“Luscious,” he whispered, as he moved his other hand to her breast. He did not know the word for “luscious”; he could not think of words at all anymore.
His hands traveled this path, teasing, languorously arousing, until she was rippling against him.
“James...”His name on a frantic breath. As though some cyclone threatened to pull her away and only he could save her. It made him wild.
He had never felt more valorous than when he made her come, her body borne upward on a silent scream.
“Yes?” he whispered to her. “Once more?”
“Yes. Again, yes.”
He guided his cock into her, and once again they moved together, languidly, entwined, toward that bliss that seemed to have no end.
And as they lay quiet, recovering their breath and their senses, the clock hand made its inexorable journey toward the time she would return to her room.
“Mariana...” he said softly.
He drew her long, long rose-gold hair out between his fingers. Soon she would have to bundle and pin it up again.“Sei bella sotto ogni tipo di luce.”
She waited for him to translate.
“You are beautiful in every kind of light.”
Valkirk had drawn a small picture of a horse with a fluffy tail and had written three paragraphs that thrilled him and, unfortunately, that had nothing to do with his book he was supposed to be writing, when there was a tap on his door.
He glanced at the clock.
Mariana had just departed. She’d brought with her today ten sentences involving the words “velvet,” “suck,” “the duke,” “naked,” and “hairy,” among others. Even Primrose and Phillip made love in exciting ways.
As a result, he was semiaroused, and he suspected he would remain in that condition for the rest of the afternoon.
And then would come the night. He lived for nights now.
He got up, regretfully threw the filthy little sentences on the fire, and answered the door to find Dot.
“Your Grace,” Dot whispered, and curtsied. “I’m so sorry to disturb your concentration.”
“You don’t need to whisper, Dot. It’s broad daylight, and my writing is not so easily addled by interruption.”
How he wished that was true.
“You’ve a visitor in the parlor down below,” she said loudly. “He says his name is Arthur. Your son.”
Christ.
“He looks just like you!” she added, quite pleased. “Thinner, perhaps.”
“How in the bloody hell did he...”
He trailed off at Dot’s wide eyes.
“There’s no jar here, Your Grace.” She was back to whispering. “And I won’t tell.”
“But I’ve to set a good example at all times, Dot,” he said gravely.
“Oh, right, of course,” she said quickly. “I forgot.”
“Will you please tell my offspring I’ll be down in about five minutes? Thank you.”
