Marrying Mr. English:The English Brothers #7(19)

"Next time," he ground out, pulling back, "I'll go slow."

He reached between their bodies, finding her pebbled nub of flesh just  over the spot where they were so intimately connected, and he circled  it, rubbing gently as he pushed back inside her body. His eyes clenched  shut, any remaining self-control utterly gone as he felt the walls of  her sex tighten around him, hold him, massage him while she cried out  his name. He groaned with pleasure so sharp, so consuming, he didn't  know how much more he could stand. One more time. One more time. Slowly,  slowly, he slid back in, feeling the gathering, the tightening, the  inevitable.                       
       
           



       

Jerking back just in time, he came in hot spurts on her stomach before  pulling her into his arms so she could ride out her own orgasm clasped  tightly against him.

When her body had finally stopped trembling, she sighed happily against  his neck, her breath making his cock harden again like she'd placed an  order.

"Shower?" she murmured softly, flattening her hands against his chest and pressing her lips to his throat.

"In a little bit," he answered, kissing her head. "Let me hold you for another minute or two."

"Mmmm," she sighed, snuggling against him.

And Tom, who'd known his wife for less than a week, realized that love-a  word he'd been reluctant to use before now-didn't ask for permission.  Sometimes it just arrived. Fully formed. And all you could do was hold  on to it for dear life.

He tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes.

***

Eleanora's eyes blinked against the bright light of morning streaming in  through Tom's bedroom windows. She rolled onto her side to face him,  surprised to find his side of the bed empty, though still warm.

"Tom?" she called, sitting up gingerly, the tenderness between her legs making her grin like a hussy.

Pulling the sheet around her shoulders, she swung her legs over the side  of the bed and padded out of his room, her bare feet soft on his  hardwood floors. She could hear him speaking to someone from his office,  across the hall from the guest room, and she followed his voice,  stopping just outside the door.

"No, sir," he growled. "That request is unacceptable."

She furrowed her brows at his cold, angry tone.

"Because I've already made my decision, and I'm staying married."

Ah, she thought with a wince. His grandfather, trying to make him reconsider.

"I don't owe you an explanation. I'm a grown man."

There was a long pause, and Eleanora was just about to make her presence  known by clearing her throat when she heard him exclaim, "He can't do  that!"

She froze in place.

"Blackball his own grandson?" The disgust in his voice made her shiver,  and she pulled the sheet more securely around herself, huddled unnoticed  in the doorway. "In Boston and New York too? Well. He's really outdone  himself."

Eleanora wasn't totally certain what blackball meant, but she felt it  had to do with business matters, and she could tell from Tom's voice  that it wasn't good. And he wasn't speaking to his grandfather,  obviously, so she had to assume he was talking to his father. She  couldn't bear hearing him struggle alone anymore, so she stepped inside  his office, fixing a bright grin on her face when he looked up at her.

"Morning," she said softly, trembling inside as his bedsheets trailed behind her like a train.

His eyes, which were cold and annoyed when they looked up, softened  immediately, his pursed lips loosened, tilting up in the smallest smile.  She gestured to his lap, and he spun around in his desk chair so she  could climb into his arms and rest her cheek against his chest. His  heart thundered under her ear as he wrapped his arms around her.

Covering the mouthpiece of the telephone, he whispered, "I'll be done in a second."

"Take your time," she sighed.

"I fully comprehend the state of affairs, sir," he said, his voice cold  again, but much sadder now. "Be that as it may, my decision still  stands."

Eleanora pressed her lips to his neck, lingering there for a moment,  breathing in the fresh, clean, showered, morning scent of her husband.

"I don't know, but I'll figure it out. Yes, we'll be out by tomorrow."  He paused, his forehead falling onto her shoulder like a little boy  who'd run too far from things too terrible to guess, and just wanted to  rest in a safe and quiet place. "Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas to you,  as well. Good-bye."

Taking a deep and ragged breath, Tom sighed heavily before reaching  forward to place the phone back in the receiver, then he adjusted his  arms around Eleanora, holding her tighter as he leaned back into his  chair.

She let several seconds pass before kissing his neck again.

"Merry Christmas, husband," she said gently.

"Yeah," he said in a miserable voice. "Merry Christmas."

"You'll feel better if you tell me about it."

"I highly doubt that," he answered.

"Try me," she coaxed.

She felt him clench his jaw against the crown of her head, and the way  his chest pushed against her body told her he was holding his breath.  Finally, he exhaled.

"We need to move out of here by tomorrow."                       
       
           



       

"Fine. I'd prefer something smaller," she said, leaning back to look  into his eyes. They were angry and sad and defeated, and she hated that  so much, she could taste it. "Is that all?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, dropping her eyes, and furrowing his  brows as if he'd received unbelievable or shocking news. "If I don't  start the process to annul our marriage tomorrow, he's blackballing me."

"That doesn't sound good," she said, keeping her voice even.

"It's not. It means it'll be just about impossible for me to find a job  with a bank or insurance agency on the East Coast. It means-"

"That we'll have to figure out something else."

"I'm a banker, Eleanora," he said softly. "That's who I am."

"Hmm," she said lightly. "I think you're more than that. You didn't study finance at Princeton. You studied English."

"Great. We'll both starve while I write poetry."

"Did you write poetry?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and  grinning at him, despite this news that was clearly crushing him.

"Once upon a time," he said, dropping her eyes. "I'm sorry, baby. You married me for a million, and you're getting nothing."

Whip fast, she reached for his face, forcing him to meet her fierce,  wide eyes. "Don't you dare say that! Don't you ever say that to me." Her  voice trembled from the power of her feelings for him, of the hate she  bore his grandfather, and of the contempt she felt for his father. "I  got you, Tom. I got you, and that's all I want. We'll figure this out."

For a moment, his face turned hopeful, but his eyes flattened almost  immediately. "We have to leave tomorrow, and I have no plan, Eleanora.  None. My business contacts are useless. I don't . . . I just don't know  what to do."

"I do," she said, lifting her chin and forcing a lighthearted grin,  despite her worries for them. "I'm going to make breakfast. A good one  that you're going to love and ask for every Christmas that we're  together. And after that, we're going to climb back into your bed and  make love all day. That'll be our present to each other."

"I have to say," he said, licking his lips before dropping his gaze to hers, "this is a really solid plan so far."

She grinned at him, momentum and hope gathering in her heart. "When we're both completely satisfied-"

"We have to be out tomorrow, not next week."

She chuckled. "We'll get all your suitcases together and start packing."

He nodded. "Right. Fine. Then what? We're fed, oversexed, and packed. Now for the hard part . . ."

"I assume we can keep your car?" she asked, letting the sheet fall a little until the tips of her pink areolas were revealed.

Tom's eyes dropped as fast as her skirt last night. "It's, uh . . . wow . . . yeah, it's paid off. It's mine."

Mine. And somehow she knew he wasn't talking about his car, and it made  heat pool gloriously in her stomach. She let the sheet fall a little  more until both of her breasts were exposed to the cool air of his  office, her nipples puckering to dusky points as he reached up to cover  one with his palm.

"Yours," she murmured.

"Then what?" he asked, plumping her breast before dropping his head and  licking a slow circle around one rigid nipple, then the other.

"Take me back to bed," she demanded in a husky voice.

"Done," he said, standing up with her in his arms and moving around the desk toward the hallway. "Tell me the rest of the plan."