Moaning, Daria moved her hips against his mouth, her movements growing frantic.
He felt the shudder building inside her. Waited. Timed the moment. And then, using his tongue and finger together, he pushed her over.
“Gregory!”she sobbed. “Gregory.” Bucking and thrashing and cursing, she grinded herself wild against his face. “Gregory!” She cried his name over and over, letting it peal through the shop. Letting everyone knew the pleasure she received.
His ballocks drew tight.
Argyll gripped her hips harder and continued thrusting his tongue, drawing every last drop.
Until she let out a soft, broken cry.
Her replete body sank hard against the mirror. “Mmm.” A smile, one of those beautiful, elusive smiles she guarded so closely, played about her glistening lips, swollen from his mouth.
As his wife slowly descended from her climax, his body shook with the force of his lust for this woman. Drawing shaky breaths in through his nose and letting them out his mouth, he fought his baser urges. All he wanted was to fill her so deep there was no clarity of where she began and he ended.
When he took her, it wouldn’t be with a wall at her back or a floor as her mattress.
When had it ever mattered?
In truth, it hadn’t.
So why was it different with this woman? He couldn’t say. Didn’t want to say. Nor did he want this moment ruined with needless fears.
Still on his knees for her, Argyll pressed a gentle kiss to the creamy expanse of his wife’s thigh.
At her whispery sigh, he glanced up.
The quiet happiness resting on her face was his work, and the knowledge grounded him.
“Good, little raven?”
“Gregory?”
She stilled him as his mouth hovered over her damp curls. “Hmm?”
Her languid smile widened. “I flew.”
Hours Later
With a hand resting at the small of his wife’s back, Argyll guided Daria toward the southerly entrance of Forbidden Pleasures.The wiry butler, Colhoun, stood waiting with the doors thrown wide.
The escalating tensions between London’s gaming hells had required new measures. Former guards had been replaced—hand-selected by Kilburn—and Colhoun was among them. Each man had previously served as an Exploratory Officer with the British Army. Ruthless in the field, their expertise in reconnaissance afforded a level of security the displaced guards could not match.
As they stepped inside, Colhoun sketched a quick bow. “Your Grace.” He bowed first to Daria.
“Hullo, Colhoun.”
Argyll started. “Since when have you and Colhoun become acquainted?”
His wife looked at him oddly. “When we departed for Madam Amalie’s.”
Argyll considered himself a fair employer, but he did not cultivate familiarity with staff. Outside of DuMond, he maintained no such relationships at all. And yet his wife, barely three days in his life, had managed it with disarming ease.
Colhoun coughed. “Mr. DuMond and Lord Kilburn request that you report to Mr. DuMond’s office upon your return, Your Grace.”
“Inform them I have pressing matters,” Argyll replied evenly—pressing matters meaning making love to his wife in a proper bed. He caught the braid of Daria’s pelisse and gently steered her away. “You are excused, Colhoun.”
The towheaded guard hesitated, then bowed again. His footsteps retreated briskly down the corridor.
