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She was definitely with child.

Chapter Twelve

Tyrone’s hand was shaking.

His entire body was, but his hand was what he concentrated on at the moment.

He loathed himself for the way he’d treated his wife just now. She didn’t deserve it.

Nobody deserved it. But he had no choice.

His mood was foul, he wasn’t in full control of his faculties, his head was aching, and his mind was nagging at him to go get a bottle of whisky.

He prowled toward his side table, took the bottle of wine in his hand, and tightened his fingers around it until his knuckles grew white.

With a roar, he tossed the bottle into the fire, suddenly feeling a little better.

It was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

He knew himself quite well. He was often in a foul and aggressive mood when he was getting over the effects of long alcohol use. He had to frighten his wife away because he didn’t want to inadvertently hurt her.

He would never raise a hand to her, just the thought made him nauseous. Rather he was afraid he would hurt her in his throes of passion.

Just now, having her in his arms, as she was innocently returning his kisses, all he could think of was tossing up her skirts and burying himself so deep inside her that he wouldn’t know where he ended and she began.

He didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want to prepare her, pleasure her, or comfort her. All he wanted was to alleviate his beastly needs. And while he was in this mood, it was best she wasn’t around him at all.

Better she thought of him as a beast than become the beast in truth.

He fisted his hands by his side, forcing himself to calm down.

But he couldn’t. Her scent still lingered in the room, her taste lingered on his lips, and he could feel her as if she was still in his arms.

So soft, so pliant, so wonderfully giving.

Even when he had been ravaging her like a wild animal, she’d welcomed him into her arms and kissed him back… gently.

Tyrone undid the falls of his breeches and took himself in hand. He was hard and aching. For her.

Now, all alone, with his wife safely tucked away in her room, he could finish what he had started.

He could imagine doing exactly what he wanted to do to her without the fear of hurting her.

He slid his hand up and down his shaft, as the images of his wife flickered before his eyes. She was standing before him, taking off that shabby day gown, pressing her body against his, and running her hands all over him.

He remembered her sweet kisses and imagined ravaging her mouth with all his ardor. Suddenly she was on her knees before him, the innocent look in her gaze turned tantalizing as she encircled his cock with her soft hand and then licked the tip before sucking in the head of his cock.

Tyrone pumped his shaft, his hips moving in a passionate rhythm, as he imagined fucking her sweet little mouth. And of course, in his mind, in his thoughts, she enjoyed it.

She urged him on with her sultry gaze and her throaty whimpers, all the while working miracles with her tongue.

Two more thrusts and Tyrone spilled himself over his fist, the foggy image of his wife on her knees disappearing before him.

God, he wanted her.

He still wanted her.

But he didn’t deserve her.