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Cold, small, trembling hands cupped his jaw. Drew him down. Euphemia—hisEuphemia—whispered against his lips, “Our letter will be shared with the rector so that no one will question the marriage.”
His heart leapt, kicking faster as she brushed his mouth with hers.
“Then, it will go into the swan chest so that our daughters may one day know how far their father was willing to go for their mother’s sake.” Another brush. A stroke of her thumbs and a beaming smile. “You must be certain. Are you certain?”
He gripped her harder, wedging her hips against his thighs. His head spun. Thoughts tangled. She wanted him? She meant to continue the marriage? She was his? Well and truly his? Despite the sudden, acute onset of lustful madness, he managed a nod.
“I shan’t tolerate infidelity,” she warned. “There’ll be no black-haired, angelic mistresses when you tire of my paleness.”
“Euphemia. There is no possibility of—”
“And our children are likely to be blonde.” Another unsatisfyingly brief kiss. “Can’t be helped.”
“For God’s sake—here. Allow me.” He cradled his wife’s precious face and positioned her for his mouth. Green light danced in her eyes. Love and desire formed a hot, expansive cloud inside him. It pressured outward and upward. It made his bones ache. He plunged into her mouth, holding nothing back. He took her lips and gave her his tongue. He tasted honey and wine, apple and spice. Euphemia. She was the most delectable thing he’d ever had.
And there was more. So much more.
Sweet little breasts rubbed against his chest. Sweet, narrow hips writhed inside his grip. Sweet grunts and dainty, desperate fingers dug into him, spiking his lust higher. Panting hard and primed to explode, he pulled back to gasp, “We should… inside.”
She nodded frantically and tried to climb him like a monkey climbing a tree. Her fingers dug into his nape as he hefted her higher against his body. Her legs somehow circled his hips as he staggered toward the cottage. Halfway there, she began kissing his throat and clinging. Nibbling. Demanding.
He groaned. Stumbled. His shaft ached like a damned wound. His hands dug into her thighs where they flanked his waist. He meant to open the door. Instead, he couldn’t resist bracing her against it and grinding his cock against her.
Her head fell back. Soft, warm, rose-scented woman cradled his hardness so sweetly, even through layers of linen and wool, that he nearly came. This rate of escalation was alarming. They’d never make it to the bed.
But it didn’t stop him.
He somehow managed to open the door, stagger inside without dropping her, and brace her against the nearest wall. More grinding. She moaned, arching her back in such a way as to remind him he hadn’t yet seen her breasts.
Good God. He must see her breasts. He’d been dreaming about them for years.
Her cushiony mouth devoured his over and over. She wouldn’t let go long enough for him to undress her. Or catch his breath.
Who needed air? Certainly not him. But he was starving for her nipples. Those he wanted badly enough to pause. To think, if only a little. He shifted her a few feet to the right so he could prop her backside on the table.
“Love,” he panted, tearing away his coat and her blanket. “Let me take your gown off.”
“No time,” she insisted, nuzzling his throat and tearing at his buttons. “Just lift it up.”
“I’m not doing that. I want to see your—”
She ground her mouth against his, playing with his tongue and clawing his shirt free of his trousers.
He grunted. Groaned. Nearly bent in half as his cock readied to fill her. “Sweet, merciful angels,” he muttered. “I want you naked. Now.”
She moaned like a woman in pain. “This fever. It’s mad. I want you so much.”
“Yes, yes. First, the gown. Up we go.” He hefted her high with one arm around her waist.
She gasped as he tugged her hems up her thighs and slid his hand beneath her bare backside. Then, she yelped as he set her down on the wood.
“Andrew! That’s cold.”
“Apologies, love.” He made quick work of her shift and gown by drawing both up over her head, rendering her naked in an instant. Only her stockings and half-boots remained. Every other part of her was bare.
A long, low groan escaped his throat. He focused on her face first. Those round, velvety celadon eyes were hooded and dark with lust. Milky cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Full lips were swollen from their kisses. A sweet, pink tongue flashed out to swipe the lower curve.
His eyes ventured lower—and he was nearly undone. Ah, they were small but perfect. Dainty nipples of seashell pink stood flagrantly erect atop firm, snowy mounds as sweet as teacups.
