“You have no scars?” he asked.
“No. Only in the mind,” she answered.
He kissed her again, but this time on the cheek. It was a soft touch, a butterfly caress, feather-light. His kisses grazed, roaming towards her ear. Kissed the line of her jaw, the lobe of her ear. Her neck. His lips parted, and she felt his teeth brush her skin. Then they too parted as though he intended to bite. She drew in her breath sharply at the notion that she was being tasted. That Keaton was a creature of a dark fairy tale, a seducer who consumed the souls of maidens.
It intensified the pleasure she felt at the maddening tenderness of his lips. She wanted to be released from the pressure within her, to let it consume her and collapse at his feet—sighing his name and helpless before her desire. Instead, she was tormented by the exploratory touches that were a prelude to lovemaking, enticing and bringing her closer to the edge step by step. But slowly, oh so slowly. His hands moved across her shoulders, fingers playing her nerves as though she were a piano. She shivered and writhed at the passage, squirmed as her upper arms were encircled by his roughened, strong hands.
He squeezed enough that she knew that she could not be free unless he allowed it, to remind her of his strength. His remorseless strength. His glorious masculinity. Her knees trembled. The tree was another masculine presence behind her, its bark rough, its trunk hard and unyielding. She was pinned between them.
Keaton’s head lowered to her chest, his tongue licked at her goosepimpled skin, tracing a path downwards, leaving a trail of wetness behind that was cool where the night air touched it. His hands encompassed her breasts and cruelly pulled at the neck of her dress. It resisted for a moment. Then tore in the middle. She wore a modified chemise beneath, cut so that it was not visible above the dress. It fared no better.
Then Georgia was naked to the air. Her torn dress and chemise fell away, slipping to her waist and held there by her hips. Her left breast was engulfed by a warm, wet cave. Keaton’s tongue flicked against her nipple. Georgia ran her fingers through his hair, tightening them and holding his head against her bosom. She wanted him to nuzzle her, to suck and even bite. To taste and savor her. Keaton’s tongue trailed to the right breast, pulling at the nipple with his teeth and making Georgia cry aloud.
She pushed at his coat, removing it from his shoulders and then down his arms. He shrugged it aside and she attacked the laces of his shirt. When she felt his bare chest revealed, she hugged him close and pressed her mouth to his skin in imitation of what he had been doing to her. The feel of his coarse hair over the stony muscle made her toes curl in delight. It was wonderfully male.Unbearablymale. It made her acutely aware of her own femininity, her own vulnerability.
His hands delved beneath the waistline of her dress, cupping her buttocks, squeezing and then slapping. It made her squeal and then clap a hand over her mouth at the unexpected loudness.
“You will be mistaken for a fox,” he chuckled throatily, “they are notoriously lusty animals too.”
“I am not notorious,” she whispered, grabbing at Keaton’s buttocks in return.
It meant that his loins ground against hers, and she felt the hardness there, straining to be free. She caressed it, running her hand up and down and feeling the response from Keaton’s body, hearing the gasps in his breath. One of his hands moved around her hips to the front, delved downward, and suddenly she was lifting herself onto tiptoes. Her mouth opened wide in a silent gasp of helpless pleasure. She threw back her head as his other hand clamped onto her breast, pulling at the nipple even as he entered her wetness with deft fingers.
Her senses became focused on those two parts of her body alone. Her thighs shook and her back arched. A pressure was building within her, searing every nerve ending. It was volcanic, surging upward from the heart of her womanhood. It rendered her limbs spasmodic; she clutched at him, nails digging in. She pressed her mouth to any part of his bare skin she could find, screaming her ecstasy against it.
Keaton released her breast and pressed one of her hands against his manhood. She heard his breath come in panting gasps, sensed his approaching eruption, which was coming in lock-step with her own. Both sensed this, and as she put a hand over his mouth, he did the same thing.
Their cries of climactic pleasure were muffled as their bodies shuddered and tensed against each other. Then fell limp.
CHAPTER 26
“Your Grace!”
Keaton was disturbed from a conversation with Georgia as they walked along a path in Ranelagh Gardens. He recognized the voice as belonging to Aloysius Thorne. He stopped, turning towards the sound.
“Thorne! What brings you here? And how did you know where to find me?”
“Your Grace, I first visited Westvale and was told by Mr. Rutherford that you were on your way to Ranelagh. It seemed that I had only just missed you. I arrived here shortly after you did and spotted you alighting from your carriage. I would have addressed you there and then, but dropped my cab fare in my haste.”
“Ah. Georgia, this is my invaluable investigative aide, Mr. Aloysius Thorne,” Keaton introduced.
“A pleasure, Mr. Thorne,” Georgia curtsied politely.
“And to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Thorne replied with a formal bow. “When I learned the name of His Grace's new wife, I recalled your letter to me on the subject of your brother. I am truly sorry that I could not be of help.”
“Not at all, Mr. Thorne. I understand that you have to earn a living,” Georgia reassured with a smile in her voice.
Keaton frowned, remembering his promise to Georgia and knowing that fulfilling said promise might—if her feelings for him were not all she claimed them to be—precipitate her departure. He felt guilty that he had strung her along with promises and no action.
I was afraid of discovering the truth. That I had been manipulated. That I had lowered my defenses in vain...
Now was the time to address that fear and assuage Georgia's magnificent patience. There was still a risk, of course. They had enjoyed each other's bodies the previous evening, retiring to separate rooms by silent, mutual agreement, but the atmosphere between them had been different the following day. Keaton's paranoia had eased. He had felt pride that such a beautiful and desirable creature had chosen him, and with it came a sense of contentment that he had been sorely lacking in the past.
Perhaps I have been lacking it since my father died. I did not notice because I had never known differently.
“That is no longer a problem, however. You have the resources of Westvale behind you now,” Keaton declared firmly.
“I did not wish to presume…”
