“Yes.” The admission left her as a moan.
“You want to give me more of your sweet pussy?”
“Whatever you want,” she gasped.
“That’s my lass.”
She felt his fingers push inside her, heard his low purr of approval when her muscles clutched on the fullness. He stretched her, driving into her passage, building the pressure.
“You’ve got two of my fingers, sweeting. Can you take another one?”
He stirred inside her, and she sighed, “Yes.”
He added to the fullness. It was too much, not enough.
She arched into his stroke. “Please, I need…”
“Say my name.”
“Wick,” she breathed.
“You’re so bloody beautiful, my Beatrice.”
He withdrew, and she was about to protest when she felt him spreading her, his fingers replaced by histongue. She moaned as he licked into her clenching passage, stabbing into her with heated strokes as he manipulated her pearl. She catapulted into bliss, heard his reverent oath as she gushed against his mouth.
“Devil and damn, you undo me,” he growled.
Panting, she turned her head to see him rising, unbuttoning the bulging placket of his trousers. His cock was hugely erect, the head weeping seed as he gripped the fleshy shaft. His gaze was trained on her bared sex, and lust sharpened his features, his nostrils flaring as he jerked his fist.
“Stick up that bottom for me,” he said in gritty tones. “Show me that pretty pink slit of yours.”
His command sizzled through her. What he was doing—pleasuring himself whilst he looked his fill of her pussy—was shamefully titillating. And, at the same time, empowering. The knowledge that he found the mere sight of her arousing made her intimate muscles clench.
“Christ, that’s nice.” His gaze locked with hers. “Angel, do you want me to come for you?”
“Yes.” Her reply was throaty. “Please come for me.”
His jaw tautened as he pumped fiercely. With a rumbling groan, he began to spend. His seed blasted from him in milky streams, lashing her bottom and thighs with heat. She inhaled the musk of his pleasure with feminine satisfaction. His gaze hooded, he trailed his fingers through his spend, and she quivered as he rubbed his slick essence into her skin, marking her even more deeply.
“Angel,” he said hoarsely, “that was—”
“Bea, are you there? You have to hurry!”
Bea froze at the sound of Fancy’s voice. Luckily, Murray was a man of action. He yanked down her skirts and hauled her upright. Fastening his trousers, he put himself at a respectable distance just as her friend burst through the leaves.
Fancy’s panicked expression chilled Bea to the core.
“What’s the matter?” she asked tersely.
“Fire,” the tinker’s daughter gasped. “The barn’s on fire!”
11
Fingerprints of smokesmudged the morning sky. As Bea stared numbly at the smoldering remains of the barn, she was still unable to comprehend all that had happened in the last few hours. Around her, her tenants were going through the smoking rubble, seeing what could be salvaged, which she didn’t think would be much. She counted her blessings, however.
Hay and a barn could be replaced. Lives could not.
Gratitude welled as she saw Wickham approaching her in his long-limbed stride. He was sweaty, smoke-stained, and, in her eyes, he’d never been more handsome. During the crisis, while she’d been occupied with the task of getting water to the barn, he’d taken command of the scene. His natural authority had bolstered the others. He’d organized lines so that the arriving water could be passed in buckets man to man. He’d put others to work beating the flames with blankets.
