“Yes.” She turned her head and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry. “Please.”
Enough. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. He pulled away and spun her to face him. If this was what she’d had in mind from the start, he’d dance in the rain with her every bloody day. He was ravenous for her. He removed her corset cover and then pulled her corset open and flung it away, intent on revealing her gorgeous body. Only a chemise separated him from what he wanted.
His breath caught as he gazed down at her. She was soaked, her skin glistening with moisture, the linen of her shift clinging to her breasts so that her sweetly pink nipples were visible through the fabric. They were already stiff, calling to him. He pulled her against him, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her again, unable to help himself.
She kissed him back, and when he felt her fingers on the buttons of his shirt, he groaned. She was a wanton, his Maggie, and he couldn’t be more pleased. He nipped at her lower lip, wringing an answering moan from her. She liked when he was a little wild, a little rough. The knowledge only heightened his desire.
Simon shrugged out of his jacket, allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor. The last button on his shirt popped open, aided by Maggie, and he tossed that garment away as well. Then, her hands were on his chest, caressing a path of fire that led straight to his cock. When she cupped him through his trousers, he couldn’t keep himself from surging into her, wanting her touch, wanting to be inside her. Christ, she was making him mad with wanting her. He had to have her. Right bloody now.
He tossed a look around the library, having second thoughts about the wool of the carpets on her delicate skin. His eyes landed upon an oversize settee and a wicked idea began forming in his debauched mind.
“Come, my love.” He led her to the settee, their embrace never breaking. He backed her to the cushioned edge before stopping to draw her final garment up over her head. She was nude before him, her breasts a round and full temptation, her curves lush. His gaze dipped lower, to her cunny.
He knew what he wanted. “Sit,” he commanded her.
“What in heaven’s name?” Maggie blinked at him, dredged from the depths of her passion by his request. Of course she would question him. “Why?”
“Hush.” He pressed a finger to her rose-pink lips that were swollen with his kisses. “No more talking.”
“But,” she began, attempting to speak past his finger until he interrupted her.
“Do you trust me, Maggie?”
Her violet eyes were huge, piercing through to his very soul. She pressed a kiss to his finger before tipping her head back so that she could speak. “Yes.”
Something inside him shifted, sending a warmth through him that had little to do with desire and everything to do with the emotions she stirred within him. She trusted him. She trusted the man who had left her while he spent an entire year with his mistress. He could admit it now, for if he hadn’t a conscience before, he bloody well did now. Maggie had done that for him. She’d changed everything.
He gently guided her into a sitting position, needing to show her with his actions what he could not reveal in words. She was his. He was hers. And he wanted to make her scream. He sank to his knees.
She watched him, holding her hands over her breasts as she sat awkwardly. She looked dreadfully uncomfortable. He placed his palms on each of her bare knees, hungering to go higher and sweep over her luscious thighs but restraining himself.
“Have you ever sat naked on a settee before?” he asked her.
“You know I haven’t,” she whispered.
“Another day of firsts for us. I danced in the rain for you.” He bowed his head and pressed a kiss to first her left knee, then her right. Something occurred to him then. “You weren’t wearing drawers.”
A rosy flush crept over her cheeks. “It often seems I don’t require them when you’re about.”
“A lady who plans ahead.” He winked at her, showing her the lightness of heart she’d accused him of not possessing. He had it, by God. There merely hadn’t been need of it before. No woman had every inquired after his happiness, had longed to hear his laughter. “I am once again in awe of you.”
“What are you doing?” she asked again, her voice breathy. Not precisely concerned, but nevertheless a trifle on edge.
“Making love to my wife,” he answered, relishing the word on his tongue for the first time ever. He skimmed his hands up her thighs ever so slowly, kissing the insides of her knees as he did so. “My turn for a question. Why are you hiding your lovely breasts from me?”
He glanced up at her to find her still flushed, watching him with an expression he’d never seen from her. “Would you prefer to see them?”
Ah, she was back to the teasing wanton once more. His cock was hard as stone, pressing against his trousers despite the cold, damp fabric. “I would.”
Meeting his gaze, she removed her arms. Her breasts were perfection. “There you are,” she said simply, as breezily as if she were complimenting the fabric of the curtains across the room.
She had courage, his Maggie, a backbone as rigid as a brick wall. “I love your breasts,” he told her, sliding his hands ever higher until he reached her upper thighs. “Will you open your legs for me, darling? I want to pleasure you so very badly.”
Wordlessly, she allowed her knees to fall apart, opening herself to him. No hesitation. She was a match for him in every way. His eyes devoured every inch of creamy skin revealed to him, lingering on the folds of her cunny. He could already smell her sweet, earthy scent. She was aroused, her cunny pink and glistening, ready for him.
Yes, this was what he wanted. He struggled to rein in the desire careening through him. He wanted to go slowly, to torture them both with anticipation, with pleasure. He ran his hands back down her voluptuous legs, loving the feel of them, the freedom of touching her as he pleased.
“Put your legs over me thusly,” he directed her quietly, showing her where he wanted her at the same time.
She did as he asked without further question, allowing him to place her legs as he wished so that the backs of her knees rested upon his shoulders. Bloody hell, yes. He grabbed her rump next, scooting her to the very edge of the settee until her cunny nearly touched the bright gilding holding the upholstery in place. He hoped she soaked the damn settee so much that he needed to replace it.
Looking up at her, he placed a kiss on the inside of each thigh. She watched him, her lip caught between her teeth. Her violet eyes were dreamy, half-closed. She wanted this every bit as much as he did. Still keeping her gaze trapped by his, he at last lowered his head to the prize he sought. He gently pulled back her mound until the plump bud he wanted jutted proudly forward. And then he took her in his mouth, sucking.
She moaned above him, her fingers sinking into his hair, running over his scalp. A hot surge of lust went directly to his cock. He loved the way she tasted, of muskiness and something innately hers. Delicious. His tongue flicked over her, up and down, side to side, before he sucked her again. She bucked against him, pressing her wet cunny into his face. Perfect. God. He was going to lose himself in her and he didn’t give a damn.
With a growl against her eager flesh, he pulled back, glancing up at Maggie to find she’d closed her eyes, her mouth open. Her breasts were erotic as hell. She was a Venus on display. His. He wanted to fuck her with his tongue and then replace it with his cock.
He lowered his head and sank his tongue into her slippery cunny, again and again. She cried out, twisting against him, and he knew she was nearing her climax. He wanted to make her come as she’d never come before. He reached up, pressing a hand against her belly and slipping his thumb back onto her clitoris. He worked it back and forth, exerting as much pressure as he dared, as much as he knew made her writhe even more beneath him, all the while plunging his tongue deep inside her.
Suddenly, she shook and he felt a rush of wetness on his mouth. Ah, yes. He had made his darling girl find her petite mort. She cried out his
name, nearly sobbing with the power of her release.
Now he was going to fuck her again. Fuck her until she came all over him once more. She was so very wet. He couldn’t wait to be inside her. Not another breath. He fumbled for his shirt, opening it over the carpet.
“Here, darling.” Simon took her small hand in his. She was still dazed, the perfect picture of a wanton with her mussed hair, slack mouth and shining eyes. He pulled her to her knees, helping her to arrange herself on the softer fabric of his shirt. “I want you desperately.”
She opened for him, holding her arms out. “I want you too.”
Her words sent a new arrow of heat searing through him, the kind that pierced his heart. Damn it. He tore open the fastening of his trousers, releasing his rigid cock. In the next instant, he was inside her with one long thrust. She was hot and slippery and tight. Heaven. When she wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him even deeper, he was lost. He pumped into her, again and again. Out, then in, a delicious rhythm designed to make them both mad. At last, she constricted on him, her cunny wringing the last bit of sanity from him. He lost himself, coming so hard his heart nearly leapt from his chest.
Dear sweet Christ. Panting as if he’d just run for his life, he collapsed against her, pressing a kiss to her perfect lips. He touched his forehead to hers, completely bemused by what she’d done to him.
She framed his face with her hands, her eyes twinkling up at him, an impish smile on her mouth. “Perhaps next time you won’t be so disagreeable about taking a walk in the rain.”
He couldn’t help himself. He threw back his head and laughed. Bloody hell. She was right.
* * * * *
“Tell me, what is your favorite poem?”
Maggie leaned back on the coverlet Simon had spread across the grass for their impromptu picnic and considered him. He watched her with an open expression as he nibbled on a sandwich prepared for them by his redoubtable cook Mrs. Gaston. She still couldn’t believe she’d managed to convince him to join her for a picnic luncheon so easily. She knew it was often de rigueur at country house parties, but Simon always seemed so staid, so fussy and incapable of levity. He had changed. He’d opened himself to her.
“You’re staring at me,” he observed, frowning. “Have I asked such an odd question?”
Oh dear. She was mooning over him, and she’d quite forgotten what he’d asked. She thought for a moment, trying her best not to look like a silly miss. Ah, yes. Poetry. She found their common interest heartening. It was one more thing that drew them together whereas before, one rather large and unfortunate thing had drawn them apart.
“How can I choose just one?” she asked him. “Perhaps you have a favorite?”
His eyes darkened. “I find that I prefer the poetry written by my wife.”
She flushed, unable to fight back a smile. He certainly knew how to charm her. “Thank you, Simon, but I fear you’re merely trying to woo me.”
He raised a brow. “I didn’t know I needed to woo you. I’ve already won you, after all.”
But his actions had belied his words. Unless she was mistaken, he had begun doing his very best to win her. “I’m beginning to think perhaps you already have,” she admitted before she could think better of it.
A slow, knowing grin curved his sensual lips. “The sentiment is mutual, my dear.”
Dear heavens. He was certainly charming when he wished to be. She found she had a difficult time resisting him. In fact, she didn’t want to resist him, truth be told. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “I hope you’re finding marriage to me isn’t as horrid as you once supposed.”
“Do you truly care?” He cocked his head to the side, considering her in that intense way he had that made her feel as if he could see all the corners of herself she’d rather keep hidden. “I rather fancy you ought to loathe me. I wouldn’t blame you, truly, and yet you’re so bloody sweet to me.”
His insight startled her. He’d gradually begun to open himself to her, and she had discovered a great many things about her husband thus far. One of them was that he had been searching for a family to belong to ever since his boyhood. She suspected he didn’t realize it himself, but she fancied it was why he’d been so caught up in Lady Billingsley. But now that Maggie was a true part of his life and not a faraway dust mote occasionally flitting through his conscience, she hoped she could give him the family he’d been seeking. It was a frightening realization for her, just how connected she’d become to him. Dangerous to be sure. But worth the price.
“I’ve told you before I’m not the angel you think me.” She thought of all the moments in her life where she had been unkind, had made mistakes. She thought of Jonathan, of how she had left him devastated when she had broken off their romance to leave for England. No indeed, she was altogether not an angel.
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
She smiled sadly at his insistence. “I wish I were perfect.”
“You already are perfect, Maggie.” He picked up a dark-red hothouse strawberry, held it to his lips and took a bite. She watched, entranced. “And you make me perfectly mad with wanting you every time I so much as think your name.”
Desire unwound within her. She liked that she at least possessed the power to make him desire her. It was something, a small battle won in the war she hadn’t realized she’d wanted to wage. She wanted to win not just his passion, his kisses, his admiration, but also his heart. There it was, with such awful clarity it made her throat nearly close. She was going to pry it from Lady Billingsley’s inglorious clutches. If she hadn’t already done so. Maggie had to wonder as she watched him slowly devour his strawberry, making a burn start deep inside her.
“But you dislike me,” she reminded him, licking her suddenly dry lips.
“I disliked the notion of you, yes,” he said agreeably. “As I daresay you did me. For me, however, that dislike has changed immensely.”
“How has it changed?” she dared to ask him.
He sent her a wicked grin. “Shall I show you?”
Oh dear. He was such a tempting man. It was the midst of the day and they were in the open air. Anyone could happen upon them at any moment. Surely it would be foolish to indulge in the wickedness he promised. She ought to tell him no.
She caught herself grinning back at him. “Yes.”
He was on her in an instant, pressing her all the way to the coverlet with his powerful body. He kissed her as if he’d been starving for it, long and passion-fueled. Her hands went into his hair, knocking his hat from his head. Her jaunty headpiece too fell to the wayside, half crushed beneath her back. She didn’t care.
The day was alive with sunshine, singing birds and endless possibility. It was a feeling she could get lost in forever. A feeling she never wanted to end.
Chapter Seven
Simon strode into the main hall of Denver House after an invigorating ride, a grin on his face. He didn’t know why the devil he was grinning, but damn it, he was. An entire fortnight had passed since he’d brought Maggie to his country holding, a place where he once never thought he’d feel at home again. Something had changed, shifted inside him. The ghosts had been banished.
Maggie had done that for him.
Yes, perhaps the reason he was grinning like a bloody fool was blatantly apparent. His wife. Somehow, the woman he’d once resented had become the woman he desperately wanted. Even now, thinking of her made him hard. Christ. It was the midst of the morning and he was covered in muck. He’d just had her mere hours before, but the prospect of locating her and dragging her off for an impromptu bout of lovemaking was too potent a lure.
“My lord.”
The somewhat aggrieved voice of his butler disturbed his pleasant musings. He slowed his steps, realizing he’d failed to notice the staid Milton standing sentinel. “Good morning, Milton. Whatever’s the matter? You look as if someone’s eaten your lunch.”
Milton blinked at him, perhaps startled by his unusually good cheer. After
all, the Marquis of Sandhurst didn’t joke. At least, not the old Marquis of Sandhurst. “You’ve a guest, sir.”
Bloody hell. He didn’t like the way his butler spat out the word as if it tasted poorly. This surely didn’t bode well. “Who can it be and where have you put him?”
“I have placed her in the drawing room, my lord.”
Her? His guest was a woman? A leaden weight descended in his stomach, effectively crushing his former high spirits. There was only one woman who would seek him out. He had no relationship with his mother’s sister the Countess of Northrup and his father had been the sole living child in his family. Lady Northrup made no secret of her disdain for him. No indeed, it would not be she who had called upon Denver House.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly gone dry. “Thank you, Milton. I shall see to her,” he managed to say before stalking straight for the room in question.
It couldn’t be her, he thought, his mind swirling with the possibilities and ramifications. What if it was? Good sweet God. Feeling as if he were trapped in a bizarre dream, he crossed the threshold to the drawing room, his heart about to gallop from his chest.
A woman stood with her back to him, her blonde curls artfully piled beneath a dashing hat so typical of someone he knew all too well. He took in her tiny, cinched waist and the frothy pink afternoon gown draped with lace. Recognition traveled through him with the force of a heavy stone being rolled downhill. The lady adored pastels and hats twice the size of her head. He knew she smelled of lavender and sneezed at the slightest hint of rose water. He knew she adored poetry, hated prose, and wrote lurid letters that once had made him mad with wanting. Ah yes, there was no mistaking her.
Eleanor.
He knew her silhouette as he knew his reflection in the mirror. After all, she was the woman he’d spent a few years of his life loving. She turned when she heard his footsteps approaching, a welcoming smile on her Cupid’s bow lips. The time they’d been apart fell away for a moment. He almost crossed the room and took her into his arms as he’d done so many times before.
Her Lovestruck Lord: 2 (Wicked Husbands) Page 13