She shuddered around him as spirals of delight rose within her. She couldn’t believe it, but she knew her crisis was rising again.
He moaned as she clenched, and his lunges deepened. They became shorter, faster, harder, each and every one hitting the mark.
She buried her face in his throat, trying to muffle her squeals. It was phenomenal, this feeling, this possession, this bliss. In and in and in. She wanted it to go on forever.
And, Lord love him, it did.
Her arse burned, as did her nipples, for with his every move, the wiry hair on his chest abraded them. But it was delicious. She loved it.
And then his strokes took on a new intensity, a harsh, desperate tenor. His cock swelled inside her and with it, the unbearable tension, the agonizing need for—
Her body seized. Everything narrowed down to one exact point of her being. That quivering place in her womb, kissed as it was by his furious thrusts. Her vision went black as delight, unlike anything she had ever known or dreamed of, took her, shook her. Wave after crashing wave of delicious delirium washed over her until there was nothing left but the awareness of his cock, jerking inside her, bathing her with warmth.
In the end, there was nothing left of her that wasn’t part of him.
Chapter Eight
Edward wasn’t sure how he came to be in the drawing room at teatime that afternoon. Normally this was a happenstance he would avoid at all costs.
It was probably Kaitlin’s fault.
After their astonishing frolic that morning, he would follow her almost anywhere. While he considered himself a man of the world, no delusion would allow him to belittle the impact of their encounter.
It had been, in a word, transporting.
Funny that. He’d been with some of the most highly trained courtesans in the world. Partaken in the most debauched activities. Had a damn lot of fun.
This had not been fun.
It had been divine. Better than divine.
He’d spent a great deal of time after she’d left his study, trying to think of a word that described what they’d shared, but he couldn’t. Every word he came up with sounded feckless and shallow.
In fact, he was feckless and shallow. When he looked on the endless parade of mindless diversions his life had become, he was mortified. What was it about her that made him look at himself with fresh eyes? What was it that made him see—finally see—what was missing?
She was no courtesan. No practiced whore. But that fuck—though he had to allow it had been much more than a mere fuck—had been the best of his life.
He wanted more.
So here he was. Following her like a dog.
Enduring anything just to have the opportunity to be with her. Look upon her glowing smile.
Yes, he would even follow her into the maw of certain doom that was teatime with the Wyeths of Perth.
They weren’t all there. Thank God for small favors. The younger ones had been taken to the park in the middle of the square by a brave and enterprising maid—who would be getting a promotion—to rain their terror on the neighbors for a while.
Only Hortense, Violet, Ned, Malcolm and of course Kaitlin and himself sat around the tea table.
She looked beautiful, serene, quietly working on an embroidery hoop as the others chatted. Edward occupied himself with devising a strategy for getting her alone again. And soon.
He should probably have her in a bed the next time. The divan had been a trifle limiting—
“Well,” Aunt Hortense gusted, scattering his thoughts to the four winds. “I had a missive from Perth.”
“Really?” Violet raised a brow.
“Apparently Agnes is on her deathbed.” Hortense poured another cup of tea.
“Finally,” Malcolm grumbled. Ned kicked him under the table.
“How many times is this?” Violet asked, selecting a lemon tart. She passed the dish to Kaitlin. As all good companions were, she was a silent mouse, there in the corner. Although her looks in his direction spoke volumes. Fortunately, the others were occupied with their food.
“Do be kind, Violet.”
“I am being kind, dear aunt. Merely asking—”
“She does nearly die with annoying frequency,” Ned observed, brushing the crumbs from his lap, although not very efficiently.
Hortense pretended to bristle. She was terribly loyal. Edward liked that about her. “Agnes has a delicate constitution.”
“She’s healthy as an ox.” This from Ned, beneath his breath.
And Malcolm’s response, “She looks like an ox.”
“Boys.” Yes. Loyal. And shrill. “She is my dearest sister.”
Malcolm snorted. “Your only sister.”
“She took me in when dear Henry died—”
“As a servant.”
Ah yes. Aunt Agnes was, altogether, an unpleasant sort. In truth, Edward could only remember meeting his father’s eldest sister once. He had the vague recollection of a quivering nose, sharp eyes and sharper words. Something like a rat terrier. She’d managed to snag a wealthy baron and had lorded it over everyone, badgering and berating anyone who chanced to wander into her path. His father was the only one who escaped her disdain, but only because he’d been better practiced at lording his position. When Hortense’s husband had died, Agnes had taken her in. As a paid companion.