Page 17 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

She stilled. “No need to say it. Even I know I’m being irrational. But this is the largest ball I’ve hosted, with the most interesting guest list, and I just want everyone to have a wonderful time. Christmas can be painful for those who are lonely or estranged from their family. I want it to be a night recalled fondly for years to come.”

After rinsing the remaining soap from his chin and patting the skin dry with a towel, Randall crossed the bedchamber to take Portia in his arms. In testament to her anxiety, she actually clung to him. “Everyone attending knows how much you care. That is why they said yes to a ball in the wilds of Surrey on Christmas night, because they know it will be amusing and unconventional and welcoming.”

“I want our Society members to have the most fun of all. Even Faffy, although I swear that man is attempting to turn my hair as silver as his own,” she mumbled against his chest.

He stroked her back. “If we’d been smarter, we’d have given him balls of yarn to maul also. Perhaps staged a duel between him and Mittens, to the victor the slippers.”

“Ha. Now that I would pay to see.”

“I know it hasn’t been easy,” Randall said softly. “My father can be infuriating, rigid and cantankerous. But the way you banter with him, remember his favorite things, include him in the Society…it means the world to him, even if he won’t unbend enough to say. He is making an effort at atoning for his past actions, too. My feelings are still rather complicated, but I understand now how much he loved my mother. Truly loved her. The way I love you.”

Portia sighed. “That is why I persist. Although I admit to unholy glee when I verbally best the almighty Duke of Fairfield. I’m not a perfect woman.”

“Never say,” he replied, feigning shock. “To me, you are though. My perfect woman.”

“Randall, I swear on the family bible, if I cry and have puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks for the ball I shall not forgive you.”

“Can’t have that. Perhaps I could make you moan instead?”

Wordlessly she stepped back from him, took his hand, and led him over to the sturdy embroidered chaise in front of the fireplace. After shrugging off her dressing gown and removing her chemise, she lounged back on the soft cushions like the empress she was.

Then she gestured for him to kneel.

And handed him a cushion.

Randall couldn’t help his grin. How very Portia, even as she commanded him, she cared for his wellbeing. Or in this case, his forty-five year old warhorse knees.

Sinking down onto the cushion, he waited for his next instruction. She leaned forward and cupped his face, teasing his lips with hers, before kissing him fiercely. A groan rumbled in his chest, all he could do was open his mouth for her expert, plundering tongue. But then she tangled her fingers in his short hair and guided his head down to her breasts.

“Suck them,” she ordered, her green eyes glittering.

In minor rebellion, he darted out his tongue and flicked the tip of one taut, rosy nipple instead. That never lasted though, not when he loved pleasuring her so much, and possessed an innate desire to obey. Gently cupping one breast, he rubbed his thumb across the tip, then engulfed it in his mouth, drawing hard.

Portia moaned. “Yes. You know what I like.”

Back and forth Randall moved his head, sucking her nipples, scraping them with his teeth, circling them with a pointed tongue, until his breathing was as ragged as hers. But he needed more. He craved the taste of her in his mouth.

“Permission to feast on the sweetest cunt in England, my lady?”

Smiling wickedly, she slid a hand down between her legs and deliberately touched herself, stroking her swollen clitoris before pushing a single fingertip inside her slick heat. As Portia’s mound was hairless, kept bare with the help of a special cream, nothing impeded the delectably arousing view. “Oh, you want this, my captain? You’d better ask nicely, then.”

“Please,” he said, unashamed to beg as he inhaled her spicy, musky scent. “Please.”

“Permission granted.”

As though it had been years rather than a few days, Randall fell on her like a starving man. Long, slow laps of her cunt. Delicate flicks of her clitoris. Deep penetrations inside her, as far as he could push his tongue, savoring the sweet honey that trickled into his mouth. Naturally, his wife didn’t buck to escape the sensation. No, bold and lusty Portia demanded more, clasping the back of his head with her hand and grinding her cunt against his lips and chin.

Owning him. As she had from the start, and would do forever.

All at once, his head was yanked away. “Fuck me,” she said harshly, her cheeks pink, her breasts rising and falling. “I want all of you. Now.”

Slowly he rose to his feet, licking his lips. His hands were clumsy as they attempted to unfasten the fall of his trousers, and Portia batted them away, tearing the fabric in her impatience. But he didn’t protest. How could he, when his wife took his stone-hard cock in hand, squeezed it firmly, and then sucked it down her throat?

“Christ,” he rasped. “Portia…”

With one last expert flutter of her tongue, she let him go, then gestured for him to sit on the chaise. “Are you ready to be ridden, my beloved warhorse?”

Randall laughed. “Always.”