He kissed down her neck, moved to her collarbone, and discovered her arousing scent, noted the warm, damp musk of her skin as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her tight to his chest.
His reveled in the feel of her breasts rubbing against his hard chest muscles, he could feel her nipples tight and probing into the mat of hair fanning his upper chest as his hands roamed her sides. The feel of her body trembling for him was driving him wild.
He lifted his head, met her passion-filled eyes with his and crushed her lips under his, capturing the sweet curves as if trying to taste her seductive smile. Frantically, their tongues mated as their bodies rolled and hands pressed, stroked and caressed each other’s backs. He ran his palms over her sides, past her hips, and cupped her warm, smooth buttocks, lifting her and cradling her to his hard length.
He pushed her thighs apart with his and she felt his crisp leg hairs rub along her shins and calves. His body insinuated itself between her hips, and she felt the probing length of his impossibly hard, hot cock press against her. A trail of warm liquid smeared her belly as she found him with her hand. He moaned and released her grip on him. “No, you mustn’t. I doubt I can last as it is. If you touch me there, I will lose myself before we have even begun.”
He traced the curve of her hip with his palm, felt the taut indent of her side, and cupped the fullness of her breast. It was her turn to moan as his thumb flicked her distended nipple. He ran the side of his thumb back and forth across the impossibly long and tight bud, then pinched it until she thought she would die from the pleasure. He tugged on it, stretching it, and pulling it away from her body, sending her senses reeling. “Thorne, Thorne, oh, how exquisite. I love that you know just how rough to be with me.”
He groaned, her pleasure in his touch was going to be his undoing. When he ducked his head and captured the other peak with his lips, tugging and sucking, she arched her back and raked her nails down his back. “Please, please, don’t stop,” she pleaded. And he didn’t. For many long minutes he used his lips and tongue on her, drawing the most delightful sounds from her, reveling in how her body was responding to his ravaging mouth. When a thin white rivulet of milk streamed from one breast, he lapped it back to the source only to delight in the white line pumping from the other breast and pooling in her navel. He laughed delightedly and snaked his tongue inside the small indentation to gather it on his tongue. He wanted to feed on her breasts, kiss every inch of her stomach, nip at her thighs and flick his tongue over her clit. He wanted to do everything to this woman, taste every part of her . . . inhale every arousing scent of her. He was drawn lower, wanting to taste where he knew she was wet for him.
She wanted more of his deep languorous kisses, more of his lips tugging on her nipples, more of his penis pushing against her. She fisted his hair with both hands and tried to pull him back so she could feel his lips on hers again.
Reluctantly, he moved back up her body, kissing and caressing and revisiting her heavy breasts before returning to her swollen, well-loved lips. She tugged his hair with impatience and finally managed to bring his lips to hers in time for him to capture her soft gasps in his hungry mouth. Her moans, soft sighs and mewling whimpers were wracking his body. Holding himself at bay, denying his rock hard penis, now thrusting with abandon against her hip, was torture. He had to have her, claim her, mount her . . . fuck her. He wanted desperately to make her his in every way imaginable.
He forced his hand between them to find her more than willing. He groaned when he realized how wet she was, her crease unbearably slick without him even having touched her there. No woman had ever been this ready for him, this desirous. Long, thick fingers opened her folds, reveled at the velvet slickness of her inner lips, and slid inside her. One, then two fingers entered her and he fucked her with them. He thrust into her as she bucked against his hand, riding his plunging fingers until she cried out and came for him. He circled her tiny nub and felt it quiver under his thumb and drew out the sensations until she clawed at his back, begging him to enter her, telling him over and over again that she needed him inside her.
He hadn’t heard those words for so many years—and never from his wife—and God help him, he did not want to stop hearing them. God, how he had needed to hear those words for so many frustrated nights, over so many passionless years. It was mean of him, wicked as sin, but he made her beg, forced her to be his supplicant. He positioned his penis over her mound and tortured her further, letting his hardness abrade her burgeoning clit.
“Thorne, please, I beg you . . . I need you inside me, take me now. Please . . . please.”
The sweetness of her words, spoken so innocently, were shredding his resolve. His body was hard, every muscle tense—his member hot and heavy, pulsing with desire, was now probing her slick folds, and adding his own wetness to hers. When she whimpered and arched off the bed, searching for relief, he could wait no longer.
He entered her in one swift thrust. She came apart as he fully seated himself inside her. He captured her lips to quiet her scream as the pleasure overtook her. Her vagina, clenching and squeezing around him, was making him surrender his control too soon, but God, he couldn’t stop the tide. He managed five hard thrusts before his own pleasure washed over him, and with a harsh grunt he emptied into her.
The earth shattering spasms that overtook him sapped his energy and for long moments filled his head with visions of falling, careening, spiraling . . .. He had found such profound bliss that he could no longer see, could no longer hear or breathe. He fell in a slump onto her, barely managing to avoid crushing her. With his face burrowed in her neck, he rolled to his side and pulled her body close to his.
Moments later, after he was able to collect his breath, he whispered in her ear, “I promise to last more than a mere handful of thrusts next time. But you felt so bloody good, and it has been so unbearably long.” He kissed the side of her neck and promptly fell asleep.
She turned into his chest and snuggled into the circle of his arms, wondering if Lady Chatterley had found this much pleasure with her huntsman. If so, she could easily understand how, in the end, she could not give him up. Something so perfect as this would be unbearably hard to walk away from.
She no longer envied his Annaliese. Catherine knew Thorne’s dead wife had never felt this way, had never had this with him, had never given herself so completely with no care of the consequences. Morning would come, but she would have no regrets.
Morning did come, but he was not ready to relinquish her. Snuggled against him as she was, warm and soft, and as lovely as he’d ever imagined a woman to be, his nostrils flared and he breathed in her essence . . . their essence. His body woke with raging need of her. Unfortunately, so did Jonathan.
As she stirred to his cries, he slid from the bed and fetched Jonathan for her. He tucked the baby’s face to her chest and watched him root until he found what he was looking for and latched on. Catherine let out a yelp and he chuckled. Then he watched as his son fed, and his nursemaid fell in and out of a light slumber. He watched as her arms curled around the small body, bringing him close. He watched as her delicate fingers stroked his soft cheeks, and he listened as she said sweet, loving things to him, “Good morning, sweet baby . . . how were your dreams little love? . . . are you ready to face the day, you handsome boy?”
As he lay there, propped on his fist, watching his wet nurse feed his son, he fell in love with her all over again. His heart simply turned over in his chest and he knew he was, for all practical intents, contentedly and blissfully in love with this woman. He knew in that moment that he would never let her go.
When she blinked her eyes open and smiled up at him, he felt as if life had given him a second chance at passion—at happiness.
“Do you not have to offer him the other?” he asked.
“He knows where it is if he wants it,” she said dreamily as she stretched. It aroused h
im even more seeing her languid and warm. Desire spiked in him.
“What if I want it?”
“Then you shall have it,” she murmured, and cupped her breast from underneath and offered it up to him.
He groaned and bent to take it. He had just attached his mouth and was beginning to suck with abandon when there was a light tap on his door followed by it opening and his valet calling out, “Good morning, sir!”
He quickly snatched up the covers and hid all three of them. From under the covers he called, “Jorge, I require privacy right now. Please come back in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
When they heard the door shut behind him, Thorne tossed back the covers and chuckled.
“What is so funny?” she asked. “We might have been found out.”
“I am just wondering if my speech about Aunt Tilda will apply to one Mrs. Cottingham.”
“We are not on the St. Regis table.”
“I will put it on my agenda. You are certainly worthy of being devoured on such a noble table.”
“Devoured . . . that sounds delectable.”
“I promise I will make it so.”
“So this is not a one off thing?”
He bent and kissed her nose. “No, this is definitely not a one off thing.” He took her lips with such heated fervor that she soon had no doubts.
Chapter Twenty-nine
An hour later, both the earl and his nursemaid were enjoying breakfast with Jonathan. Catherine thought Jonathan had been stinted earlier, so was offering him a second feeding and he was greedily availing himself of it. The newspaper had been delivered and the earl had read one or two pages before putting it aside.
Catherine looked up from where she had been adjusting Jonathan at her breast in time to see him fold his arms along the edge of the brick pavers and lean over them.
“I had a dream last night,” he murmured, his voice low as servers had just left the room.
“It was a good one I hope?”
“Oh yes. A very good one indeed. It’s springtime, the three of us are picnicking in the orchard, it is a sunny, warm day and Jonathan is finding delight in the butterflies landing on his nose. I, despite your protests, am able to unbutton and remove your shirt, then whatever camisole or shift you are wearing as well. You are bare-chested in the sunshine and you are the most stimulating sight. Jonathan and I topple you over vying for your tits.”
“More tea, Ma’am?” one of the young serving girls asked and both Catherine and Thorne jumped at the unexpected disruption. She had been mesmerized by his story. He had been mesmerized by the desire flaring in her eyes.
“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you,” Catherine managed to stutter.
Thorne reached for a piece of toast on the platter between them and then sat back in his seat to leisurely slather it with marmalade.
“Have you ever made love outdoors?”
She raised an eyebrow to him, as if silently asking if he really wanted to pursue this line of questioning with the servants popping in and out. Then she thought for a moment, propping her head on her elbow, her index finger dimpling her chin. “Would inside a hayrick be considered out of doors?”
He smiled over at her and then brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Yes, I suppose it would. But we are a long way from harvest time. I was thinking more along the lines of in a grassy field, among the clover, under the shelter of a blossoming apple tree, much like it was in my dream.”
“Could there be a blanket?” she asked.
One of the serving girls came in to put something on the sideboard.
Thorne picked up the paper and ruffled it in the air to open it fully, then said from behind it, “Easily. I will see to it.”
“I am fair,” she said. “I cannot be exposed too long in the sun.”
“You have no cause for alarm, rest assured I will cover you.”
The whole contingent of serving girls arrived to clear the dishes and as they cleared and then vacated the room, he stood and announced to her, “The vicar will be here next week.”
His statement was met with silence and a look of bafflement. What was he saying?
When she said nothing, just stared at him with a puzzled expression, he deigned to continue. “I can see me wanting to do what we did last night up until the day I die. I want to marry you. I can get a special license and we can be married as soon as the vicar arrives. Or we can travel to Southport and meet him there . . . we can get married as early as tomorrow.”
Her heart leapt, but clearly, she had to be the reasonable one in this matter. “You are an earl. I am no one. I cannot marry you. It is not done.”
“You are the woman I love. You are my world. Never say you are less than me. You are perfect in every way, and I cannot imagine ever wanting another woman, titled or not. So it is done. We are going to marry. I will have it no other way.”
Hearing that she was the woman he loved almost caused her to swoon in her seat. “You love me?”
“Do you doubt it?”
“It is so soon, so sudden.”
“No. We have been quietly moving toward this for weeks.”
“People will talk. Jonathan will be taunted . . . teased.”
“Yes, people will talk. They will say, ‘Look at the Earl of Sefton and the beautiful woman by his side.’” He stroked her arm, “You will be a countess, my countess—so let them talk. They will have to respect you or suffer my wrath. I am directly responsible for everyone’s income within a day’s journey. I assure you, people will watch their tongues. As for Jonathan, I will not raise a sop toast. He will stand up for you. You will be his mother.”
“His mother?” she asked, stars lighting up her eyes.
He laughed and bent to cage her by his arms on the chair’s armrests. “Yes, his mother.” He laughed again and shook his head. “I ask the woman I love to marry me, to become my countess, and all she cares about is that she will become the mother to my child.”
She smiled up at him and she covered his hand on the chair arm. “He is not all I care about.” With a saucy lift of her brow she said, “But I wager I would have as much pleasure being your mistress as being your countess.”
“I’ll take that wager and prove you wrong.” His face descended to hers and their lips meshed. He hungrily took her to heady heights by kissing every part of her mouth, then repositioning his head and working his way down her long elegant neck. He lifted his head and looked deeply into her soft green eyes. “If I move further down, I may ruin my son’s breakfast.”
“I was thinking it might be time to introduce him to a bit of porridge,” she said cheekily.
“Ah, for a change, I’ll get to feed him.” He went back to nibbling on her neck, and within moments was working his hand into the opening of her bodice, covering the breast that Jonathan was momentarily neglecting with his hand.
“Whatever will I do with all my free time, if I am not nursing your son?” she teased.
“I have some ideas . . . most of them involve you—naked.”
“If I marry you, does that mean I won’t need to sneak into your bed anymore?”
“Yes. You won’t need to, as you’ll already be there.”
“We’ll be sleeping together?” she asked, clearly shocked by that pronouncement. “My goodness, what will the servants say?”
“You probably don’t want to know what they’re saying now. I’m fairly certain one of them heard me talking about your tits.”
She laughed. “And I was a bit loud last night, wasn’t I?”
He smiled against her lips. “Should you continue in that vein, I shall fairly strut into the stable each morning. The brash lads will take to patting me on my back as I hoist myself into the saddle.”
He bared the breast he had been caressing, be
nt and closed his lips over the nipple . . . and tugged. Then tugged some more. Sucked. Then bit. Then licked. He tormented her by releasing it. “So . . . are you going to marry me?”
“Are you going to stop if I say no?”
“I might.”
She reached out and gripped his bollocks.
He groaned. “Then again, I might not.”
“I’ll marry you. But not for the reasons you said.”
“Oh, why then?”
“Because I am in love with you. And I want to have another baby.”
“Are we going to make a baby together?” he asked astounded, as if the thought had not occurred to him.
“If we keep doing what we did last night, I think it is inevitable.”
“Then I’m all for doing it. I’d like a little girl with your sweet smile.”
He lifted her into his arms, Jonathan still in place at her breast, and strode the long expanse of the salon. Shielding her with his body, he carried them up the grand staircase effortlessly, and at a quickened pace. When he got to the top of the staircase and made the turn toward his apartments, he noticed Mrs. Cockrell standing stock-still, gaping, on the landing. She glanced up at him with a frown. He grinned and called down to her, “Tell cook to ready a feast. We’re going to have a wedding celebration.”
Her frown became a beaming smile, “Looks to me like you’re already working on the honeymoon,” she called back.
“Aye, and don’t write my mother.”
With that, he turned down the hall. When he reached his room he kicked the door shut behind them. He set her on the bed and took Jonathan from her. Cradling him, and cooing to soothe him, as he had not been pleased to be removed from Catherine’s breast, he efficiently hoisted Jonathan to his shoulder, elicited the prerequisite burp, then took him to his alcove and placed him in his bassinette. On the way back to his bedchamber, he began undoing his cuffs, “Let’s practice that part about making a baby. Now that I think on it, I would really like a little girl who looks just like you.”
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