Mine.
When he licked and sucked, she rocked her hips against his face. When he thrust his tongue inside her, then thrust his fingers deeper, she collapsed against the wall, her knees bending as if she could no longer support the weight of the pleasure he kissed into her.
She delighted in his touch, his attentions, and nothing had ever in his pitiful life given him more joy than taking fear from her, replacing it with this—heady passion, rising need.
Her hands clenched on his shoulders, and she made muffled little moans. If ever given the freedom of privacy, she’d be loud and demanding, and he’d give his own life to witness it, to cause it. He might have bruises on his shoulders where she gripped him. God, yes. To be marked by her strength… he’d beg for it if she wasn’t giving it willingly, unconsciously. He worked harder, faster, time ticking in this small, heated, scandalous space, sheltered from the footsteps and voices so near but unknowing.
Entirely unaware that the prim yet intrepid Miss Lucy Jones was one shiver away from climax. He teased her lovely little clit with his tongue and thrust his fingers inside her once more, curling them, breaking her apart.
Her body rolled and undulated above him, around him, her creamy flesh shivering as he stood, gathered her against him soshe could collapse into his embrace, so he could hold her up, keep her standing. She was a drenched gown draped over his shoulder, a woman loose-limbed and trusting even heavier in his soul.
“Better?” he murmured close to her ear. “Still nervous?”
“Nervous?” she mumbled. “What is that?”
He set her from him, holding her shoulders as she blinked into awareness and found the strength to hold herself up without his support. “I’ll accept your thanks later. When you return. Perhaps you can show your gratitude by helping me relieve my tension as I’ve relieved yours.”
Her gaze clouded then dropped down his body to his bulging cock. She looked away immediately, red blooming across her cheeks.
He guided her toward the stall door. “But now, you have somewhere to be.”
She nodded, blinked, still too spellbound to do much else. He chuckled and ducked down for another swift and final kiss.
“Lucy,” a voice rang out in the stables, familiar and jerking him out of the kiss. He looked over the edge of the stall then ducked down with a curse.
Lucy ducked down with him. “What’s wrong?”
“Lucy,” the voice called again.
Alex’s voice. That’s what was wrong. Alex was walking into the stables as she hadn’t since their arrival. Bloodyhell. He had to hide.
“Just a moment,” Lucy called out, finally fully awake. She smoothed her skirts and mastered her blush. “That’s the woman I’ll be teaching tonight. She arrived here with you from London. And she has decided she does not want to leave Hawthorne House but would like to work with me. Rescuing the girls. It’s a good thing, too. Because I will not be able to work in this capacity anymore once I wed.”
Did he feel like crying? Good God,why? He’d never cried a day in his life. Likely, he hadn’t even cried as a babe. Surely not. He’d grunted and pointed at the wet nurse’s breast. Quite like he did now. Hell, he may not have evolved much since infancy.
“I must go. Geddings needs me.” Keats nudged her towards the stall door. “Be careful.”
“Lucy,” Alex called again.
“Go,” he hissed.
And she did. He stayed in the stall until the coach rumbled out of the courtyard. Then he beat his forehead against the stall three, no, four times. Because maybe that would help… something.
It didn’t.
“Keats!” Geddings could scream like a ton mama on a rampage when he needed to.
Keats slunk out of the stall. “Right here. Quit shrieking.”
Geddings, standing half in shadow, stabbed his thumb toward the large doors leading outside. “Someone here ta see ya.”
“Who?”
“Hell if I know. Take care of it and get back to work.”
Keats heard the pounding of his heart in his ears as he forced one foot in front of the other. He didn’t see anyone at first. Only the evening sky, the house and gardens. But then he heard the crunch of a boot on gravel and felt a presence to his right.
“Well, damn. It is you.” Griff stepped into the dim light cast by the rising moon. He had the sort of sandy-blond hair that looked brown in the shadows and gold in the light. Beneath the moon and shadows, it shifted between both shades, swept back in a close-clipped fashionable cut. As always, he was impeccably shaved, impeccably dressed, and regarded Keats with a tight-lipped expression that seemed to defy humor itself. The only stain on his perfect appearance the thin white scar striking downthe length of his jaw—the scar Keats had left there. He’d left a mark on a man who’d only ever treated him well.
