“I will not enter you,” he whispered before he began rubbing the thick head of his shaft slowly up and down her soaked slit, teasing her sensitive center with every stroke.
Iris whimpered and hips lifting desperately. “Please…”
Blaise leaned down, kissing her deeply as he continued rubbing his hard length against her. The slick, rhythmic friction built quickly, driving them both higher. His breathing grew ragged against her mouth as he rocked faster, grinding relentlessly.
“Come with me,” he commanded hoarsely.
The pressure and heat became too much. Iris cried out as another powerful wave of pleasure ripped through her, her body arched beneath him, and Blaise groaned deeply, spilling hot seed across her stomach and breasts in thick pulses as he joined her in release.
For several long moments, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing as Blaise rested his forehead against hers, both of them lost in the aftershocks of pleasure and sweet pain.
CHAPTER 22
The wheels hammered a steady rhythm beneath the carriage, a dull percussion that should have lulled Blaise into distraction, but it did not. Every jolt seemed to yank his thoughts back to Iris and the way she moaned his name.
How he longed to see her body, squirming with desire for him again.
Concentrate, Blaise.
He instantly snapped out of it. The month was over, and as much as Iris haunted his mind, so did Daniel’s smug voice. It was as if the man had taken up residence in some dark corner and refused to be evicted. Blaise and Marcus may have to face the court within the month, and everything could be tossed into the pit for the sake of a title.
“Are we nearly there?” Blaise called his driver.
“Yes, Your Grace!”
Blaise looked out the window and watched the Oxford spires rise in the distance as the road dipped. He had delayed this visit as long as he dared, convincing himself that Marcus needed time and space without his uncle looming over him. Now, each day he had granted began to feel less like kindness and more like cowardice.
“We have arrived, Your Grace,” the driver announced.
Blaise descended with more impatience than grace. He did not bother smoothing his coat, nor did he care if the dons and undergraduates stared at the scar.
“I am here for Marcus Vale,” Blaise spoke to the front desk person in a voice that brooked no delay, and after a flurry of bows and uncertain looks, the harried young man led him through echoing corridors that smelled of ink, coal smoke, and boyish arrogance.
He brought him at last to a narrow stair and a door at its top. The guide muttered, “I will leave Your Grace to it.” He bowed and vanished, leaving Blaise alone outside a room.
Blaise knocked like an uncle short on time, and the door opened a heartbeat later.
Marcus filled the frame like someone who had never fully grown into his height. He had broad shoulders like all the Valemen, and he was all limbs and awkwardness. With his hair in stubborn disarray like Blaise’s, he could easily be mistaken for his son.
“Marcus,” he said his name like a greeting.
Blaise noticed that a book was tucked under Marcus’s arm, and his thumb still held its place. His eyes flickered with annoyance.
“Uncle.”
“Are you going to let me in, or shall we conduct this visit on the landing, for the entertainment of your neighbors?”
Marcus stepped back without protest, though the set of his jaw was already tense. The room was narrower than Blaise had expected, but neat in a way that showed Marcus’s own effort rather than any servant’s. Books were stacked everywhere, some carefully shelved, others precariously balanced on the desk, and a single window looked out over a quadrangle.
Blaise shut the door behind him.
“If you have come,” Marcus said, even before Blaise could turn, “to keep trying to convince me that I deserve the title, you are wasting your time. And mine. And likely the time of several unfortunate horses.”
“And here I thought you would at least pretend to be pleased to see me.” Blaise leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing hisarms. “You might have offered me a chair. Or a drink. I swear,boysthese days?—”
“You are not a guest,” Marcus shot back. “You are...”
“Family?” Blaise supplied.
