Page 4 of Joy to the Earl

Oh, but he was wonderfully large, making her feel positively petite. Her head rested on his shoulder, her nipples rasped against his chest, and that cock promised hours of ecstasy. He’d be a demanding lover, expert and sure as he took her on her back, from behind…made her ride him…

Rosalind sighed. Clearly it was far too long since she’d bedded a man, to be having such depraved thoughts about someone who had just been in an accident. Who was injured, for heaven’s sake. Helping this handsome stranger recover must be her only priority. Not imagining him taking her hard and deep until she cried out with the kind of bliss usually only her fingers provided.

On that sobering thought, she closed her eyes and succumbed to exhaustion.

* * *

The world was askew in every way.

He was on the floor, lying on some sort of rug, definitely not in a bed. One side of his head felt like it had been stomped on by a mad bull. He couldn’t move. Christ. His arm—something was wrong with his arm. And the temperature was far too hot to be England, surely.

Opening his eyes, Jack glanced around, his confusion only increasing at the sight of a roaring fire and an elegant and very expensively furnished bedchamber. This sure as hell wasn’t Northridge, so where on earth was he? And what time was it? No light shone through the window on the other side of the room, but in winter it grew dark in the afternoon.

“Mmmm.”

He froze at a soft moan, right next to his left ear. Slowly turning his head, he found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She slept, so he didn’t know what color her eyes were. But her face was oval-shaped, and she had sweeping eyelashes as dark as her jet-black curls, a pert little nose sprinkled with freckles, rosy cheeks, and the kind of soft, plump lips that made his cock twitch.

Then he glanced down, and the world spun.

Holy hell.

He was naked. And apart from a short, very thin chemise, so was she.

Swallowing hard, his gaze travelled the length of the woman, unable to stop, for her body was as stunning as her face. Tall, certainly. Creamy skin. Ample breasts with large rosy nipples visible through the fine lawn, narrow waist, flaring hips…and a thatch of black hair between her legs, not quite covering the pink folds of her cunt.

Surely he hadn’t been lucky enough to lose his virginity to this beauty?

Jack blinked, trying desperately to recall the momentous event, even the lady’s name. All he got was a viciously pounding headache, right behind his eyes.

Which somehow triggered an erection.

Gritting his teeth, he stared at the fire, counted backwards from twenty, even recited a few macabre lines from Macbeth, to try to and distract himself. When that didn’t work, he tried inching away from the woman so his rapidly engorging cock didn’t touch her.

She moaned again and cuddled closer to him, one hand resting on his chest, her breasts pressing against his side and one leg sliding over his so her crisp nether hair brushed his thigh.

“Hell,” he breathed, almost panting now as his cock stretched toward his abdomen. A drop of pearly moisture appeared on the tip, the earthy scent combining with a citrusy fragrance coming from the woman’s hair and skin, and he groaned, the urge to handle himself and relieve the painful ache overwhelming.

“Oh! You’re awake. Thank heavens!”

Startled, Jack turned his head toward the woman, his cock surging further at her husky, seductive voice. Naturally, she was even more beautiful awake, her eyes a perfect matched pair of emeralds.

“Er, yes, ma’am,” he croaked, snatching a corner of quilt so it covered his groin, thankful beyond measure the fabric was thick and heavy. “I, ah…”

“Gracious, you are probably wondering where you are and who I am. Well, this is Nelson Manor in Rutland, and I’m Lady Nelson. Call me Rosalind, though—formality seems rather wrong after all this,” she finished with a musical laugh.

“You’re married?”

“Not anymore. I’m a widow.”

Unaccountably, his tension eased, although his cock remained hard as stone. “My name is Reynolds. Jack Reynolds. I’m from North Yorkshire, as you can probably tell from my accent. This is going to sound like the oddest question in the world, but how did I get here?”

Rosalind frowned. “What do you last remember?”

Something about the question made him shiver, but his mind remained jumbled and foggy. “Building things in a shed. Lots of tools. I’m a carpenter and woodworker.”

“Nothing about the accident?”

Black spots danced in his vision. “Accident?” he repeated hoarsely.