A God damned supercilious fool!
He’d listened to gossip. A part of him had even blamed her for his own traitorous physical response to her. She’d done nothing to deserve the treatment she’d received. At the hands of others, and, by God, by himself.
“Forgive me,” he begged as his lips captured hers. Ah, sweet. Nectar of the gods.
She sobbed. “No. How can you forgive me?”
His fingers soothed hot tears away. This woman. She was everything. Without her, he was nothing.
His hands ached to touch every inch of her skin. He needed to worship her. He’d beg her forgiveness for the remainder of his days. His mouth left hers, searching, craving her feminine curves. He gently bit down on the lobe of her ear, lust jolting him when she arched herself closer.
“My sweet, sweet girl,” he murmured against the pulse beating frantically beneath his lips.
How had he managed to wait for so long?
When a warm small hand began stroking the material covering his manhood, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Justin had come to her. Finally. All the need, all the pent-up emotion she’d tried to ignore broke free. “Justin,” she murmured back, vaguely aware of the endearments he whispered against her skin. She tugged at his cravat, as hungry to devour him as he seemed for her.
In his arms, she could ignore the horrifying thought that she’d killed another man. In his arms, she could pretend her future wasn’t in such peril. She would take this moment. She would embrace it with all of her heart.
She lay back on the settee, exulting in the weight of him on top of her, between her thighs. Both their movements had become frantic, urgent. Her skirts had made their way around her waist, his pantaloons unbuttoned. “I need you,” he gasped, his lips latching onto her breasts.
“Now.” She clutched him against her. So much pleasure spiraling with just a hint of pain. Was this love?
It was.
It was one part of it. It was the earthly, necessary part of love that wasn’t discussed in polite circles.
His hand touched her, fondled her, and slid partway inside. And she wanted more.
She struggled to lower his breeches and smalls, caught up as though starving for him. “Now,” she commanded again and clasped her legs around him.
He removed his hands and settled between her thighs. “Sweet, sweet flower of mine.”
She could barely talk, and he was reciting poetry.
And then even those thoughts evaporated as he lunged himself forward, filling places she never knew she had. Touching her deep within.
He withdrew and then drove forward again. She arched and met him with all her need. “Justin. Yes.” Her voice left her in whimpers.
And then they were moving together, like a great orchestra, building, slowing, louder, softer, all the while knowing something wonderful awaited them both.
“Rhoda, are you in here? There is a magistrate here to ask a few quest—Oh, my heavens!” Her mother’s discordant shriek effectively brought all thoughts of crescendo to a screeching halt.
Interrogation
“Rhoda! Lord Carlisle!”
The words sliced through Rhoda’s passion-clouded mind and, at the same time, Justin was tugging at his pantaloons and pulling her dress down.
As quickly as they’d been interrupted, the door slammed closed.
“Tell me that did not just happen.” Rhoda groaned into his shoulder. Mortification set in along with disappointment.
And frustration.
A tender kiss landed on her forehead.
