Her mouth moved lower, and her hand slipped inside. When she found him—hard, impossibly hot—she gasped. He groaned. The sound was ragged, guttural. Finally, he surged free, thick, hot, and already hard for her. As she wrapped her hand around his arousal, skin to burning skin, they both stopped breathing.
He was silk over steel in her palm, impossibly hard yet smooth, and larger than she'd imagined during those sparse but restless nights alone in her bed. She stroked him experimentally, learning the weight and heat of him, fascinated by the way his breath hitched when she tightened her grip just below the crown.
“Georgia…” Her name was barely recognizable on his lips, guttural and desperate.
Power surged through her. She, who had been told she was too forthright, too burdensome to manage, had reduced this commanding man to trembling. She sank to her knees and pressed her mouth to his hip bone, then lower, following the trail of dark hair while her hand continued its exploration.His fingers tangled in her carefully pinned hair, and she heard several pins scatter across the floor.
“Enough.”
The word came out strangled. Strong hands hauled her upright, and before she could protest the interruption, his mouth crashed into hers. The kiss was nothing like their wedding kiss—this was possession, raw need that made her forget they stood alone in a dark chamber where anyone might enter.
His hands moved to her skirts with purpose, gathering handful after handful of muslin and petticoats. Cool air kissed her calves, then her knees. When his palms found the bare skin above her stockings, she made a sound she'd never heard herself make before—something between a gasp and a moan that should have mortified her.
Instead, it emboldened her. She spread her legs without being asked, letting him discover exactly how affected she was. His fingers found her slick and ready, and the growl he made against her throat sent another rush of wetness to meet his touch.
“All this for me?” His fingers slid through her folds with devastating slowness. “You are soaking through your stockings…”
She couldn't form words, could only clutch at his shoulders as he explored her with knowing fingers. Then suddenly he was on his knees before her, pushing her skirts higher.
“Hold them up. I want you to watch.”
The command sent heat lancing through her. She gathered her skirts with shaking hands, looking down at the picture they made—her pale thighs spread wide, his dark head between them. The first touch of his tongue made her cry out, loud enough that she bit her lip to stifle the sound.
He pulled back for just a breath. “Don't. I want to hear every sound you make.”
Then his mouth was on her again, and coherent thought fled. His tongue was wicked, clever, finding places that made stars explode behind her eyelids. When he sucked gently on that small bundle of nerves while pressing two fingers deep inside her, her knees buckled.
He caught her easily, one arm banded around her hips while he continued his sweet torment. She was saying things—broken, shocking things about what she needed, what she wanted him to do—but she couldn't stop! Her release built like a storm, gathering force until she was shaking, her thighs clamping around his head.
Before the volcano could erupt, though, before the pleasure could render her muscles liquid, Keaton stopped. His head lifted.
“Someone is coming!”
CHAPTER 15
“If Amelia was taken to a sanatorium, it would have been Thomas Higgins who took her,” Georgia reasoned, walking alongside Hermione Archer through the gardens of Westvale. Or what passed for gardens.
Hermione had come to Westvale to visit. Georgia was glad of it; it gave her the chance to talk of her fears for Amelia and how she might act upon them.
Today, another subject burned within her, but she daredn’t bring it up to her friend. The subject of what she had allowed Keaton to do to her and what might have happened had they not been interrupted. Lord Swinthorpe’s arrival had ended what might have been the consummation of their marriage, though he did not know what he had done.
“He is the household's only driver besides me. I can drive the trap.”
“I see you are determined to make a mystery out of this when there are far more interesting topics I should like to discuss,” Hermione wiggled her brows and nudged her friend’s elbow, “but I shall indulge you. What is the significance of that fact?”
“Why, he will know where she was taken. Because he drove her there,” Georgia deduced as though it was the most obvious conclusion, “what would you rather be talking about?”
Hermione laughed. “Are you so blind? Perhaps the tale of your dinner at Lord Swinthorpe's house, which resulted in your husband nearly losing his life!”
Georgia stooped to sniff a wildflower that was emerging from a mass of weeds in a flower bed.
“That was an exaggeration,” she pointed out.
“Yourexaggeration in your relaying of that particular evening. You tell me that he slashed his arm on broken glass, that he was jealous...”
“His uncle happened along, but by then the bleeding had stopped and all was well,” Georgia finished hastily.
She resumed her walking, feeling her friend's eyes on her back.
