Why? Because once he let go, his reflexes would take over and nothing would stop him. All his good intentions would vanish and he would turn wild.
The knob of his erection slipped through her copious moisture and then she was sinking down on him, her spine flexed, her breasts ripe and round. She was his goddess in the garden, a dream he’d lost and then found. She swallowed his prick in her snug body, not resisting even when he drew her down deeper and thrust upward.
She moaned, and he ran one hand up her back, tracing her delicate ribs as he escalated the rhythm of his thrusts. Her hair cascaded down to his damp chest. Lightly he stroked her hip again, encouraging her movements. When she caught her breath, he stroked his fingers across her belly and lower through the curls of her cleft. The muscles of her sheath tightened and he felt the pressure to the base of his cock. She was giving herself to him, and he’d never known sex to turn him feral one moment and gentle the next.
The shape of her body excited him, her full breasts with the silky pink areolas that he could lick for hours, knowing how easily he could bring her to the edge with a lash of his tongue. Her voluptuous derrière put forbidden ideas in his mind—all that sweet flesh, his for the pleasure of taking. The male in him reveled in her climax, his conquest. He waited until he knew she was lost in sensation before he impaled her once more, holding her hips steady as he came.
He clasped her to him tightly and buried his face in her hair as he recovered. His heart was thundering so hard that moments passed before he realized that Ivy was slipping out from under him in panic; it was then he heard someone was pounding at the outer door. He released his breath and reluctantly flung himself off the bed.
“So much for privacy,” he muttered, darting around the room to collect their clothing.
“Who is it?” she whispered, and caught the shift that he sent sailing over the bed.
“Open the door, James,” an urgent voice said as if in answer to Ivy’s question. “It’s me, Wendover. There’s been a problem at Fenwick.”
“Is something wrong with one of my sisters?” Ivy called out, allowing James to redo her corset and laces.
“Your sisters have suffered a fright.” Wendover’s voice dropped to a gruff whisper. “I can’t tell you until you let me in. The ladies are downstairs. I don’t give a damn what the pair of you are doing. This is important.”
James, his shirt still hanging out, glanced at Ivy to make sure she was decent before he hurried through the sitting room to open the door. “What the hell has happened that couldn’t wait another hour to tell us?”
Wendover strode into the room and shut the door behind him. “There’s been a murder at Fenwick.”
“Who was murdered?” Ivy asked, her hand freezing at the back of her dress. “One of the servants?”
“Apparently it was a stranger who assaulted Lilac in the forecourt outside the gatehouse. A man chased her through the gardens and was strangling her.”
Ivy leaned against James. “Who stopped him? Someone stopped him, didn’t they?”
“Yes. It was the gentleman from London who is leasing the gatehouse. It appears he killed the man in order to save Lilac’s life.”
“Sir Oliver,” Ivy said in disbelief. “He killed a man to save Lilac?”
Wendover met James’s sharp look. “That’s what everyone seems to have witnessed. He’s downstairs, James, for you to talk to. I thought I should come and tell you right away. Ivy, I thought, too, that you would want to be with your sisters.”
“Of course. Thank you, Wendover. James was showing me—”
“Let’s go, then,” James said, clearing his throat. “We’ll find out what this is all about. Don’t fuss, Ivy. Your hair looks fine. Your sisters have seen it loose before.”
Chapter 29
They assembled in the drawing room. Ivy reassured herself that Lilac and Rosemary, aside from their understandable pallor and rumpled cloaks, had survived the attack mostly unscathed. In fact, it was Sir Oliver who looked shaken. He drank both the brandies that Wendover offered him. Really, what had she expected? He had just killed a man to protect her sisters.
Even though he had a reputation as a duelist, it would be abnormal for him to be unaffected by taking a man’s life.
Her eyes met his. She turned her head and found James watching her in frowning silence. Guilt flared inside her that she hadn’t yet told him about last night. The attack wouldn’t have happened if Fenwick had remained hidden behind its thorns. If she hadn’t gone to London. If, if, if.
She blinked at the sound of Rosemary’s voice. “We’ve left Quigley in charge of the house,” her sister said, “which worries me greatly. It’s true that he chased off his assailant with a shovel, but only because the man appeared not to carry a firearm. Quigley’s getting on in years.”