She rode him harder, seeking her crisis. It was near, so near. He caught her breast in his mouth, sucking hard on her nipple, and that was it. She lost herself completely, shattering and splintering, coming so hard, she screamed.
Through the thundering of her own heart, she scarcely heard his warning.
“Damn, Mira, I’m going to come.”
But she was selfish, and she did not want to put an end to their joining. So she remained where she was, atop him, astride him, his cock lodged deep as the hot spurt of his seed filled her.
Chapter 6
“You are lovely as always this evening, Mira,” Damian told her.
Was it a sin that she loved her name on his lips, spoken thus—as if it were a prayer?
She had come back to Lady Fortune every night for nearly a fortnight. Of course she had, for it was impossible to stay away from him. He was intoxicating. He was everything she could never have, and he was hers for these glorious, stolen moments in the freedom of his apartments. Here, she was free to be his lover. She was not Mirabel. Not the Duchess of Stanhope. Not mother, sister, not a prim pillar of society.
She was only Mira, herself as she had always longed to be. And she was with him, this sinful, wonderful man with the charming rogue’s smile and the cocky swagger. The man who owned every room he inhabited with the sheer magnetism of his presence.
This can never last, whispered the voice of doubt within.
She hated that voice. And for now, she chose to ignore it.
“Thank you,” she told him softly, taking the opportunity to admire him in return.
And oh, was he a sight to behold. His hair was tousled, falling at a rakish angle over his brow, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. He was dressed in a navy coat and matching cravat, a waistcoat of ivory and buff trousers, his booted feet indolently crossed at the ankles.
They were lounging on the floor in a nest of pillows he had created for them, surrounded by a spread of wine, strawberries, and honey cakes. Damian had enquired after whether or not she had dined that evening. In her eagerness to be with him, she had not. With Percy, Joanna, and Gideon otherwise being looked after so she could do her duty and attend the Evesham ball, she had taken advantage of her freedom. After making her obligatory appearance, she had offered her excuses and escaped, coming to Lady Fortune before the revelers had proceeded to dinner.
The supper boxes already having gone out for the night, Damian had scoured the kitchens for some remainders himself. She had awaited him in his private room, taking the time to investigate its interior. She wanted to know more about this man.
Everything there was to know. What made him smile? What caused him to laugh? How many siblings did he have? Had he ever been married before? Had he loved?
“You are serious tonight,” he observed, cutting through the silence which had fallen between them. “Is it because I have lured you away from your elegant ball and now you have discovered all I have to offer is some paltry sweets and a bottle of Madeira?”
He was teasing, but there was an undercurrent in his voice, one she did not think she misunderstood. A note of uncertainty. And she could hardly fault him; he had gone out of his way to entertain her this evening, and she was sitting in the midst of his splendor, frowning away.
“Forgive me.” She accepted the wine he held out for her, their bare fingers brushing and sending a wave of awareness washing over her. “I am not at all disappointed by your sweets, your wine, or yourself. Indeed, I am quite pleased. Too pleased, really. There is nowhere else I should rather be just now, nor any other person I should wish to be with.”
“You pay me a great compliment, my lady.” He raised his glass to her in toast. “I feel the same.”
Guilt gnawed at her. She should tell him her true identity, that she was the Duchess of Stanhope. Whenever he called hermy lady, she entertained the briefest fancy that someone else was in the room with them.
But there was far too much at stake. Her children depended upon her to be circumspect, to make the right decisions. How little she knew of this man, regardless of how well she knew his body.
And so instead of revealing all, she toasted him in return before raising her glass to her lips for a delicate sip. The Madeira was of excellent quality, its flavor lush and full on her tongue. She took a moment to savor it. To savor the quiet of the room, the potential of the night. They had hours ahead of them.
Still, it did not seem enough.
She swallowed. “I cannot help but to feel it is you who pays me a compliment.”
Wryly, she reminded herself of the difference in age between them. She was ten years older than he, with three children.
“Perhaps we are evenly matched in this, if nothing else.” He flashed her his rascal’s grin, his charm making her heart pound faster. “May I fashion you a plate?”
As always, his manners were impeccable. His speech, if not flawlessly accented, devilishly attractive. There was something about the combination of polished charm and rough East End strut that filled her with fire.
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
She sipped some more of her Madeira, admiring his long, masculine fingers as he set about arranging fruit and cake on a plate for her. His nails were trimmed and neat. And she knew how those fingers felt on her. In her.
