He withdrew almost completely, only to drive again, harder this time.
“You can’t stop me,” she gasped. “I love you.”
Again and again he stormed into her in hard, fierce thrusts.
But he couldn’t stop her.
“I love you,” she told him, repeating it at every thrust, as though she would drive the words into him, as he drove his body into hers.
“I love you,” she said, even as the earth shook, and the heavens opened up and rapture blasted through him like lightning.
He covered her mouth to shut out the three fatal words, but they were spilling into his parched heart even while his seed spilled into her. He couldn’t stop his heart from drinking in those words, couldn’t keep it from believing them. He had tried to keep her out, just as he’d tried not to need more from her than was safe. Futile.
He never had been, never would be, safe from her.
Femme fatale.
Still, there were worse ways to die.
AndCarpe diem, he told himself, as he collapsed against her.
As he might have expected, Dain emerged from paradise and walked straight into a nightmare.
By the time they’d left the churchyard and begun hunting for their carriage, the ludicrous match had ended, ludicrously, in a technical dispute. The spectators were streaming out in all directions, a part of the mob heading toward the town proper and another part away toward the mass of vehicles.
A short distance from the carriage, Vawtry hailed him.
“I’ll wait in the carriage,” Jessica said, slipping her hand from Dain’s arm. “I cannot possibly be expected to conduct a rational conversation at present.”
Though he doubted he could, either, Dain managed a knowing chuckle. Letting her go on to the vehicle, he joined Vawtry.
They were soon joined by several others, Ainswood included, and in a moment Dain was caught up in the general indignation about the grievously disappointing wrestlers.
Vawtry was in the midst of reviewing the disputed throw when Dain noticed that Ainswood was not attending at all, but staring past him.
Sure the man was gawking at Jessica again, Dain bent a warning frown upon him.
Ainswood didn’t notice. Turning back, grinning, to Dain, he said, “Looks like your footman’s got himself a bit more than a handful.”
Dain followed the duke’s amused glance. Jessica was in the carriage, out of reach of His Grace’s leering gaze.
Meanwhile, though, Joseph—who, as first footman, danced attendance upon Lady Dain—was struggling with a ragged, filthy urchin. A pickpocket, by the looks of it. Sporting events attracted them, like the whores, in droves.
Joseph managed to get the ragamuffin by the collar, but the brat twisted about and kicked him. Joseph bellowed. The guttersnipe answered with a stream of profanity that would have done a marine credit.
At that moment, the carriage door opened, and Jessica started out. “Joseph! What in blazes are you about?”
Though well aware she could handle the contretemps—whatever it was—Dain was also aware that he was supposed to be the authority figure…and his friends were watching.
He hurried over to intercept her.
A bloodcurdling scream came from behind him.
It startled Joseph, loosening his grasp. The ragamuffin broke free, and was off like a shot.
But Dain charged at the same moment and, catching the shoulder of his filthy jacket, hauled the brat to a stop. “See here, you little—”
Then he broke off, because the boy had looked up, and Dain was looking down…into sullen black eyes, narrowed above a monstrous beak of a nose, in a dark, scowling face.
