A jab of his hips, and her back arched, thrusting those magnificent breasts toward his face. “Don’t ever lie to me again,” he ordered.
“Why?” The question emerged on a sensual purr of pleasure, her voice sounding faintly drunken. “Will you spank me again?
“No. You’d enjoy it too much.” Eventually. He hadn’t missed the tremble that had slid through her on that last slap, the way her thighs had squeezed together. “You”—a sharp snap of his hips—“don’t lie”—a thrust so hard she gasped his name like a prayer—“tome.”
Her nails bit into his shoulders; her teeth bit into her lower lip. A whine built in her throat as her thighs tensed, as she tried to claim what small range of motion he granted to her to drive herself down upon him. A whimper slid from her lips. “Henry, please.”
“Promise me.” God, he was so close, now. Another thrust and she clenched around him, casting her head back with a sharpcry. “Promise me, andmeanit.” Because he couldn’t take another incident of finding her in a place like this when she’d been meant to be elsewhere. When she’d promised she wouldn’t come. From this moment forward, she was going to honor her word to him.
“I promise!” It was the plaintive wail of a desperate woman. Her breath came in frantic little pants as she squirmed in his arms, fighting to get closer still. “Henry, I promise.Please.”
And that—that was enough. Enough for now. Henry drove feverishly for fulfillment, praying she would find hers first. He could feel his balls tightening, feel his seed rising in his shaft.
Withdraw, he told himself.You have got to withdraw. Now. It must be now.
Those first tiny flutters were the end of him. She tightened around him in delicious little pulses, squeezing him within the clench of those hot, velvety inner muscles. Her arms clutched at him as she made soft gasping sounds near his ear that scrambled his senses.
That was it. He came so hard, so fast, it drove every thought from his head except the need to be inside her. Tostayinside her. Forever, for always.
An eternity later, Grace murmured, “Henry?”
He’d been waiting for his heart to recover its normal rhythm, working out the best, most efficient way to get her from here to the bed. “Hmm?”
“I’m not sorry I came here tonight,” she said, draping her arms around his neck and settling her cheek upon his shoulder with a sigh. “But I amsorry I lied about it.”
He muffled a huff of disgruntled laughter against her temple and buried a kiss in her tousled hair.Good enough.
∞∞∞
Mistakes.
It wasn’t the first time Henry had ruminated upon them, and he doubted it would be the last. For the vast majority of his life, he’d kept them to a minimum. Tiny little ones of no particular consequence, without lasting impact upon the rest of his life, or anyone else’s.
Perfection was an impossible goal, but one he had striven for nonetheless. And if he had always—wouldalways—fall short, well, then, no one could say it was because he hadn’t tried. Tried, in all ways, to be the perfect son. The perfect brother. The perfect earl. The perfect gentleman.
At least until recently, he’d thought he’d been doing a damned fine job of it. And then his life had caved in, and so had his principles, his morals, his scruples, and everything else besides. How many mistakes had he made of late? How many life-altering decisions that could, at any moment, have ruined him? One misstep, one mistake after another. First carelessly, and thenwillingly. What had he become, just lately?
He dressed quickly and quietly, shrugging into his coat with a carelessness that would have given his valet conniptions. His cravat was a loss; his fumbling fingers hadn’t been able to wrench the wrinkled linen into anything even approximating the sort of intricate knot that a gentleman was expected to wear. He located his boots tucked beneath the bed, beautifully-shined leather reflecting the low light of the lamp.
Grace dozed still upon the bed in a glorious sprawl, one knee hiked up, the gold of her tumbled hair catching the flickering lamplight. She looked like the subject of some Renaissancemaster painter; lovely smooth skin bared—a Venus in repose, all lush curves and soft swells. He flexed his fingers in an effort to resist the impulse to sweep his hands across the silken globes of her plush arse, to press his thumbs to the sweet little dimples carved into her flesh just at the small of her back. Her arm cradled the fulsome weight of her breasts, exposed her rosy nipples.
He swiped his trembling fingers over his mouth. Already he wanted to be between the luxurious softness of her thighs again, to hold those generous hips in the grip of his fingers as he sank himself within her.
He’d done that quite enough already. In the glow of the lamp, there was a sheen of moisture sliding out from that shadowed cove between her legs. His spend, seeping in a slow trickle down her thigh. It satisfied some primitive part of him he’d never suspected existed to see it.
It also provoked a deep and instinctive panic.
He collected her clothing a piece at a time, retrieved the pins he’d plucked from her hair and discarded. It was still late; but not yetearly—he hoped, at least. But she would be missed, eventually, and the sun rose early this time of year. They couldn’t pass a full night here, in a wretched, run-down little tavern in Whitechapel.
He had to get her safely home. Now.
Dumping the clothing onto the rumpled counterpane, he took a seat at the edge of the bed and curled one hand around her hip. Warm flesh beneath his fingers, so damned soft and giving.
“Grace,” he said, hearing the strangled tenor of his own voice. “We have got to go.”
She made a small sound of discontent, turning her face into the pillow. “Half an hour more,” she mumbled, her muffled voice slurry with sleep.
“Now,” he said. “It’s already beyond late.” How long had they been here? “My coachman is probably asleep at his post.”
