Tom had prided himself on being in control of his carnal urges, as any number of nights spent alone with his own hand could attest. But her not so innocent question threatened to make him spill his seed in his rather expensive trousers.
“My darling, I would happily volunteer,” he said, then grew serious. “But on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That when we are discovered, you allow me to do the honorable thing.”
“Then by all means, please compromise me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Georgie had notthought it possible to know bliss—not like this. She had not thought it possible to be kissed in a thousand different places and have it feel so utterly divine. The little spot on her neck, right below her hair, which he had thoroughly mussed. Her breasts, which ached with need every time he suckled them over the lacing of her stays. The skin along her inner thigh, which sent throbs of glorious sensation up to her core. And then, most scandalous of all, the kisses rightthere. She had no idea that was meant for anything but the functional bits Gabriel was forced to tell her about when they’d watched a ram mount a sheep in the Cheshire hills. When Tom kissed her there, she’d gone to a place of pure sensation. And when he’d gently pushed a finger inside her, then two, the sensation turned urgent, her body suddenly desiring a fullness she had not known before that moment.
“Tom,” she breathed, as he’d pressed her up against the bookcase, an urgency for something she didn’t know how to voice frustrating her.
“Georgie,” he answered, his voice low and dark, the playfulness replaced with something she instinctively knew as mirroring her own need. “I have to stop now.”
“No, you don’t,” she replied, surprising herself with the primacy of her need.
“I will spill inside my own pants if we continue.”
“Does that mean I’ll be compromised?” she asked, surprising herself with her own playfulness at a moment like this.
“Georgie, I’ve already compromised you.”
“Thoroughly?”
His mouth hitched up in a devilish smile. “My God, woman, I think you’re about to compromise me.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his forehead to hers. “Tom, I want to compromise you, thoroughly.”
He paused, his expression turning serious. “If I do, you might be with my child.”
The idea sounded divine. She hadn’t thought a moment about starting a family, but the idea of being a mother to their child was surprisingly tempting.
“Then we will most definitely have to marry, won’t we?”
She’d barely stopped speaking before he started frantically pulling off his jacket, then unfastened the buttons on his trousers. The hardness of him she’d felt against her body was unmasked, the length of him before her. Her eyes must have widened, because he paused again.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. “I can find another way to have my release.”
A curious sort of possession came over her, as if the very idea that anyone else—including Tom—should satisfy his need was absolutely out of the question.
“I am going to compromise you, Tom Worthington. Thoroughly.”
Tom had dreamedof this moment from a time before he’d had the life experience to imagine it with any semblance to reality. He took great care as he entered her, but she welcomed his body, and soon they found a natural, blissful rhythm that climaxed in a blur of sensation and need. Their coupling, awkward as it was against the wood panels and well-organized bookshelves, was delicious. Later, he might raise a glass to Christopher Marlowe and Rene Descartes for their service to the momentous occasion.
Retrieving a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he gently cleaned up the evidence of his seed. There was no awkwardness about it. Once his trousers were back in place, her skirts smoothed and her bodice tugged back where it should have been, he helped her pin her hair. As he tucked the last tendril back in place, she shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked, turning her around to face him.
She shook her head, her mouth flattening into a grimace. “I was just imagining what this might be like with Lord Sharpe.” She pulled a face, as if she’d had a mouthful of sour wine. “I don’t think I truly appreciated how awful it would be until now.”
Tom bit back the anger at both Ashcombe and Marcus for their willingness to sacrifice Georgie to a man who viewed her as something to consume. He turned that anger into resolve. It was time to end that farce of a betrothal.
“Are you ready to be compromised, my lady?”
Her face blossomed into a wide teasing smile, and he was tempted to pleasure her again.
