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Suddenly she no longer wanted to play. There was a coiling within her, drawing her body tight again, building to what she now knew was unbearable pleasure.
She shifted closer, rucking her skirts up and bringing the tip of his hard penis against her folds. They still kissed as she rolled her hips, her breath stuttering when she used him to rub herself.
He opened wide his mouth and kissed her deeply, shoving his own hips up. She knew what he wanted—what he probably needed at this point—but she, too, needed.
Just a little more.
She caught her breath, writhing as she slid him through her slippery folds. He was so hard, so wide, so absolutely perfect, he might’ve been made expressly for her.
Well, in a way he was, wasn’t he?
But his patience broke.
He grasped her waist and raised her, looking her in the eye fiercely. “Hold me there.”
So she reluctantly put him to her entrance, holding him steady as he let her weight bear down.
As he joined with her.
He watched her even as she gasped at the intimate intrusion. She was still a little sore from the day before, and she stiffened.
He paused, his fingers stroking the small of her back through the frail materials of her chemise and wrap. “Easy.”
She nodded as her flesh accepted him, and he seemed to understand it as the permission it was. Slowly he impaled her on his cock. She was aware of the fluttering of her heart, of the short, staccato pants of her breath, of the way his face was set and grim as if it took all of his considerable control to keep from simply thrusting up into her.
But the soreness was fading now, being replaced by the lovely feeling of being stretched full. She bit her lip, arching her head back, staring at the ceiling as she rotated her hips gently, screwing herself down on him until she felt the smooth silk of his breeches against her bottom.
He groaned, deep and very male, and bowed his head against her for a moment, his hot breath panting across the slopes of her breasts. She ran her hands over his upper arms soothingly and felt when they bunched beneath her fingers.
That was her only warning.
He shoved her up, his cock sliding exquisitely through her tunnel as he withdrew, then he set his feet flat on the floor and drove his hips into her. Fast and hard, he set a punishing pace.
She’d once imagined lovemaking as a sweet joining of souls, a gentle wave surging and retreating. An act both respectful and honored.
What Maximus was doing to her was anything but sweet. He gasped, his great chest working as if he fought off demons. Sweat beaded on his brow and shone in the fine hairs on his chest. His movements were sharp and abrupt as he drove himself into her again and again. He was nothing like the sophisticated aristocrat he was in front of others. One corner of his mouth twisted in a sneer, his eyes a glaring furnace. He used her body for his own pleasure, for his own need, working her up and down on his cock. He was little more than an animal now.
And she gloried in it. She—she—had driven him to this. Had made a man who captured kings and foreign diplomats with the surety of his eloquence quite simply lose his mind.
He pushed up with all his might, shoved to the hilt within her, and froze, head thrown back in an agony of pleasure.
She leaned forward and delicately licked the salt sweat from his lips as his seed flooded her.
THE NEXT MORNING Craven attended Maximus in his rooms and was excruciatingly correct until Artemis left to dress herself in her own rooms.
The door had hardly closed behind her lovely bottom when the valet turned slowly to Maximus and pinned him with a gaze that would’ve done justice to the King in one of his fouler moods. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but I hope you’ll not mind if I speak bluntly—”
“Would it matter?” Maximus muttered under his breath, wishing he’d at least had his morning cup of tea before his own valet raked him over the coals.
Craven didn’t bother acknowledging the interruption. “I wonder if you’ve quite lost your bloody mind?”
Maximus began soaping his face in a rather vicious manner. “If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve—”
“Much as it pains me to speak to you in this manner,” Craven said, “I feel I must. Your Grace.”
Maximus snapped his mouth shut and snatched up his razor, making sure his hand was steady before setting the blade to his jaw. He could feel Craven behind him and he knew without turning that the valet would be standing at attention, shoulders back, head held high.
“A gentleman does not ravish a lady,” Craven said. “A lady, moreover, living under his own roof and therefore in his protection.”
