Michael began to thrust slowly, which pushed her closer but not quite over. A tinge of frustration bit at her, especially as he watched her with that stupid, irritating grin, as if he knew she was close.
“Please,” she begged.
His eyes gleamed and he shifted his hips, increasing his speed. “Like this?”
The resulting euphoria filled her mind, her breasts, her cunt, as if she had lifted from the bed, floating in the sky. The air she had sought rushed back into her lungs. “Yes!”
“Close your eyes. Just feel it.”
She did, and his breathing became rapid pants as he drove his cock into her harder and with more speed. Pleasure became pain became pleasure as she writhed under him, desperately seeking that release.
“Now, my love,” he gasped, and shifted again, and a new pressure on her most tender flesh sent her cascading over the edge. She cried out, her legs kicking, her entire body bowing under him.
Michael slid an arm under her back, pushing her hard against him. “Hold on to me.”
Clara threw her arms around his back, clutching him, feeling her nails dig into his back as her peak passed. He continued to thrust a bit longer, then with a stark cry, he withdrew and rolled next to her, his hips rocking as he spent into the sheets.
Clara watched him as her own breathing slowed, her gaze lingering on the taut muscles of his back and arms, the true strength of his body that had been hidden beneath his clothes. The statues in the museums were not as well sculpted. Only the statues did not have red half-moon cuts in them.
She pulled the pillow from beneath her butt, then sat up and ran her hand along that beautiful back. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
He turned around, instantly gathering her in his arms. and laying her back against the pillows. “You did not hurt me.” He stroked her cheek, and she could smell the scent of both of them on his fingers. “When a woman does that, it feels as if my cock gets even harder.” He flinched. “It’s hard to explain.”
She smiled at him. “Then do not. I am pretty mindless myself right now. I only want to hold you.”
“Then that is what we will do.” He settled deeper into the pillows, wrapping all limbs around her.
Clara nuzzled against his side, relishing this moment of peace, trying to ignore the fear of the consequences if all their plans went awry. “What happens if you lose on Saturday?”
Michael remained silent several minutes. Finally, he released a long breath. “I would prefer to focus on what will happen when we win.”
She had to smile. “So what will happen when you win?”
He stroked her hair, picking up one strand and kissing the tip. “If we win, I will acquire the gelding he will race and three-thousand pounds. But it’s more than the wager. All the aristocracy will be watching, to see how the new company handles the betting, what part Campion’s will play. Winning will demonstrate that I do, in fact, know the quality of a horse. It will raise visibility for Robert’s school. I will invest the three-thousand into the new company, which will provide for a sound backing. It will put my name back in the good graces of much of theton. Perhaps even your father. And Wykeham will be so deep in debt to Campion’s that we would have to ban him.”
She entwined her fingers in the spray of hair on his chest, not wanting to meet his eyes. “And if you lose?”
“My reputation as a facilitator will be damaged, and I will lose any chance of regaining it this season—and possibly the foreseeable future. It will take longer to establish the stables at the school, and there is a good chance I will have to abandon that for a different direction for my life.” He took a deep breath. “And I will lose my last chance to win your father’s approval. I will have to watch as you head north with the duke as your husband.” He tilted her head up to look into her eyes. “I am not sure I’ll survive that.”
Clara stretched up to kiss him. “Then obviously you must win.”
Michael smiled. “Obviously.”
The front door of the shop slammed with force that resounded into the apartment, followed by laughter.
Michael sat up. “I believe that is our signal to get dressed.” He looked around the room. “Unfortunately, most of my clothes are downstairs.”
Clara swung her legs off the bed. “Do you want me to—”
“No. I’ll go. And I’ll send up Radcliff to tidy you back into propriety.” Michael crawled past her and stood, gathering his small clothes and breeches. “And do whatever it is she does with your hair.”
Clara tried to straighten her stays and push an errant breast back into place. “Some days I wish I could cut it all off. It is such a nuisance.”
Michael froze, his lips parted. “What did you say?”
“I hate my hair.”
“Your hair is glorious. All I can think about sometimes is touching it.”
