He looked into her eyes. “I want to be inside you with nothing between us, love. I won’t come in your cunny; I’ll pull out before that happens.”
In answer, she arched her hips, painting her wetness over his thick crown.
His pupils dilated, he bent down to kiss her. At the same time, he notched his cock to her opening and pushed in. They both moaned at the perfection of the fit. He stretched her, filled her, taking away the empty ache. He seated himself so fully that she felt his stones pressed up against her.
He nuzzled her ear. “Good, love?”
“So very good,” she sighed. “Don’t stop.”
He began to move. Deep, soulful plunges that made her gasp with delight, that made her realize the vast difference between self-pleasuring and this shared ecstasy. She ran her hands down the undulating musculature of his back to the taut, flexing hills of his buttocks. She dug her fingers into his hard arse, and he growled.
“Want it harder, angel? Want to take my cock deeper into your tight little hole?”
Staring into his beautiful, hungry face, she said, “I want everything you have to give, Wick.”
“Such a good, greedy lass you are.”
He pounded into her. He slammed his hips, drilling his shaft into her core, his stones slapping wetly against her swollen folds. She came, her pussy rippling along his steely length, gasping as liquid pleasure burst inside her.
“You squeeze my prick so nicely when you come.” He didn’t stop thrusting, his hazel eyes fierce. “I want to feel you do it again.”
His thumb found her pearl, circling and pressing it against his pistoning cock. She felt herself responding, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts, the heat inside her building once again. Then he bent to capture her nipple between his lips. The suction blazed to the part of her crammed full of him, setting off new convulsions of delight.
“Now I’m going to spend for you,” he rasped.
He pulled out, and despite her sated state, she tingled at the sight of him: kneeling between her spread legs, his thighs ridged with muscle, his fist jerking on his thick, glistening stalk. She saw the instant the pleasure overtook him, the bulging sinew on his neck and upper arms, the gritting of his teeth against a shout. He exploded, directing the sensual geyser at her breasts and belly. His seed rained upon her, and she dipped her fingers into his essence, rubbing it into her skin. He watched, his chest heaving and nostrils flaring.
Afterward, he cleaned her up with a towel. Gathering her close in bed, he kissed the top of her head. With her cheek pressed against his chest, sated and warm, she fell asleep.
* * *
She woke to darkness and the sound of knocking.
Beneath her, Wick stirred sleepily. “Is that someone at the door? What time is it?”
She fumbled to light the lamp. “I’ll go see what’s going on.”
Slipping from the warm cocoon, she quickly tugged on her nightgown. She went to the door, opened it. At the sight of Lisette’s distraught features, a cold droplet slid down her spine.
Dread gripping her throat, Bea said, “What is going on?”
“Mr. Sheridan’s here, my lady,” the maid blurted. “He’s looking for Miss Sheridan. She was working in the village last night and didn’t make it home.”
22
Nearing midday,there was still no trace of Fancy Sheridan.
As Wick headed back to the manor house, his mood was grim. He’d organized search parties to look for Fancy, and his own team had gone through the village from top to bottom. All he’d discovered was that Fancy had left the inn where she’d been hired to help in the kitchen around eight o’clock. Her brother Godfrey, who’d also been working at the inn, was supposed to walk home with her, but he’d ended up dallying with a barmaid.
Rather than waiting, Fancy had headed home alone.
From there, Wick had the reports of several people who saw her walking down the main road back toward Camden Manor. She hadn’t made it to her family’s cottage at the edge of the estate. In his gut, Wick knew that something sinister had happened to Beatrice’s friend.
Wick’s hope that someone else had located the missing girl vanished when he entered the manor’s drawing room and saw Beatrice. She’d just returned from searching some nearby fields with her team, which consisted of her tenants, George and Sarah Haller, and the curate, Frank Varnum. All four had bleak, pinched expressions. Mr. Haller was comforting his blonde wife, whose reddened eyes betrayed the fact that she’d been crying.
When Wick went up to Bea, the others wordlessly gave them space.
“No news?” he asked quietly.
