Craving more carnality, he kneaded the soft flesh of her thighs, sliding his hands up and then clutching her buttocks. So soft and giving. His fingers dipped into her crease, and he squeezed, working himself rhythmically, wanting to draw this out and savor the encounter but knowing that was going to be impossible.
Which it was.
White lightning shot down his spine, and he moved to withdraw, consciously preventing himself from releasing inside her body. Only her legs tightened around him.
Unable to prevent the inevitable, he surrendered to the unique, almost painful, erotic pleasure seizing him.
* * *
It had been fastand impersonal and exactly what Miranda needed. She relaxed her legs and dangled them off the end of the table in a most unladylike pose.
“God damnit,” he uttered, his hand bracing himself on the table, leaning over her.
“I’m barren,” she murmured lazily. “You need not worry.”
She’d sensed his pending retreat and hadn’t wanted to lose the sensation of his generous appendage filling her. He was large—larger than any man she’d been with. And contrary to his initial reluctance, he’d needed this encounter nearly as much as she had.
Feeling needed was the most glorious aphrodisiac in the world.
He wiped an arm across his eyes, still inside of her, relaxed, catching his breath.
But he was also regretful. Remorse creased his brow. Any second now, he would slide out and step away, leaving her satisfied but also empty again.
He might offer his apologies. He would locate a handkerchief and after a few cleansing strokes over his deflated cock, tuck it away and offer to escort her back to the ballroom.
She would decline, of course, as she always did, and sneak around to the front of the manor where she would then locate her driver.
But until he left, she would absorb his weight. His breathing slowed but he didn’t move.
“Are you all right?” she asked after at least a minute of silence. Perhaps he’d strained a muscle. Baldwin had hurt his back once… during. It wasn’t unheard of.
“I don’t even know your given name.” His voice rumbled in the quiet.
Miranda opened her eyes, searching for that regret, and then feeling almost uncomfortable when she didn’t find it.
“Or would you prefer I continue addressing you as Lady Starling?” The left corner of his mouth tipped up.
Cold filled her veins.
“Miranda,” she answered. But it didn’t matter.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miranda.”
“Is that what this is called now?” She feigned nonchalance, trapped by his gaze even more so than his body, which for all intents and purposes, pinned her to the table.
Awkwardness settled on the silence that followed.
She inhaled and noticed the aroma of his cologne, clean and leathery, of the grass that surrounded the folly, which must have been cut earlier that day, of a lemon oil that must have been used to polish the table beneath her.
And laced within all of those, the unmistakable scent of sex.
An owl hooted nearby, and the distant murmurs of guests making inane conversation muddled together into a low rumble of meaninglessness.
He shifted slightly, and she prepared herself for a cool rush of air. But she was to be disappointed again.
Gentle fingers traced the edge of her face. “I would like to become better acquainted with you, Miranda.”
She dropped her gaze to his lips, which were full and unlined—sensual. He’d tasted clean and fresh when she’d kissed him. The slightest hint of a shadow showed on his chin and jaw, and just above his mouth. He was younger than her. Not by much but enough. And he was sweet.
