Pure ecstasy shot through Judith, from her breasts to her groin, and her body stiffened, arching against the bonds. Heat flushed her face, and she felt a growing wetness between her legs, an increasing need. She tried to writhe, but the ties held her tight.
One hand still on a breast, he kissed his way down her torso, lingering just above her mound, as the other hand patted the inside of her thigh. “Your legs,” he muttered, his words hoarse. “Glorious, a shape a queen would envy.” His hand left her breast as he shifted. His fingers traced up one thigh, across her swollen cunt, and down the other thigh. “Hips made for childbearing. And the luckiest of men.”
Judith’s breath came in gulps, her muscles tensing under his touch, her arousal building as moisture slipped from her. She whispered his name.
He kissed the top of her slit. “But this.” He licked from the top all the way to the bed. “Heaven.”
Judith cried out, a fiery need consuming her, her entire body struggling against the bonds.
He slid both hands under her buttocks, raising her, tilting her hips, blowing streams of cool air over her aching cunt.
“Damn you!” What had meant to be a cry, a curse, emerged as a harsh and barely audible beg.
His tongue found her then, separating her tender folds as a chef would carefully open a ripened fruit. He pulled one hand free and held them apart as his tongue worked the swollen flesh, pushing, teasing, withdrawing, until Judith found herself begging him in earnest.
“Please!”
A finger entered her, circling. Then two. Three. Thrusting and twisting, searching for the sweetest spot, as his mouth focused on the engorged bud at the top of her sex, sucking.
The shattering jolt of her climax raced through her, hot waves of ecstasy as she cried out, her body bucking, jerking hard against her ties. He did not relent, continuing to lick, the thrusting of his fingers slowing inside her, until her body eased into the tiniest of spasms, her breath finally returning to its regular rhythm. Then he eased his hand out of her and made unbelievably quick work of releasing her bonds, legs first, then a quick pull at the sash holding her hands that freed them both. He pulled down her chemise, smoothing it over her stomach and legs. Then he moved over her, his groin against hers, and braced himself on his elbows. His cock had hardened again, and its pressure against her felt as warm as a comforting hug.
Judith pushed the cravat off her eyes to find Mark gazing down at her, his skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat, his eyes wide with adoration. Silently, gradually, he lowered his weight against her, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he buried his face into her neck. “You are remarkable,” he whispered.
Without reason, Judith sobbed with relief and joy, tightening her grip on him. Mark entwined his fingers in her hair, kissing the side of her face. He held her until she calmed and her breathing became even, then he murmured, “Are you all right?”
“I am”—she stopped, her throat raspy, and swallowed—“spectacularly all right.”
Mark raised his head to look at her, then let more of his weight rest on her body, pressing her into the mattress. “Is this too much?”
It was not. In fact, Judith relished the feel of his body against hers, the heaviness making her feel protected. Cocooned.
“It is not. I want all of it. All of you.”
With a slight smile, he straightened his arms, and his full weight rested on her. “Do not let me hurt you.”
She shook her head. “I like it. It makes me feel...” The word would not come.
“Claimed.”
I wish to own a part of you.
She kissed his cheek. “Are you claiming me? Am I one of your many?”
He shook his head, propping himself up again on his elbows, easing some of his weight off her. “I may have been with many women in the past, but I have only claimed one. You. My first choice.”
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday, 4 August 1814
Lord Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Half-past four in the morning
Mark studied Judith’sface, waiting to see how she would take his words. He had not meant to say them—not yet—but as she had accepted his full weight on her, his heart had soared with a bizarre, somewhat twisted hope—one borne of his wonder of this woman in his bed, her understanding, warmth, and practicality. A hope that her reactions, her words, were not a pretense but all too real. He had never experienced a stronger sense of pragmatism in any woman, and he had never believed to find one. Yet his own life and lifestyle demanded it.
The smile that had flitted across her face vanished. She touched his cheek with two fingers, resting her thumb under his chin. Her eyes narrowed, but more in curiosity than anger. “What does that mean to you?”
“That of all the women I have met, you are the only one I wish to spend time with. To share a bed with. To hold near me in a way I have no other.”
