He seized her head with both hands as their kiss grew wild and hungry. His hand descended on her breast in a fiery trail. He tweaked her nipple, rolling and pinching it, coiling her passion higher, tighter. She felt that familiar swell building and coming over her again. Just like at the pond with the warm rock bed under her. This time she had a soft bed and it was an improvement.
The head of him prodded her opening. Moisture rushed between her legs. She wiggled her hips eagerly until his manhood began pushing inside her.
She inhaled sharply at the tip of him entering her.
He paused. “Is this . . . do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head. “No!” The very idea of him stopping filled her with panic.
He smiled slightly, knowingly, and then gave the faintest teasing nudge, deepening his penetration. The motion had her puffing and wiggling. “Say it. Say what you want,” he encouraged.
“What I want?” She was confused . . . and in torment and could scarcely form a thought.
“My cock,” he supplied. “You want my cock, Imogen? Ask for it.”
At his profane speech, she grew wetter. The ache between her legs was almost painful now.
Anxious for all of him, she pushed up against his hardness, seeking relief.
“Say it,” he instructed. “Cock.”
“Cock,” she snapped. Then softer, pleading, need thick in her throat: “I want your cock. Please.”
He gave her what she wanted and met her hunger, lodging himself deeply, seating himself all the way with a rumbling groan.
There was no resistance. Just a general stretching and burning that wasn’t completely comfortable, but any discomfort diminished alongside the delicious friction of him as he set a pace, moving inside her.
His lips brushed her head. “Your quim feels so good . . . perfect.”
Nodding wildly, she panted, her fingers clenching on his shoulders, hanging on as he withdrew and drove inside her.
Her nails scored his shoulders. Moaning, she wrapped her legs around his waist.
His fingers clasped the generous flesh of her thighs and she felt the imprint of each one like a fiery mark. He growled deeply and thrust again. And again. And again.
He reached between them, finding her slick warmth, that tiny nub of pleasure he had lavished such attention on at the pond, and put his fingers to it, pushing and rolling and rubbing until she began to tremble.
The pressure gave way inside her. Snapped like a band. Shudders racked her, starting at her core and eddying out through her body as she burst.
She collapsed back on the bed, her body a limp, boneless heap. Gasping and winded, her chest heaved as though she’d run a great distance. He thrust a few more times and followed fast on her heels with his own release. He quickly withdrew from her body at the last moment and spent himself in her bedding.
He dropped down on the bed beside her with his arm wrapped around her, tucking her into his side. His breath fell hard beside her, ruffling her hair. “That was . . .”
“Lovely,” she supplied.
“Lovely,” he agreed with a chuckle.
“Marvelous,” she added.
“Yes. That, too.” His hand stroked her arm in gentle, rhythmic movements, up and down, from her elbow to her shoulder.
“That’s nice.” She sighed and nestled closer into his side. Just for a little while.
It couldn’t last. She knew that, but for just a moment she would enjoy it. She’d enjoy him. She would revel in his closeness, in his touch, in the warmth of his body and not think about how he would eventually have to leave her.
She settled her hand on his chest, enjoying the sensation of his heart beneath her palm, wondering if it matched the beat of her own.
Chapter Twenty-One
Imogen woke with a long luxurious stretch. She let her hands drop above her head and remain there. She had no difficulty recollecting what had transpired last night. Even as the early morning light streamed through the window, she recalled every moment of what happened in her bed. And if her memory was somehow faulty, she had only her body to remind her with all its new and unfamiliar aches. The delicious soreness asserted itself any time she made the slightest move.
She had not meant to fall asleep, but she lost that battle. She’d fought to stay awake, unwilling to miss a moment of their time together, but her tiredness had won out. Perry made for a most comfortable pillow.
She’d slept hard, not even stirring when he left her bed. She had been dimly aware of him leaving, recalling his weight lifting from the mattress, his form dressing beside the bed in the purpling air that hinted at the coming dawn.
Of course, he had left her. He couldn’t stay through the morning. They weren’t anything more than a fleeting affair. One night. That’s all she had wanted—all she could have.
She poked and prodded around inside her head. There was a whirl of emotions in there, but not regret. She didn’t regret what she had done. It might be all she ever had. One night with someone holding her and loving her. Her only intimacy with another human. No. She would not regret that.
She stretched again and her hand brushed something on the pillow. A faint crinkling sounded and she turned her head, glimpsing the parchment. She couldn’t help smiling. So she had not been left completely alone, after all. Reaching for it, she held the note up over her face, her eyes scanning the neat masculine scrawl in the light of dawn.
I’ll see you at church. I’ll be the man staring at you the entire time.
Her smile deepened slowly. She could not help it. As unaffected as she wanted to be, as calmly and levelheadedly as she wanted to approach this thing that had happened between them, she could not help it.
One hand clutched the letter, bringing it to her chest whilst the fingers of her other hand covered her lips, as though she could somehow suppress that smile and the twinge of hope stirring inside her.
Hope that perhaps this was more than a single foray into passion.
Hope that it could be something more—that it could last.
Perry could not look away from her.
He was aware that it was not the most inconspicuous behavior, but there was no preventing his gaze from going to Imogen, the proverbial moth to flame.
She, much to his chagrin, did not seem to be afflicted with the same compulsion. She sat straight in her pew, facing forward, listening to her father haltingly deliver his sermon with a serene expression on her face.
The baroness and her daughter occupied the space beside Imogen, so he could only assume that the Bates’s houseguests had departed. There was no sight of that scoundrel, Edgar, and he was relieved to know that he and his wife had indeed left. He couldn’t have stayed away if the man still resided with Imogen under her roof.
Imogen looked fetching in a pale cream gown with thin lavender stripes. So modest. A customary costume for demure young ladies. Only he knew what she looked like beneath it. Only he knew what it felt like to have her claw his back and the memory made him instantly hard. He brought his prayer book over his lap, hiding his erection.
He had full carnal knowledge of Imogen Bates, and he didn’t know how he would ever pretend otherwise.
The service ended, and they all filed outside. His mother lingered to talk with Imogen’s father. She’d always had a fondness for the man. He supposed that was because of the hours his father had spent with the Reverend Bates.
She then moved on to chat with the baroness, the only other person she deemed worthy of her company.
He found his own spot to stand nearby. Out of the way. Against a tree. A safe distance to watch Imogen. She played the gracious hostess, listening to every blue-haired lady with what appeared to be keen interest. Not simply because it was her role to do so, but because she did care. Because there was not a fiber of her being that did not care about others.
Had he really compared her to a rotten lemon? He shook his head. What a fool he had been. Everything about her delighted him. He could listen to he
r talk about wheat mites or anything else and be quite content.
She slipped back inside the church. Most of the congregation had thinned out by now. The vicar was once again in conversation with Perry’s mother.
Perry glanced around and then slipped inside the church after Imogen.
He entered stealthily and she didn’t look up from where she was gathering hymnals and stacking them.
He crept up behind her and circled her waist, hauling her flush against him.
She gasped, her hand flying to his arm wrapped around her waist.
He nuzzled the side of her hair and spoke into her ear, “I’ve missed you, Imogen Bates.”
“Perry! It’s just been a few hours since you last saw me.” She laughed softly and then gasped again as he bit down softly on the lobe of her ear.
“Let’s return to that warm bed of yours.”
She slapped his arm lightly. “You should not be doing this here. What if we’re seen?”
“Then where should we do this?” He unwrapped his arm from her waist and she turned to face him.
She stared at him in a scolding manner. “We shouldn’t be doing it anywhere.”
He frowned, not liking the notion of that at all. He brushed his thumb down the curve of her cheek. “You mean no more of this?”
She released a shuddery breath. “That was my understanding,” she whispered.
He bent his head and kissed her long and deep. True. He might be hoping to seduce her and make her forget her reticence.
Lifting his head, he stared down at her, watching her as she slowly opened her eyes, looking up at him dreamily.
“You’re incorrigible,” she breathed.
“And you love it,” he countered.
Her dreamlike haze dissipated and she stepped back, her expression admonishing. “Behave yourself,” she lightly scolded.
His timing and choice of place could have been better, he supposed, because additional sunlight flooded into the church just then as the double doors opened.
“There you are, Mr. Butler,” a voice intruded.
He turned to watch as Mrs. Berrycloth advanced down the center aisle in a dashing plum gown. No demure maidenly colors for her. He longed to see Imogen in such colors. Rich hues that brought out the amber in her brown eyes.
“Mrs. Berrycloth,” he greeted.
The widow flashed a smile for Imogen. “Miss Bates.” She then turned her full attention back to Perry. “I thought I might take you up on that offer for an afternoon walk.”
He stared at her for a long moment, blinking and not recalling what she was talking about.
“Remember?” she prompted. “You suggested we take a stroll together.” She reached out and stroked his arm. “It wasn’t that long ago. Have you forgotten it?”
Yes, indeed he had. An unfamiliar heat crept up his neck. He could feel Imogen’s eyes on him.
He was no longer interested in pursuing any of the town’s heiresses. He had been clear on that matter—to himself and Imogen. He would not use an heiress to secure his fate. Apparently, however, he had a few loose ends to tie up.
Mrs. Berrycloth was every bit an heiress even if she was not in the first flush of youth any longer. She had been married multiple times and had accrued quite a tidy sum that would last her lifelong, which was why he had ever thought to consider her as a potential wife in the first place.
The lack of a papa managing her purse strings could be seen as a benefit to many gentlemen. Additionally, she was an attractive woman. There was much appeal to her . . . and yet he did not find her appealing.
She was precisely what he had thought he wanted. The operative word being “had.” Things had changed.
He had changed.
He did not want her, and yet he found himself presently in this awkward situation.
“Ah . . .” Again, his gaze went to Imogen. “When were you thinking—”
“Is right now an acceptable time for you? I walked to church this morning. You could escort me home.” She stared at him in patient expectation.
“Ah . . .”
“On a lovely day like this?” Imogen suddenly spoke. “You both should go around the village and cut through the Pritchards’ orchard.”
His gaze whipped to Imogen at the cheerful suggestion. What was she doing? Was she actually throwing him at Mrs. Berrycloth? He narrowed his gaze on her. He was not a toy to be cast aside. Did she think herself done playing with him and ready to be discarded now?
“Ah! Delightful suggestion!” Mrs. Berrycloth’s eyes danced and she looked at him in bright anticipation.
“I, ah. Yes.” He nodded. “Of course.” He motioned to the church doors, inviting her to precede him. There was no choice but to accept her request. He’d been asked directly by the lady, after all. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He had no ready excuse and Imogen had just sanctioned the event. Bloody hell.
Mrs. Berrycloth passed him and proceeded down the center aisle, moving for the doors.
“What are you doing?” he growled for Imogen’s ears alone.
She looked up at him with mock innocence. “You asked the lady to step out for a walk.”
“That was a while ago. Before us.”
She blinked at his plain language, and then slowly shook her head.
He pressed, “Is that what you want then? For me to spend my time with other women?” His gaze scoured her face, needing to hear her deny this.
She averted her gaze, turning her face away.
He glared at her furiously, whispering, “You know we have something here, Imogen. Do not run from this. Do not push me away.”
She turned her gaze back on him, her eyes bright with an emotion that looked akin to pain. “What is the point? This cannot be.”
“Says who? No. I do not accept that. And I don’t believe you do either.” With a disgusted shake of his head, he started down the aisle after Mrs. Berrycloth, only to stop at the sound of Imogen’s harsh whisper.
“Do not be a fool, Perry. You know as well as I do that we cannot have anything lasting. And I’m not the manner of female to be any man’s mistress.”
He opened his mouth, but had no chance to speak before she was striding past with a resolute look on her face, leaving him standing in the aisle of the church, her footsteps a soft fading tread on the runner.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Imogen turned down her bedding, longing for a night’s sleep. There had been little slumber the night before and her brain needed a solid rest so that she could return to thinking properly.
She had stripped her bed and put fresh sheets on before they left for church this morning. Fortunately for her, she often did such household chores herself, so the act didn’t raise any eyebrows. She didn’t need Mrs. Garry handling her sheets after last night and seeing the evidence of her tryst.
The scrabbling at her window was familiar at this point, but still unexpected. Crossing her arms, she turned and watched warily as Perry pushed himself inside her bedchamber.
“I really need a lock on that window,” she declared, uncrossing her arms over her chest.
He straightened, brushing at his clothing. “Then I would simply have to come through the front door and that wouldn’t be very discreet. I’m happy to do that, of course, if you prefer.”
She did not prefer that. She needn’t have members of her household getting their hopes up that she was entertaining Mr. Butler’s suit. And hopes would rise. They would be excited. Papa liked him very much, and Mrs. Garry had voiced her opinion more than once that Imogen should be happily married with children by now. Despite Imogen’s reassurances, the housekeeper worried what would happen to Imogen when Papa was gone. She didn’t want her left alone in the world.
“You’re unconscionable,” she accused.
“I’m unconscionable?” He pointed to himself. “You’re the one pushing me at other women.”
“You asked her to step out and walk with you.”
His gray eyes fastened on
her, brighter than she remembered. “That was before.”
“Before what?” she snapped.
He shook his head and reached for her, both his hands seizing her by the arms and hauling her against him. His mouth covered hers and she didn’t even hesitate. She melted against him, opening her mouth to him and kissing him feverishly in turn, meeting every thrust of his tongue with her own.
Her heart took flight inside her chest, wild as a bird set free.
They moved in unison, backing up toward the bed with shuffling steps, their mouths fused.
Everything sped to frenzied motion. The blood rushed, a dull roar in her ears, and she thought she could hear the muffled beat of her heart through the roar.
Their lips broke just long enough for them to tear off their clothing. Garments flew on the air in a blur. They collided together again. This time gloriously naked, bare skin rubbing sinuously against bare skin.
Everything was fierce. Desperate. Violent in its intensity as they fell together on the bed.
Roaming, fondling hands. Kissing, biting lips. Panting, groaning breaths.
“You still think I want to court other women?” he growled, his hand skimming her face. Hard fingers delved into her hair, unraveling her plait as he gripped her scalp. His hot mouth crashed over hers before she could answer.
He settled atop her, finding his home between her thighs. It felt so right, so natural, to have him there, his hot cock aligned with the weeping seam of her.
His head dipped to kiss her breasts, and she moaned, arching her spine, wanting more.
His mouth closed around one nipple. Her fingers clenched on his flexing biceps. He shifted and his cock drove into her, sliding into her slick heat.
She panted, clinging, straining against him, urging him closer as she tilted her hips, taking him in deeper, needing him as one needed water, air, sustenance.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
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