Page 38 of The Countess Caper

Just like that. It swept through her, and she made noises she’d never made before.

“Better,” he said. “But still not good enough.”

“If you want me to scream your name, you’ll let me touch you.”

He rose to his feet, amused, hungry. “Sit on the bed.”

She pouted. She actually pouted.

“Sit on the bed, Tessa.”

She crossed the room and sank on the edge of the mattress. He followed her, shrugging out of his waistcoat, loosening his cravat, never once dropping her gaze. How was it possible that she felt as though he was still touching her when he was out of reach? Just with that glance, demanding, patient, aroused, thrilling. He pulled off his shirt, and the expanse of his chest, his warm muscles and thickness, made her swallow. She wanted her mouth on him. On the ridge of muscle, the pelt of hair, the faint scar under his collarbone. His thighs. Everywhere.

He walked toward her, not rushing, but inevitable all the same.

He stepped between her legs, forcing them apart, and kept going, guiding her backward on the bed. She ran her hands over every part of him that she could reach, hot skin over strong muscles. Her thighs fell open; his cock slid over her. He bent his head, sucking at her nipple until she squirmed. She dragged her fingers up the length of him, and he growled into her. “Tessa.” There was warning in his voice.

It did things to her.

She kept stroking him until he grabbed her hand, pinning it to the coverlet beside them. She arched against him, taunting him. Demanding. Begging.

And then he was pushing inside her, inch by inch, so slowly that she nearly started babbling. She lifted her hips to meet him, and he punched forward, filling her. She gasped, stretching around him, greedy for more. He drove into her, again and again, and she rose to meet each thrust. More pleasure swept through her, hitting hard and hot enough to have her back arching off the bed. He followed her, breaths ragged and rough in her ear, swallowing her whole. He pulled out just in time to spend on her thigh.

He bent his forehead to hers, and they stayed that way for a long moment. He finally pushed to his feet and fetched the jug of water and a towel from the washstand. He cleaned her up, softly, while she tried to figure out if she wanted to laugh or cry. She’d never felt like this in her own body. It was as if he had some secret key she’d had no idea was even missing.

He slipped into the bed behind her, curling around her. “Are you counting?” he whispered.

“Counting?”

“Orgasms.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“Three.”

“Three?” he scoffed. “That’s not nearly good enough.”

He pulled her tighter against him, his chest hair tickling her back, one hand around her throat, the other moving lower.

“Keep counting.”

Chapter Twelve

“I go away for a few days, and when I come back, you’ve gone off to get married?”

Tessa arrived home to a deeply disgusted cousin. Marigold looked well, little Parsley sleeping in a basket nearby.

“I’ve missed you too.” Tessa grinned. She had elected to act as though everything was perfectly fine.

Because everything was perfectly fine.

Perfectly.

It was perfectly normal to have snuck out of her husband’s bed before dawn without a word. To have hurried home so quickly that Atticus had not broken his fast and still had straw in his hair from a night spent in the inn stables. She hadn’t run away. She had left expeditiously so as not to make things awkward.

Also known as running away.