She reached for his fall buttons; his hand forestalled her.
“Oh, no, Amelia. Now… Now we slow.”
With an agile turn, he was behind her, loosening laces until her dress sagged and fell to the floor in a slew of white satin and green silk. Then her stays and petticoats were discarded until she stood in simply her chemise and stockings.
Scandalous.
A kiss at her nape and she sighed, his arms entwining her waist and drawing her back against such heat, his manhood nudging her buttocks in impatience.
She twisted in his embrace, impatient also, and kisses shifted from slow to swift, soft to searing.
“I adore your hair.” He groaned, fingers threading through her loose locks before they moved to tug at the sleeves of herchemise and it fell, caught on her hips, exposing her breasts to his intense gaze.
A crawl of nerves impinged but then Hugh’s lips were at her collarbone, nibbling and flooding her with pleasure before roaming lower, brushing her breasts, finding the crests and laving till the world burned bright white behind her eyelids.
“Please…” she gasped.
Her plea was granted as she was urged rearwards to that fine bed, her chemise pushed to the floor, Amelia’s derriere meeting the cotton sheets and–
A muttered curse as Hugh turned from her to yank at boots and tug at pantaloons.
Sat in solely her stockings, Amelia trailed a single finger along his spine, watched his shoulder blades flex as though wings were attached.
With a tortured moan, he bent to his bedside cabinet and she smiled because despite his fierce ardour, Hugh had kept his word and would not betray her trust.
Then he swivelled and before she could gasp, she found herself flat on her back, covered by muscle and heat and a torrid arousal that should alarm her but instead caused such aching need. A warrior whose broad hand skimmed over her breasts, causing her spine to arch, her eyes to close, before smoothing down her stomach and lower.
To tease and torment.
Palm grinding, fingers demanding. Every nerve heightened as she chased the pleasure. Her eyes opened, met his, the blueness lost to shadow but with such intense possession, it stole her remaining breath.
“My Amelia,” he growled. “My Amelia of roses and gunpowder, solace and fire.” His lips descended to her breast. “Blaze for me.”
Her spine bowed as ecstasy gushed, crying out, his lips and hand unceasing and binding her with words and touch and torment.
She sank into the crisp sheets, malleable as wax.
Then his ardent body covered her, nude and lithe.
He nudged her stockinged legs wide, his expression wicked and fierce, and she welcomed him, fingers kneading firm upon his shoulders, chest, stomach and–
“No,” he snarled, catching her, to slide his palm over hers and draw their hands to the sheets at her shoulder. “Don’t let go.”
She did not.
She did not let go when hard hips settled upon her, when she felt him nudging, retreating, persistent. She did not let go when a gasp of pain departed her lips or when he kissed it away.
She did not let go when he forged forward, gentle at first, then stronger, deeper, more. Till she was filled by him, moaning and twisting her legs about his hips.
A brutal grunt left him before he began to thrust.
And then…
Then she did let go, wrenching her hand free to dig her nails into his taut arms, to watch his vehement eyes and pounding hips.
Such pleasure, rough and incendiary, seized her, and she drew her nails down his back, to his flexing buttocks, scratched her wild ecstasy into him.
He’d warned they’d set the Thames ablaze, reduce the world to ash, and she felt it, the roiling all-consuming burn as he thrust again and again, deep and turbulent, all vestiges of the gentleman stripped away to reveal her fierce Welsh warrior of sin and danger.
