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She was reflecting on the subject and wondering how exactly she could push Godric in that direction with his own family when they entered the sitting room and she stopped short in surprise.
It seemed the Duke of Wakefield had a magnificent singing voice.
MEGS LAY IN her bed that night, surrounded by the cold darkness of her room, and tried not to anticipate Godric’s arrival.
Tried not to long for him.
She lectured herself on the reasons why she was doing this, but the arguments had become muddled in her own mind and all she could hear was the drag of her breaths in and out of her body. She focused on the dinner at Griffin and Hero’s house, the face of sweet William, the accord she’d found with Griffin, the astonishing sight of the rigid Duke of Wakefield singing like a stern archangel, but each image wavered and slipped through her mind’s grasp. She even tried remembering the taste of the syllabub at dinner, the smooth texture of cream, the tart wine, but the phantom sweet dissolved in her mouth, and all she could taste on her tongue was Godric’s mouth.
There in the darkness she might’ve moaned.
He came at last, moving like the ghost he was. She didn’t even know he’d entered her room until she felt the dip of her bed, the warmth radiating off his body.
She trembled before he ever touched her.
Then his hands were gliding over her shoulders, sweeping down her chemise-covered sides, sliding up the slopes of her breasts while his head and shoulders hovered over her like a hawk shielding its prey.
Her breath caught. There was something dangerous about him. Perhaps there always had been and he’d simply damped it the night before. This was only their second joining and she nearly panicked at the thought. There would be many nights more. Nights when she lay in the dark and waited for him. Nights when she desperately tried to order her mind. Nights when she tried not to feel.
As she was trying not to feel now—trying and failing.
His hands moved, swift and sure, cupping her breasts, and she had no trouble at all remembering their pale, elegant length. Imagining what they would look like against her flesh.
She bit her lip, and his thumbs coasted over her nipples, catching, for they were already erect and pointed. Goose pimples shivered across her skin at his touch. When he brushed across her nipples again and then pinched both at once, it was all she could do not to arch into those beautiful hands.
Roger. She had to think of Roger.
His head descended with alarming swiftness and suddenly his mouth, hot and wet, was on her nipple. He tongued her through the thin fabric of her chemise and all thought scattered. She arched beneath him, whimpering. His hands clamped around her rib cage, holding her still. His pendant slid coolly across her belly as he suckled her nipple hard. He let go and drew back, blowing on her oversensitive skin, covered only by the wet fabric, and she shivered under the sudden chill. Then he was ministering to her other breast, thoroughly, intently. His focus entirely on her and her body. She hadn’t time to recover, to regain control under his sexual siege.
She could only feel and yearn.
He lifted his head finally, when her breath was ragged and nearly broken, and began trailing his open mouth down her quivering belly. At first she had no idea of his intent—couldn’t even think—but as his hand bunched up her chemise and moved lower still, she had a terrible premonition.
“No.” It was the first word spoken between them since he’d entered her room, and it sounded overly harsh to her own ears.
Megs licked her lips, feeling her heart still beating too fast in her chest, the obscene dampness on both her nipples, and the still of the night.
He’d frozen at her word, but it wasn’t in fear or apprehension. His stance, hovering over her, his arms on either side of her hips, seemed dangerous somehow. As if his will were held back by only a tiny thread. As if he might ignore her plea and place his mouth against her anyway.
Against her cunny.
That’s where he had been moving. She was no virgin and she knew what his intent was: to disintegrate her composure. She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d succumb to that beautiful mouth, that quiet expertise, and she’d forget everything.
The last vestiges of Roger would dissolve and blow away from her mind.
So she inhaled slowly and reached tentatively for his shoulders. His muscles were bunched, hard and unyielding, and she couldn’t move him if he did not wish it.
“Please,” she whispered.
For a moment more he didn’t move. Then he was shaking her hand off his shoulder, hauling up her chemise, settling between her thighs. She was already wet, but perhaps not quite enough. He rocked against her, his penis a hard prod, sliding in her moisture before catching and slowly beginning to invade.
She swallowed, arching her head back, trying to relax as he slid more and more of himself into her. Animals did this without thought. Why, then, couldn’t people? She knew some did. But not her it seemed.
She thought—felt—far too much.
She gripped his arms as he shoved resolutely against her, seating himself fully. She looked up, trying to see something of him in the darkness. An expression, perhaps how he held his head.
But he was simply a large male shape.
