Heat like molten lava sluiced through her. He nudged her again while circling his tongue around his lips. How could she refuse such an invitation? She worked her way past his chest and shoulders until her knees rested on either side of his head. He eased her down and licked. Nibbled. Licked again.
With a low moan, a soft sigh, she dropped her head back and absorbed the incredible sensations coursing through her.
“Play with your breasts,” he ordered in a strangled voice.
Doing as he bade, she kneaded her breasts, pinched her hardened nipples, and soothed them with circular strokes while he plundered. She’d never felt so unfettered and free. With a movement of her hips, she could increase the pressure or soften it. She could direct where he should lick. He unerringly followed her direction, but it wasn’t enough. It was all for her and she wondered if she could drive him as mad as he did her.
Lowering her hands, she threaded her fingers through his hair and lifted her hips until she could meet his gaze. “I’m going to turn about.”
She wasn’t nearly as graceful as she would have liked, nearly toppling over, but when she was once again situated so he could feast, she bent over and kissed his hip, taking pleasure in his low moan. She licked the inside of one thigh and then the other. He smelled of musky sex. It heightened her own arousal.
She wrapped her hand around his cock and licked the glistening tip. His hips bucked slightly, and his deep moan echoed around her. Yet he didn’t stop his ministrations but increased the urgency with which he partook. She was on fire and wanted him burning as hotly, wanted him squirming as she did, wanted all the littlesounds of pleasure rumbling through him. So she took the hard length of him into her mouth so her tongue could dance over him.
“Christ, Esme.” His fingers dug into her hips as he worked feverishly, igniting such pleasure within her that she thought she might die of it.
She wanted him near death as well. Feeling the tension building in him, she continued to lick, suck, and stroke. She’d never felt more powerful. Or more consumed with pleasure. It took hold and wouldn’t let go, building, building until it erupted through her, and she was crying out from the pure ecstasy of it.
Then he was lifting her, turning her, guiding her down, and plunging into her hot, slick wetness.
“Ride me,” he growled, pumping into her before putting a hand at the back of her head, holding her as he rose up and took possession of her mouth.
She tasted herself on his lips and wondered if he could taste himself on hers. Then he tore his mouth from hers, bucked, and groaned, his fingers tightening on her hips as he flew over the edge and fell back. Crumpling on top of him, she listened to his harsh breathing and his pounding heart as she was lulled into sleep.
Marcus had slept the sleep of the dead. But then it appeared so had she. He’d awoken to findhimself spooned around her and had the absurd thought that he wouldn’t mind waking up like that every day for the remainder of his life. But she wasn’t keen on marriage. Although perhaps it was just marriage to him.
They’d prepared for the day, enjoyed breakfast in the hotel dining room, and then hired a hansom cab to cart them out to Balmoral, where they’d paid the driver enough so he would stay until their business was completed and he could return them to Aberdeen.
They were presently waiting in the grand entryway while the Queen was alerted to their presence and, hopefully, would consent to an audience with her. He was striving to keep his emotions in check, not to focus on the fact that because of this woman he’d lost so much. It was his father’s fault. That was where the blame rested. Yet some compassion on her part toward his family would have been appreciated.
Esme certainly didn’t seem nervous. Reaching over, she brushed some lint off his coat. “I didn’t think to ask if you’ve ever met her.”
“Once. Some affair at Buckingham Palace that I attended with my father when I was sixteen and Prince Albert was still alive. I don’t expect her to recognize me. I’ve changed since then.”
“Haven’t we all?”
Hushed footsteps whispered over carpeting just before the butler appeared. “Her Majesty will see you. If you’ll be so kind as to follow me.”
The stately servant led them through a maze of corridors and into a chamber that no doubt served as her office for receiving official visitors. A rosewood desk was near a window. One wall housed books. Majestic paintings covered the walls, some he noted by renowned artists. There were several sitting areas. Near the one closest to the door stood England’s petite ruler.
“Miss Esme Lancaster and Mr. Marcus Stanwick,” the butler announced formally before stepping out and closing the double doors behind him.
Esme graciously curtsied while Marcus bowed. “Your Majesty,” she said softly.
“Esme, dear, greet me properly.”
She rose, glided over to the Queen, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to it as she curtsied.
“You’re looking well, child.”
Esme straightened. “You’re kind to say so.”
Then the Queen was studying him. “Stanwick. Not the Duke of Wolfford’s heir surely.”
Standing now at his full height, he angled his head to the side. “I am his firstborn, yes.”
“You no doubt believe you were treated unfairly.”
He understood fully that his father’s actions, had they been successful, would have carried grave consequences for the nation and the world. But the punishment had caused his innocent family to suffer as well. “I’m not here to question or dissect past actions.”
