Wasn’t it just like him to get aroused by defiance?
“Strathaven.” Clara’s throaty plea drew him back to the task at hand. “How long are you going to make me wait? I’m mad for you, darling.”
“Do you get to dictate events?” he said.
“No. Are you going to... punish me?”
He didn’t miss the hopeful edge to her question. Nor the way her slim thighs trembled, spreading wider to show him the swollen lips of her sex. Fully disrobed, he went to the bed. He drew a finger through her soaked thatch, and Clara arched her spine, moaning.
“What did you have in mind?” he inquired.
“Well, Ihavebeen naughty.” Tossing her red curls over her shoulder, she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “A spanking, perhaps?”
Because she asked, he would not indulge her. He could have concocted his own version of retribution for Clara, a way to extend their sexual play, but he found he didn’t have the desire to draw things out tonight. She was wet and ready. He gripped her narrow hips, pushed her knees farther apart, and drove his cock into her cunt as she squealed in surprise.
He regulatedthe tempo of fucking. He knew what Clara liked; after all, she made little secret of it, being as noisy during the act as he was silent. As she begged forharderanddeeper, he kept his thrusts measured and shallow, holding her climax from her, building it with methodical precision. As his body mastered Clara’s, his mind was drawn inexorably back to Miss Kent.
Her simple dress had clung with subtle eroticism to her curves, its blush color evoking images of the skin beneath the fabric. His pulse quickened as he imagined her enticingly full breasts beneath him, jiggling as he plowed her. Her nipples would be a plump dusky rose to match her impudent lips. Gripping her sweetly rounded hips, he would tame her with pleasure, pound her tight, wet quim until she screamed her surrender…
The pressure in his bollocks startled him. A warning sizzle shot up his shaft.
“Yes, ram me with your big cock!” Moaning, Clara ground against him, meeting his thrusts. “I’m going to spend—”
What would Miss Kent be like in her crisis? Would she beg for her release? More likely than not the little termagant would demand it. Well, if she was a good lass, he would give it to her. He saw her big brown eyes melting with desire, heard her breathless voice chanting his name as he drilled himself inside her snug sheath, deeper and deeper still, taking what was his, what she’d never given to any man before...
He gritted his teeth, held on until his partner reached her zenith. Only then did he join her, shuddering, biting back an involuntary groan. He disengaged himself moments later, physically spent... and flummoxed by his fantasy. By its nature and intensity.
Emma Kent is trouble. Put her out of your mind.
He exhaled and forced himself to do just that.
Tying on his robe, he went to pour himself his routine nightcap. The single dram of Tobermary whiskey before bed was an indulgence. He’d suffered from a digestive ailment in his youth, and physicians had diagnosed him with everything from sensitive nerves to an imbalance of humors. One quack had gone so far as to accuse him of faking his symptoms.
That verdict had earned Alaric countless beatings from the old duke, followed by periods of enforced starvation to rid him of his “deviousness.”
That hadn’t helped his illness.
It wasn’t until after his guardian’s death that he’d managed to conquer the disease. At Oxford, he’d met a pugilism instructor who’d not only helped him to hone his physical condition but also placed him on a diet used by fighters to build muscle and endurance. To this day, Alaric’s daily regimen included exercise and eating healthful foods.
He’d be damned if he lost control over his body—over his life—ever again.
Clara raised herself languidly against the headboard, stretching like a cat. “After a tup like that, I need something more fortifying than ratafia,” she said with sultry satisfaction. “I believe I’ll join you in that nasty stuff you prefer.”
Wordlessly, he brought her a glass. As Clara sipped on her whiskey, he settled into the leather wingback by the fire. Clara’s main drawback was her tendency to linger after their purpose together was done.
“Whatdidyou think of Miss Kent?” she said.
Though the muscles of his belly tensed, Alaric flicked a glance over. “Not much.”
“I found her rather amusing myself. A provincial little mouse and Good Samaritan rolled into one.” Clara’s smile had a razor’s edge. “Do you know that she continued to pester me about reporting you to the magistrates?”
This didn’t surprise him. Miss Kent had struck him as both virtuous and determined: a troublesome combination if ever there was one.
“I’m sure you managed to dissuade her. Your turn as the browbeaten wife was quite affecting. Comparable to the great Mrs. Siddons, I should say.”
“’Twas no act. Osgood is frightfully afraid of scandal,” Clara said petulantly. “He doesn’t care what I do—only that no one knows about it. He’s such a bore.”
“Who makes up for it with jewels and a generous allowance.” Alaric’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “You signed on for your marriage, my dear.”
