He stopped her argument with his mouth. And his tongue. He pulled her off the bed and pressed her body to his.
Mmm. He felt as good as he looked. She rubbed against his chest and the large organ now cradled against her belly. She ran her hands over his muscled back down to his buttocks.
His hands were not idle either. They slid down to her hips, traced the curves there, and then traveled back to her breasts.
Oh, yes. She felt extremely expansive. And damp. There was no question in her mind—she could definitely accommodate his splendid organ without any difficulty whatsoever. She was anxious to try. Extremely anxious.
He lifted her onto the bed again and joined her on the mattress. His mouth moved from her throat to her breasts. He kissed their tops, their sides…and then moved down to her ribs.
She wanted to scream. Her breasts felt so swollen, her nipples hard little nubs crying for the moist touch of his mouth. Surely he knew she wanted him to…kiss her there.
She squirmed. He was licking the bottom of her ribcage. That was all very well, but that was not the spot—the spots—most aching for his touch.
Ah, he got the hint. His tongue flicked over one hard nub while his thumb attended to the other.
She almost flew off the bed.
“Do you like that, Meg?”
“Uh.” She was beyond coherence. She arched again, encouraging him to explore further. He laughed and suckled her.
This was wonderful—much, much better than any of their other encounters. Naked and horizontal—in a lovely bed behind a lovely closed door—with a wedding ring and the blessings of their families…
Yes, this was a wonderful improvement.
But now the spot between her legs was throbbing. She needed him there, too. Immediately. She twisted her hips.
Magic. His lips left her breasts and moved in exactly the direction she wished.
Oh, lud! His mouth had felt heavenly before, but now the wet rasp of his tongue—just a single stroke—caused her to sit bolt upright.
“John!”
He grinned at her from his position between her legs.
“Are you all right, Meg? You look very flushed. Perhaps you would prefer I stop?”
“No!” She panted. “Don’t you dare stop!”
He swept his tongue over her again, and she sucked in her breath.
“But I thought you wanted children?”
“Huh?”
“Children, Meg. A son or a daughter. Not because we have to, but because we want to.”
His mouth was on hers now, and his weight was bearing her back against the bed. “Would that be all right with you?”
“Uh.” She felt his organ touch her aching, wet place. It just brushed against her, teasing her. “Yes, yes. Please. Now.”
He smiled against her lips. “My pleasure.”
He came into her, then, slowly filling her emptiness. Too slowly. She pulled on his hips, bringing him closer, feeling a slight burning deep inside, a momentary pain, and then just pleasure.
He was heavy and warm on her. Hot. She reveled in his heat, in the fullness he gave her…and then he moved. Out and in again. She was caught between the wall of his chest and the bed, impaled on him, surrounded by him.
It was beyond wonderful, but she needed something more. Each stroke of his body wound her tighter and tighter. The tension was unbearable. She—
“Ohh.”
Wave after wave of feeling crashed through her, flooding her with exquisite sensation, and then, in the peace after the storm, she felt a different flooding deep inside her, the warm pulse of John’s seed.
She smiled and hugged him as he collapsed onto her.
He felt wonderful. He’d never thought the act of joining could be so…overwhelming.
He wanted to stay exactly where he was, but he must be crushing Meg. He lifted himself off and out of her body, then stretched out on the bed beside her. He leaned up on his elbow so he could watch her. Her eyes were still closed; her mouth had the barest curve of a smile.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head without opening her eyes. “Not really.”
He put his hand on her breast and she made a small, almost purring noise. “Was it what you expected?”
She turned her face, then, to look at him. “Oh, no, I could never have expected that.”
“And it was…?”
She laughed. “Fishing for compliments? I will give them freely. It was wonderful.” She rolled to her side and ran her hand up his arm. “I loved it. I want to do it again, very soon.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Many times.”
Happiness swelled to fill his chest. He had never felt this carefree before.
“I see you are insatiable. That’s a very good attribute in a wife.”
She grinned. “I want to make you forget Grace.”
He brushed a kiss on the top of her head. “Grace? Who is Grace?”
“So I’ve already pushed your former love from your mind?” Meg smiled, but her eyes were serious. “I hope you do not forget me so easily.”
“I could never forget you, Meg.” He traced the line of her eyebrows. He wanted her—needed her—to understand. “I did not love Grace, not in the way I love you. I liked her”—he smiled slightly—“but I liked her land more. She had a splendid spot for a rose garden.” His smile broadened. The hurt and embarrassment of that day had faded over the years, but now, in this bed, they truly vanished. Sunlight had lit the persistent shadow. He felt almost giddy. He leaned over and kissed Meg’s nose, wrapping his arms around her and settling her against his chest.
Meg cuddled close. “She hurt you.”
“Not really. I was embarrassed more than hurt.”
“But you swore off marriage.”
He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and grinned when he heard her sharp intake of breath. “I was obviously misguided.” He flicked her nipple with his thumb and she wrapped her leg over his, pressing against his thigh. “And most importantly, I hadn’t met you.”
She made a fussy little exhalation. “You met me last year, but you didn’t seem terribly impressed.”
He ran his hand down to her hip. “I never said I wasn’t an idiot, but if I had thought about it”—he kissed her forehead and slipped his forefinger into her hot, wet center—“I would have thought I had no chance with you.”
Her eyes were slightly glazed. He moved his finger and she bit her lip.
“Why—” She sucked in her breath sharply as he moved again. “Why do you say that?”
“You wanted a title, didn’t you?”
“No—stop that, I can’t think.”
He withdrew his finger, laying it just outside her entrance. She squirmed a little and then sighed.
“Why would I want a title?”
“All women want titles.”
She snorted. “As I said before, not this woman.”
He almost believed her. “But then why did you take all those titled men into the bushes?”
“Were they titled?” Meg started moving her hand in a very interesting direction. “I didn’t notice.” She kissed his chest. “If I couldn’t marry you, I didn’t much care whom I married.”
He caught her fingers before they reached their destination. “But why Bennington? The man’s a sap.”
“Well, yes, but he does have a very extensive plant collection.”
“Not as extensive as mine.”
She grinned. “I know.”
He sat up and stared at her. “You married me for my plants?”
She tried not to laugh, but John looked so offended. Surely he knew she was joking? She took immediate advantage of the fact he’d let go of her hand to slide it the rest of the way down his body. “Well, I wasn’t aware of the other wonderful thing you could grow.”
The thing in question was growing very nicely indeed. She stroked it again, and it swelled and stiffened further.
John’s voice shook. “You are a minx of the worst sort, madam. I
can see I will have to teach you proper behavior.” He sucked in his breath when she used her mouth in place of her hand. “But some other time. A little…ah! A little…yes! A little improper…Oh, God…behavior can be…Don’t stop…very proper!”
The last word came out in a shout. John flipped her onto her back and thrust into her so deeply she’d swear he touched her womb. She came apart—and a second later, so did he.
She sighed with pleasure. It truly didn’t matter if he owned a hundred acres of exotic plants or one sad ficus, the love he’d sown in her heart flourished past all her imaginings. She tightened her arms…and another part of her body…to hold him close while she whispered in his ear.
“You know, John, for once we are in complete agreement.”
Don’t miss this delightful peek
at Sally MacKenzie’s THE NAKED BARON,
coming in 2009…
Lady Grace Belmont grabbed the door handle and held on as if her life depended on it.
Damnation, her life did depend on it. If she got out of this carriage and went into the Duke of Alvord’s brightly lit townhouse—
She shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking of. All those eyes, staring at the Amazon from Devon…
She tightened her grip, bracing her foot against the inside of the coach. Her very large foot. She glared at the offending body part, clad demurely in white satin. Why had the blasted shoemaker felt compelled to share with her the fact that he’d just finished a pair of men’s pumps smaller than these slippers? As if she’d needed the reminder that her form was most definitely not ladylike.
Sykes, the butler-cum-footman, frowned and tugged on the door again, but she was prepared. It didn’t move an inch. In a moment he’d look up and see her through the window—and have yet another odd tale of Lady Oxbury’s niece to spread through the servants’ quarters. She leaned back into the carriage’s shadowy interior—and felt a small hand push firmly between her shoulder blades.
“What are you doing, Grace?” There was a distinct edge to Aunt Katherine’s whisper. “Let Sykes open the door.”
“No.” Sykes pulled again and Grace’s arms jerked forward. She narrowed her eyes and yanked back, putting her considerable weight into the effort. Sykes wasn’t going to win this battle.
“Ow!” Two hands shoved her this time, hard enough to push her away. “Stop! You’re crushing me.”
“Sorry, Aunt Katherine.” She looked over her shoulder. Her aunt was glaring at her like a wet cat.
Who would think such a tiny woman could be so strong? Blast it all, who would think a woman who looked as fragile as the finest porcelain would have a niece who was such a…a…She grimaced. Such a female Gargantua. A damned Brobdingnagian. If they entered the ballroom together, the assembled ton would stare just as the tradesmen had these last few days.
Her grip on the door handle tightened.
“Grace, I don’t understand why you are behaving this way. It is certainly no surprise that you find yourself arrived at a society ball. We’ve seen more than enough mantua makers, milliners, and merchants of every stripe since we arrived in London. I think I’ve been pricked by more pins in the last week than I have in my entire life.”
“I know.” Grace turned back to give her complete attention to the door. “But I’ve just discovered that knowing about a ball and actually stepping into the ballroom are two vastly different things. Rather like being told stewed eels are nasty and then tasting them yourself.”
“I like stewed eels.”
“Then you may have my portion whenever I have the ill luck to find the dish in front of me. And you may also go to this ball without me. I’ll be delighted to let Sykes open the door if you are the only one who goes through it.”
“Ridiculous. This is your come-out, Grace.”
“I’d rather stay in.” Why did she have to be so large? Her mama had been normal-sized. She’d barely reached Papa’s shoulder, if the painting in the family gallery was to be believed. Grace, on the other hand, could examine the top of the earl’s balding pate by glancing down.
No, Papa had been right. Blunt, but right when he’d expressed his…opinion to Aunt Katherine back in Devon.
She remembered every single word. Adams, the Standen butler, had told her Aunt Katherine had arrived, so she’d come down from inventorying the linen to greet her. She’d known why her aunt was there. She’d planned to tell her going up to Town was impossible. She had too much to do at Standen.
She’d been just outside the closed drawing room door when her father had started bellowing…
“My God, woman, are you insane? Grace will be a laughing stock if you drag her to Town!”
“But, William—” Aunt Katherine’s voice had been considerably softer.
“‘But William,’ my arse. There’s no need to waste the time putting the girl on the marriage mart. Got a neighbor who’s agreed to take her off my hands.” Papa’d snorted. “Has his eye on a corner of my property which he says is just perfect for some damn flower or other.” He’d laughed and she’d heard him open a decanter—probably the brandy. “And this saves him the bother of trotting up to Town, doing the pretty. The man hates London. Don’t blame him.”
“Still—”
“Good God, let it go, Katherine. Grace likes Parker-Roth well enough, and she’s not stupid. She knows his is the best—he’d snorted again—most likely the only offer she’ll get.”
She’d seen red then. Her own father thought so little of her? It was not a great surprise, but still…She’d show him. She would go to London.
She glared at the coach door handle. Damn, blasted temper! She was too often ruled by it. Well, now she was paying for her fit of pique. Papa was right. This trip to Town had been a huge mistake. Even if she were the proper size, she was much too old for a debutante. She definitely should have stayed home. She did like Mr. Parker-Roth—John. They’d been friends since childhood. She liked his family; she’d be close to Papa—
Well, maybe being close to Papa wouldn’t be so wonderful. Still, going husband hunting in London was the height of idiocy. The height—ah, indeed.
“Grace, you are being foolish beyond permission.” Aunt Katherine gave her another determined shove. “And if you aren’t careful, you’ll go flying out of this carriage when Sykes finally opens the door.”
She snorted. That would be an entertaining spectacle for the duke’s guests—Lady Grace Belmont, daughter of the Earl of Standen and niece of the Dowager Countess of Oxbury, landing in an ignominious heap—a very large ignominious heap—on the public pavement.
It was a risk she was willing to take. She most definitely did not wish to grace His Grace’s ballroom.
She was larger than Sykes—she should be stronger. And the fact that she was more than forty years his junior didn’t hurt.
“I am not getting out. Tell the coachman to take us—me—home, please.”
“I most certainly will not. I did not go toe to toe with your father down in Devon nor did I do battle with the Weasel—I mean, the new Lord Oxbury—for the keys to Oxbury House just to have you cry craven and cower in your bedchamber all Season.”
Grace glared over her shoulder at her aunt. “I will not be cowering in my bedchamber.”
“Then where will you be cowering?”
Grace blew out a short, impatient breath, causing the tendrils that had worked themselves free of her coiffure to float briefly in front of her eyes. She shook her head. She had been mad to listen to Katherine—mad, mad, mad.
Sykes pulled on the door again. She jerked it back again. She watched him frown and scratch his head under his wig.
“I will not be cowering at all, Aunt Katherine. I merely have decided, on further reflection, that appearing at balls and other such social events would be a mistake. I’m sure I would not fit in—”
Katherine wormed her way around to face her. “Not fit in? Why would you not fit in? You are not some upstart mushroom. You’re the daughter of the Earl of Standen. You sho
uld have taken your place in society years ago.”
“Exactly. I am too old now—”
“Too old?!” Katherine’s hands rose as if to wrap themselves around Grace’s neck. “If you are too old at twenty-five, what, pray, am I, with forty years in my dish?”
“That’s different. I only meant I am too old to make my bows. You have already been about in society—”
“Twenty-three years ago, and then for a mere two months. I hardly believe that qualifies me—ah, Sykes.”
“Da—” Grace bit her lip before the curse completely escaped her tongue. Devil take it! She’d let herself be distracted. She’d loosened her grip for just a moment, and the bloody man had taken advantage.
Sykes glanced at her, raising one bushy, white eyebrow. The insufferable servant knew exactly whom he’d been wrestling with. She glowered at him. He bowed and turned to Aunt Katherine.
“I am so sorry, my lady. I can’t imagine”—his eyes drifted back toward Grace—“what could be the matter with the door latch. I will have someone look at it the moment we return.”
“Don’t bother, Sykes. I believe it was merely a temporary problem.” Aunt Katherine also looked at Grace. “Just let down the steps. We are holding up the other carriages.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Bloody hell! The creak of the coach’s stairs unfolding must sound just like the French guillotine’s blade dropping to sever some poor soul’s head from his neck. Her palms were suddenly so wet, they dampened her gloves. She swallowed and drew back. “You first, Aunt Katherine.”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Katherine glared at her. “Don’t think I’m not fully aware of what you’re up to, miss. I wasn’t born yesterday. If I get out first, you’ll slam the door behind me. I believe we’ve created enough of a spectacle this evening.”
“But—”
Sykes extended his hand. Grace looked at it as if it were a poisonous snake.
“Go, Grace.”
Aunt Katherine’s tone was short and sharp. She must have run out of patience—and she wasn’t the only one.
“Hurry on, man,” the coachman behind them called out. “I can’t keep the horses standing much longer.” As if to punctuate this point, one of his grays sidestepped, jingling its harness.
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