Need exploded. He was a man beyond control. He settled between her thighs, his cock pressed to the wet heat of her, and he groaned at how good it felt. How right. How bloody perfect. Then he took her mouth with his. He kissed her long and deep, just the way he intended to fuck her.
The fit of their bodies was natural. He gripped his cock, guiding himself to her entrance. One thrust, and he was inside her. Her legs wrapped around him as her nails bit into his shoulders. Her tongue moved against his and she moaned.
Mother of all saints.
He was in heaven.
Her sheath was tight around him, dripping with the dew of her desire. Slick. So slick. And hot, so hot. He kissed her, staying still until he could not bear it a moment longer and the restless urge to pound into her took over. He withdrew, then slid inside to the hilt once more. Instinct reigned and they moved with a natural rhythm, in unison. Mira arched up to meet him for every thrust.
Their lips fused, tongues mating furiously as their bodies melded. She was nearly there; he could tell by the way she was tightening on him, squeezing his cock so hard, she almost pushed him out. But he was determined. He fucked her harder, deeper, pinning her to the mattress. Taking her with far less finesse than he would have hoped, it was true, but he was too far gone now. She had taken him over the edge.
And he was nothing but lust, desire, passion, and raw, ravaging need.
He wanted her more than he had ever wanted another.
And he wanted her to spend again.
Never breaking their kiss or his stride, he reached between them, finding the swollen nub of her pearl. She was so damn wet and eager, body jerking for more of his touch, a keening cry tearing from her. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his skin, on his brow. Their coupling became carnal and raw.
She reached her crescendo on a strangled scream, her cunny constricting on him as ripples of pleasure rolled through her. Demon was not far from reaching completion himself. Still, he rode out the pleasure for as long as he could. Until he could not bear it. Until he was about to spend inside her. But that would not do. If there was one risk he refused to take, it was siring bastards. He would not visit that same torture upon his own child. He had suffered enough for having been born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Two more thrusts, and he was done. He tore his mouth from hers and withdrew from her body. The ferocity of his climax took him by surprise. It was like lightning coursing through him, setting him aflame, pleasure rolling up his spine. Gripping his cock, he spent into the bedclothes.
Drained, he collapsed to his back at her side, wishing they never had to leave this bed.
* * *
Part of Mirabel—thewicked part—knew she would inevitably have to leave Damian’s bed. But she lingered anyway, reluctant to go. The connection they had shared had been beyond anything she had been prepared for. This had not been a mere joining.
She had lain with her husband before. What had passed between herself and Stanhope bore no comparison to what had occurred between Mirabel and the man who had just taken her to bed.
Transcendent.
That was what it had been. Her heart was still fluttering in her breast, her body humming with the aftereffects of his incredible lovemaking. Lovemaking which had rendered all her previous experience laughable. A disgrace, really.
But she had no notion of how much time she had spent in this haven with Damian Winter, and she had children awaiting her. She was nestled against his chest, breathing in his seductive, masculine scent, her palm flattened over the powerful muscles there. His arm was around her, her head tucked beneath his chin, and his hands were traveling in steady, reassuring passes up and down her back.
Gradually, the ferocity of emotion and sensation subsided. Reality returned, stark and unfortunate. The Duchess of Stanhope could ill afford to take lovers, let alone linger with them above forbidden gaming hells.
She sighed.
“You are thinking about leaving,” he predicted, his voice a luscious rumble against her ear.
No sense in prevaricating or prolonging the inescapable.
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “My children will be expecting me.”
“How many children do you have?”
She hesitated, for speaking about her children whilst she was naked in bed with her lover seemed somehow wrong. But then, there was something different about this man which she could not deny. Somethingright, even when it could not be.
“I have three children,” she said at last. “One daughter and two sons. Although they were spending the evening with their aunt and governess, I tell them a tale each night before they go to sleep. I have never missed a night.”
Not one. The tradition had begun when Percy had been a babe of no more than two, and he had clung to her as she whispered fantastical tales of knights and magic. It had continued with Joanna when she had been old enough to join in on their sessions, and finally Gideon as well.
“You read to them?”
“No.” She smiled, idly rubbing his chest. “I tell them stories which I create as we go along. The tale will never end, I tell them. Each night, we build upon the last.”
