling over her lips like a curtain. “I’m going to fuck you properly now. Hold on.”
She understood his warning as he began thrusting in and out of her, fast and deep. Her head thumped against the damask-covered wall. A strangled sound tore from her lips, and he muffled the rest of her cries with his mouth, kissing her as frantically as he pumped within her. Driving her all the way to the edge and then beyond.
She was mindless, weightless, unbridled ecstasy rushing over her like the waters of a flood. Sweeping her away until there was nothing left but the two of them, clinging to each other, finding that delirious bliss together. With a moan that was muffled by their kiss, he spilled inside her.
Sybil held him tightly as the last flutters of her release went through her, his cock lodged deep, so deep. As his heart thundered against her breast and his lips gentled on hers, she told herself that mayhap, just mayhap, if this pleasure was all they could ever have, she could learn to accept it.
That she might love Everett enough for them both.
CHAPTER 14
As she always did whenever he stayed awake in the library in need of advice or company, Verity appeared, blending in with the shadows of the room in her black silk.
The mantel clock had just struck eleven. She was earlier this evening than she had been on most nights. But then, so was Everett. He had spent the last few weeks following the ball in a state of half wakefulness, caught between the tremendous desire he couldn’t seem to shake for his wife and the furious fear that she was still desperately in love with her beau from Eastlake Hall.
“Sister,” he greeted Verity warmly, having already prepared a tumbler for her. “Shall I stand?”
“No need to do so,” she dismissed, waving her hand as she crossed the Axminster.
At his side, she dropped into the empty chair with a notable lack of grace.
Wordlessly, he offered her a glass of whisky. Verity took it and sipped at once, letting out a sigh of appreciation as she made herself more comfortable in her seat, rearranging her pooled silk skirts to her satisfaction.
“Why are you in the library this evening, brother?” she asked at last.
“It is a delicate evening for Her Grace,” he explained awkwardly.
“Ah,” Verity said with great meaning. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to spend some time with herdespite the delicacy, then?”
He felt heat creep along his cheekbones. “Good God, Verity. Where have you learned of such things?”
Verity blinked at him, frowning. “Spending time with your wife? I should think it’s hardly a secret. Isn’t that what one is meant to do?”
“Indeed, but Her Grace is in adelicate condition,” he protested, doing his utmost to keep from directly referring to his wife’s courses, which she had informed him had arrived earlier in the day. “Not with child, you understand, but rather the…other circumstance. The natural one.”
Understanding dawned on his sister’s face. And thank Christ because he had already mentioned his wife’s courses more in one night than he had ever hoped to.
“Well, you can read poetry just as well if she is on her courses,” Verity countered. “I don’t see why that should change anything.”
Dear heaven. Either his sister was truly that much of an innocent, or she was playing games with him to see if she could win. But he most certainly had no intention of edifying her that he and her new, dear sister Sybil did not read poetry together.
What they did was fuck.
Regularly, and with great abandon.
Indeed, fucking seemed the only subject upon which they could agree—and marvelously so.
But Everett could say none of this aloud to his maiden sister.
And so, he nodded and kept his tone light as he pretended to ponder her suggestion. “You are right as always, sister dear. There is no reason for us to avoid reading poetry together.”
“You could likely read poetry any day,” Verity went on brightly. “One can never have too much poetry in one’s life.”
Again, he didn’t know if he was reading too much into her words or if she was as serious as her countenance suggested she was.
