But he also wanted this to be about her. He’d wanted to show her pleasure and care and affection—all the things he feared Clementine Morgan had not had enough of lately, or possibly ever. But now that he had permission to involve his body and not just his mind, he let himself lower his body over hers as they kissed. He let himself rut against her, and, God, it was sogood. He felt like he might explode. Hewantedto explode, yet at the same time, he wanted this torture to go on forever. When she suddenly wrapped her legs around his waist, he had to bite back a curse. He allowed, for one brief, blindingly glorious moment, the tip of his cock to enter her, just an inch, just for a moment. He did curse then, at the soft heat of her. Making himself pull back, he took himself in hand and slid his cockhead over the pink bud between her legs, used it, along with his thumb, to rub and press until she was panting. “Archie,” she muttered, “Archie.”
“Yes. I’m here.” He kept going, maintaining a steady pace and pressure.
“Archie, it’s more than it was before. I don’t know if I can—” She wailed, but it was a good wail. She began shuddering, and it caused a surge of pressure in his bollocks.
He wanted to wait for her to come down, but he couldn’t, not if he wanted to come with her hand on him. Which he did. He would have given up his title for it. He would be selfish, just this once. “Can you touch me again?” he panted, trying harder than he’d ever tried not to spend.
“Yes!” she exclaimed breathily. “Yes, of course.”
And she did, grasping him like he’d shown her before, squeezing and pumping him.
“Harder,” he exhorted. “Faster.”
She did as he asked, and for a moment, he was afraid he was going to pass out as light exploded in his field of vision.
He did not pass out. Eventually the sparks of light faded and what was left in their place was Clementine. Smiling down at him with her hair wild and her face pink and her eyes dancing.
“That,” she said with a grin, “was most satisfactory.”
* * *
One thing Mother had always told Clementine was to live in the present day. It wasn’t wise, she said, to look too forward to something, because one often ended up disappointed when one actually arrived at the thing one had been so keenly anticipating. Conversely, it was not advised to dread something because that only robbed one of the present day’s joys, flooding one’s day with fears of a future that might or might not come to pass.
It was good advice.
It was also good to remember that though Clementine and her mother were very different, that didn’t mean her mother hadn’t taught her things. Hadn’t loved her.
Oh, she missed Mother so much sometimes.
Still, she couldn’t help it when she said to Archie as she was lying half atop him, half next to him, their legs entangled, “If I found a way to stay at Hill House, we could keep doing this.”
“I suppose we could.”
“You dazzle me with your enthusiasm.”
“It’s nothing personal, Clem. You can tell by the way I am unable to move any of my limbs that I enjoyed myself immensely last night. And this morning.” She smirked. They had napped, but had largely spent hours giving each other pleasure. “But carrying on in this manner, on an indefinite timeline, would be an unconventional arrangement.”
“Would it, though? Don’t men take mistresses all the time?”
“Men might, but I won’t. I would not do that to a wife.”
Of course he wouldn’t. What was this but another example of his robust sense of honor? “Ah. You plan on taking a wife.”
He paused before saying, “It is customary for a man in my position.”
She was taken aback, though she did not know why. Archie had never seemed overly concerned about marrying, but he did have the title to consider, the succession. If he wanted an heir, he would need a wife. Her stomach began to hurt.
Who on earth would Archie marry?
Most likely someone he did not know yet, else he would have already wed. She tried to picture this woman, this ghost-wife. She would be the Countess of Harcourt.
“Well,” she finally said, “we could carry on until that time.”
“No, Clem, we can’t.” Archie sighed, and even as he absently stroked her arm, said, “We should not have done this.”
“You regret it?” She managed to keep the question mild, though his statement shook her. How could she have enjoyed herself so thoroughly, so profoundly, yet his reaction to the same experience was regret?
“Not exactly. I regret . . .” She hadn’t been able to stifle a hurt intake of breath, and he turned his head sharply. Studied her face. “No. No regrets, Clem.”
