Page 94 of The Countess Caper

Surely this was worth fighting for. She did not move, did not give in to the urge to run.

“I promised to stay away to keep you safe.”

She frowned. “From what?”

“Me.”

“Not that again.”

“I’m the Beast of the Dartmoor.”

She wriggled against him temptingly. “I have met true beasts, Roarke. You were never one.”

“I would never forgive myself if I dimmed your light. The way Lara’s dimmed.”

“You didn’t dim her light,” Tessa argued. “She was unhappy. Sheltered—I daresay spoiled. And it suited her to make you the monster. That’s what the ton does, after all.”

“I scared her.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“So that’s that?” A flicker of amusement again, through the devastating guilt he had carried too long.

“That’s that,” she said firmly.

He kissed her lightly. “I tried to stay away.”

“So did I.”

“I’m aware,” he returned drily. “Don’t run from me, Tessa. If you want to leave, say so.”

She hooked her leg around his hip, lifting her soft, wet center to his, pushing against this cock until it slid between her folds. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Devil.” The soft tone of it, the affectionate pinch of her bottom, made the love she felt even brighter. Made it into something she did not fear. How could she? It was Roarke. It would always be Roarke.

“I’ll always come for you,” he said against her throat. “Always. And I will never, ever let anyone take your sparkle.”

She lifted her other leg, and he fit himself against her, lifting her up so her bottom filled his hands. “Now,” she said, as he thrust up inside her. “Now.”

“Now,” he promised, filling her again and again, holding her tight against his body. “Always.”

They moved against each other, hard, fast, desperate. Her release came for her, tightening her inner core, slowly at first, then building.

“Tessa?” Roarke rasped in her ear.

“Yes?” she moaned on another spasm of pleasure.

“Start counting.”

Epilogue

The ton still did not quite know what to make of the Countess of Dartmoor.

The Incident seemed nothing compared to stories of runaway heiresses, abductions, and decrepit houses where the chandelier might knock you on your arse if you were not invited.

It did not know what to make of the Beast of Dartmoor, either.

He was just as silent, just as intimidating, but anyone could see he loved his wife to distraction. And their baby girl, Deirdre Rose Noble, whose first words were “Stand and Deliver!”—shouted at a footman passing by with a tray of fresh blackberry scones. Tessa adored her little ragamuffin. She had not adored the experience of being pregnant, it had to be said.