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After a beat, Bronwyn caught her breath and straightened. She stepped out of his loose embrace to put herself to rights and yank up her trousers. Before she could fasten them, Valentine removed his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She stared at it with a quizzical look before realizing what it was for.
“Oh, right.” He was certain she was blushing, though he couldn’t tell in the darkness. “Thank you,” she said, the rustle of clothing the only sound before she handed the neatly folded square back to him. “Do you need it as well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
It was all very polite as if they hadn’t fucked each other to the edge of oblivion moments before. But that was the thing with this kind of sex. It was raw, quick, and a hundred percent about physical release. In the past with sex like this, things had always gone back to business as usual, but now Valentine felt painfully hesitant about how to respond. Nor did he want to acknowledge that he hadn’t come so hard in…ever.
In silence, he cleaned himself and pocketed the soiled handkerchief.
When they were both calm and reassembled, she peered around, squinting in the darkness. “What now?”
“We won’t get far in the dark. We should try to get some rest and wake up in a few hours when it’s light.”
“Out here in the open?”
He shook his head. “I saw the top of a folly or a rotunda to the north, I think. It must have been part of the old Lemon Hill estate. At least, that will give us some shelter if it rains again.” Valentine glanced at her. “How’s your ankle? Still sore?”
“I can manage.”
***
They picked their way through the trees by the meager light of the moon whenever the clouds parted. It was slow and tedious, but Bronwyn was too tired and too cold to complain. Her ankle ached, but there was no way in hell she was going to whine about it, only to end up in the duke’s arms…not after what they’d just done. She might not be able to control herself if he touched her again.
Good gracious, she’d made a hash of things.
She’d bloody lain with him! Though technically, they had been vertical.
Heat filled her cheeks, and once more, Bronwyn was glad for the cover of night. This brazen, demanding version of herself had shocked her to the core. She had practically ordered him to do the deed.Palmedhis hard male organ and then dropped to her knees like a seasoned doxy. Her cheeks scorched at the memory. And then, he had taken her like a wanton up against a tree, and she had liked it!
Loved the raw, explosive nature of the release he’d given her…the release she hadbeggedfor like her body needed food to function or air to breathe. She’d felt his need in the uncontrolled movements of his hips that had sent her onto her tiptoes with every decadent, forceful plunge.
Thathad to be a novel position for deflowering. Most of the books she’d read had virgins being introduced to the marital act in the customary man-on-top-of-the-woman position. She hadn’t even thought such an act could be possible or even pleasurable.
But ithadbeen.
The orgasm had felt nothing like the furtive ones she’d given herself, all quiet and civilized and unseen beneath the bedclothes. This release had been almost primal in nature, climbing from the most primitive depths of her like a beast in heat being unleashed. She bit back a giggle. Andinactual nature, too. Oh, the audacity of it.
Sex in a public park in the middle of the night after nearly being murdered.
There was an explanation for it, she knew. Something to do with heightened emotion, terror, and physical relief. It was the reason that every time she did a job in London for Wentworth, she had to do something to get the coiled energy out of her body. A ride on her horse, if it wasn’t too late, or a very long, hot bath, followed by a personal release in the privacy of her bedchamber. There was never any shame in it.
There was no shame in this now. They were two consenting parties.
Bronwyn squeezed her thighs together, clenching on emptiness. Nothing would ever compare now. Not to the substantial length and girth of him or the expertise with which he’d worked her inexperienced body. She hadn’t seen him, but she had certainly felt him inside her in multiple places. Her sex. Hermouth.
Cringing in mortification, Bronwyn nearly tripped over her own feet. She’d done thething. The brazen, fascinating thing she’d once read about in a gothic novel and wondered what could ever drive a woman to taste a manthere.
Well, now she knew.
Lust derangement. It had to be a medical condition. Becausewhyon earth was her pulse galloping anew and her stupid mouth salivating at the mere thought of the act? The salty-sweet taste of the bead of liquid she’d found had made her nipples tighten to taut, painful points. If he hadn’t yanked her up, she would have quite happily stayed on her knees.
“Cat got your tongue?” the duke asked, making her jump.
“A girl isn’t allowed to think?” she shot back, horrified that she’d been in the middle of reminiscing about the feel of his male organ in her mouth. Silkyandhard. And utterly delicious.
Oh, shut up.
“There she is. The imp we all know and love.”
