by Sylvia Day
“Beautiful,” he praised, nuzzling his damp cheek against hers. “Now we can go as slow as you like.”
Beginning to move, Gray took her with breathtaking leisure, moving in deliberate undulations of his entire body—his chest flexing against hers, his thighs buffeting hers, his fingers kneading almost restlessly against the tops of her shoulders.
She fought the sounds that struggled to be freed until she was unable to bear it any longer, her head tilting back on a plaintive whimper.
“That’s the way,” he encouraged, his voice gravelly and strained. “Let me hear how much you like it.” He swiveled his hips and thrust, stroking her deep inside. She was so wet it was audible and she cried out, raking his back. He arched into her touch, and ground into her. “My God, Isabel…”
She matched his tempo, throwing her hips upward as he came down, the tip of his cock striking some tender spot she hadn’t known existed. She mewled and writhed, growing desperate at his steady pace. “More…Give me more…”
Gray rolled to his side, and anchored her thigh on his hip, the tight roping of his abdominal muscles rippling as he pumped harder, not faster, his pelvis slapping against hers. The position was intimate, their bodies pressed together, their faces just inches from each other. Their panting breaths mingled between them as they strained in unison toward their mutual goal. One bicep pillowed her head, one large hand cupped her buttock holding her in place to take his thrusts. His bright blue gaze stared at her, glittering with his lust, his jaw locked and teeth grinding together. He looked like he was in pain, his cock rigid and impossibly thick.
“Come,” he grit out. “Come now!”
The harsh bite of command in his tone was a delicious threat, one that shoved her off the edge with brutal force. She cried out, nearly screamed, her orgasm so powerful her entire body shook with each clenching spasm.
His fingers dug into her, bruising her, his cock slamming deep. Only when she was finished did he pull out, shoving her leg off his hip so he could fuck through her closed thighs. She held still, awed as he came, his cock jerking between her legs, each pulse met with a grunt, his open lips pressed to her forehead.
Even as Gray emptied himself onto the counterpane, she knew she was ruined. She wanted this, longed for this depth of feeling during sex.
She hated him for reminding her of what it could be like, of what she was missing, of what she had avoided for the last several years. He had given her an addicting taste of what he would soon take away.
Already she missed it, and ached for its loss.
It was the sounds of industrious servants in the bathing chamber that first raised Gerard’s eyelids, but it was the scent of sex and exotic flowers that raised the rest of him. With a soft grumble at the intrusion, he took a quick inventory of his present circumstance.
His left arm was asleep from acting as a pillow for Pel’s head. He lay sprawled on his back, his wife’s buttocks against his hip, her back curved into his side. She wore a sheet, he was bare. He had no notion of what time it was, and it did not matter. He was still tired, and if the sound of Isabel’s soft snoring was any indication, she was too.
He had been having his way with her for hours, his need slaked only slightly with each successive encounter. Even now his cock stuck straight up in the air, aroused by the feel and smell of her. Although he was exhausted, he knew there would be no sleep with an erection like he had. He rolled into Pel, casting off the sheet that covered her with his working arm and lifting her leg over his. Using gentle fingers, he reached between her legs, cupping her sex, feeling how swollen she was.
He licked the tip of his middle finger and then stroked her clitoris, circling it, rubbing it, teasing it. She whimpered and halfheartedly attempted to push his hand away.
“No more, damn you,” she muttered, her voice husky with sleep and disgruntlement. But when he reached deeper, he found her wet.
“Your cunt disagrees.”
“Blasted thing is daft.” She pushed his arm again, but he only cuddled closer. “I am exhausted, you horrid man. Allow me to sleep.”
“I will, vixen,” he promised, kissing the top of her shoulder. He circled his hips against her so that she felt how needy he was. “Let me take care of this, and we can sleep all day.”
Isabel groaned into his numb arm. “I am too old for you, Gray. I cannot keep pace with your appetite.”
“Nonsense.” He reached between her legs and positioned his cock. “You don’t have to do anything.” He bit her shoulder gently as he forged his way into her with soft, shallow strokes. Half-asleep and intoxicated by the rapturous feel of her, he moved languidly, his fingers circling her clitoris, his face buried in the wild tangle of her hair. “Just lie there and come. As many times as you want.”
“Oh God,” she breathed, creaming in welcome. She moaned softly, her hand coming to rest on his flexing wrist as he pleasured her.
Too old for him. Even as he scoffed at the notion, the tiny part of his brain not presently lost to their lazy fucking wondered if it was as much of an issue for her, as it was for Society. It was not one for him, certainly. Did that have something to do with her reticence? Did she believe herself unable to satisfy him? Was that why she insisted he acquire a mistress? If so, his constant sexual demands were not helping his cause any. Perhaps he should—
Her cunt fluttered around him, and the thought was lost. He increased the pressure on her clitoris and growled as she fell into orgasm with a soft, startled cry. He would never have his fill of that feeling. Tight as a glove to begin with, when Isabel came, it was in hard, clenching spasms. Like a fist tightening rhythmically. He swelled in response, and her back arched into his chest.
“Christ, Gray. Do not get any bigger.”
He bit a little deeper into her soft flesh.
He wanted to drive into her, fuck her senseless, roar out his pleasure. He wanted her nails in his back, her hair soaked with sweat, her nipples marked by his teeth. She drove him insane, and until that ravenous animal within him was freed and fed, he would never be fully sated.
They would quite simply have to fuck a great deal, he thought, his tortured grimace hidden in her tresses. It was a goal he suspected would not be an easy one to attain, given her present state of soreness and exhaustion. Plus her obstinate nature and the ridiculous thought that he was too young for her. And he had no clue as to what any of her other objections might be. There was the bloody bargain, of course. And Hargreaves…
As the obstacles between them stacked up, he groaned. It shouldn’t be this damned difficult to seduce his own wife.
But as she came apart in his arms, her body shivering against his own, his name on her lips as she cried out, he knew, as he had known from the moment he first saw her, that Isabel was worth it.
Chapter 8
Isabel shut her boudoir door quietly behind her, and made her way to the staircase. Gray remained sprawled in the bathtub, his beautifully etched mouth curved in a triumphant, contented smile. He thought she was well and truly seduced, and perhaps she was. Certainly she moved differently, her body was relaxed and languid. Sated. Demented.
She wrinkled her nose. What a dreadful mire.
Now keeping him at bay would be difficult at best. He knew what he could do to her, how to touch her, how to speak to her to make her mindless with lust for him. He would be insufferable from here on out, no doubt. Merely removing herself from the bed had been a chore. The man was insatiable. If Gray had his way, she was certain they would never leave it.
Her sigh came out like a low, pained moan. The first few months of her marriage to Pelham had been similar. Even before they said their vows, he had snared her in a web of seduction. The rakishly handsome earl with the golden hair and wicked reputation had appeared to be everywhere, showing up at all the venues she did. Later, she realized those had not been random acts of fate, as her stupid heart had believed. At the time, however, it seemed they were destined for one another.
The smiles and w
inks he had given her created a feeling of familiarity, a sense that they shared some secret. She had assumed it was love, silly girl that she was. Fresh from the schoolroom, Pelham’s amorous attentions completely overwhelmed her, sweet gestures such as paying her abigail to deliver notes to her.
Those single lines written in a bold masculine scrawl had been devastating.
You look ravishing in blue.
I miss you.
I thought of you all day.
After they wed he fucked her abigail, but at the time Isabel had taken the girl’s adoration of the dashing peer as a sign that he was the right choice for a husband.
The week before her coming-out ball, he climbed the elm outside her bedroom balcony, and snuck boldly into her room. She was sure only pure love could goad him to take such a risk. Pelham had whispered to her in the darkness, his voice raw with lust as he stripped away her night rail, and loved her with his mouth and hands. I hope I am caught. Then you will for certain be mine.
Of course, I’m yours, she whispered back, awash in the glory of orgasm. I love you.
There are no words for what I feel for you, he returned.
A sennight of midnight liaisons and decadent pleasure had garnered her total supplication. The consummation on the seventh night had guaranteed she was his. She had entered her first Season completely off the market, and while her father would have preferred a peer of higher station, he did not gainsay her choice.
Only enough time for the reading of the banns was allowed before they married, and then they’d fled the city for a blissful honeymoon in the countryside. There she had been overjoyed to lie in bed with Pelham for days on end, rising only to bathe and eat, wallowing in carnal delights as Gray wished to do now. The similarities between the two men could not be ignored. Not when the thought of both men made her heart race and her palms damp.
“What the devil are you doing, Bella?”
Isabel blinked, quickly regaining her awareness of her surroundings. She stood at the top of the staircase, her hand on the rail, lost in thought. Her mind was sluggish from lack of sleep, and her body was sore and tired. Shaking her head, she stared down into the foyer and met the scowling countenance of her older brother, Rhys, Marquess of Trenton.
“Is it your intention to hang about up there all day? If so, I consider my obligation to you met, and I will be off to find more pleasant adventures.”
“Obligation?” She descended to him.
He smiled. “If you have forgotten, do not look to me to remind you. It’s not as if I wish to go.”
Rhys’ hair was a dark mahogany, an absolutely glorious color that set off his tan skin and hazel eyes. The ladies went a bit batty around him, but occupied with his own pleasures, he scarcely paid them any mind. Unless he found them sexually attractive. The simple fact was, he was very much like their mother when it came to the opposite sex. A woman to him was a physical convenience, and when she was no longer convenient, she was easily discarded.
Isabel knew that neither her mother nor brother had any malicious intent. They simply could not see why any of their lovers would fall in love with an individual who did not return the sentiment.
“Lady Marley’s breakfast,” she said, as she remembered. “What is the time?”
“Nearly two.” His jaded gaze raked her from head to toe. “And you are just rolling out of bed.” His mouth curved knowingly. “Apparently, the rumors of your reconciliation with Grayson are true.”
“Do you believe everything you hear?” Reaching the marble foyer, she tilted her head back to look up at her brother.
“I believe everything I see. Reddened eyes, bruised mouth, clothing you chose without thinking clearly.”
Isabel glanced down at her somewhat simple muslin day gown. It was not what she would have selected had she remembered her schedule for the day. Of course, thinking back on it now, Mary had questioned the garment, but Isabel had been so anxious to leave the room before Gray accosted her again that she had waved off the soft query.
“I will not discuss my marriage with you, Rhys.”
“Thank God for that,” he said with a shudder. “Deuced annoying when women start discussing their feelings.”
Rolling her eyes, she requested her pelisse from the nearby servant. “I do not have feelings for Grayson.”
“Quite sensible.”
“We are just friends.”
“Obviously.”
As she secured her hat with a hat pin, she shot him a sidelong glance. “What did I promise you again, in return for your escort? Whatever it is, it is worth more than your company.”
Rhys laughed, and Isabel silently acknowledged his appeal. There was something about men who could not be tamed. Thankfully she had grown out of the fascination for such hopeless sport long ago.
“You are introducing me to the lovely Lady Eddly.”
“Ah, yes. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t agree to such a blatantly obvious pairing, but in this case I think you two are perfect for one another.”
“I definitely agree.”
“I am having a dinner party…eventually. You and Lady Eddly are both invited as of this moment.” Having Rhys there would help to calm her nerves. And she would need all the assistance in that regard as she could muster. The mere thought of surviving a dinner with Gray and a bevy of his former paramours made her stomach roil.
Sighing at her predicament, Isabel shook her head. “Horribly uncouth of you to use your sister in this manner.”
“Ha,” Rhys scoffed, collecting her pelisse from the returning maid and holding it out for her. “Dreadful of you to drag me along to a breakfast, and at the Marley residence no less. Lady Marley always smells of camphor.”
“It is not as if I wish to go either, so cease your whining.”
“You wound me, Bella. Men do not whine.” With his hand on her shoulder, he spun her to face him. “Why are we attending if you doubt your enjoyment of the event?”
“You know why.”
He snorted gently. “I wish you would disregard what others thought about you. I personally find you the least annoying woman I know. Straightforward, pleasant to look upon, and capable of witty discourse.”
“I suppose your opinion is the only one that matters.”
“Is it not?”
“I wish I could ignore the gossip,” she grumbled, “but the Dowager Lady Grayson feels the need to bring it to my attention as often as possible. Those horrid notes she sends infuriate me. I wish she would just spit her venom out, rather than attempt to hide it beneath a thin layer of civility.” Isabel stared into her brother’s resigned features. “I have no notion how Grayson grew up sane with that harridan as a mother.”
“You do realize that women who look as you do often have trouble with other females? Catty creatures that you are. You cannot bear it when one woman attracts excessive masculine attention. Not that you have ever experienced that particular kind of jealousy,” he finished dryly. “You are always the woman attracting the regard.”
She had experienced other kinds of jealousy though, such as the kind a wife experiences when the bed her husband ruts in is not her own.
“Which is why I associate with men more so than women, though that has its pitfalls, too.” Isabel was aware that other women found her appearance off-putting, but there was nothing she could do about that. “Let’s be off then.”
Both of Rhys’ brows rose into his hairline. “I must pay my respects to Grayson. I cannot simply abscond with his wife. The last time I did that, he gave me a brutal pummeling in the pugilist rings at Remington’s. The man is much younger than I, take pity on me.”
“Write him a note,” she said curtly, shivering at the image of her husband with his hair still damp. Just thinking of it reminded her of the night before and the way he had taken her.
“Don’t have feelings for Grayson, indeed.” Rhys’ hazel gaze was blatantly skeptical.
“Wait until you marry, Rhys. The need to escape occasionally will
become all too clear.” With that in mind, she gestured impatiently toward the door.
“I’ve no doubt about that.” He offered his arm, and retrieved his hat from the waiting butler.
“You are not getting any younger, you know.”
“I am aware of my advancing years. Therefore, I have made a list of suitable spousal prospects.”
“Yes, Mother told me of your ‘list,’” she said dryly.
“A man must be sensible about choosing a bride.”
Isabel nodded with mock severity. “Of course, feelings should never be considered.”
“Did we not already agree to avoid a discussion of feelings?”
Smothering a laugh, she asked, “And who is at the top of your list, may I ask?”
“Lady Susannah Campion.”
“The Duke of Raleigh’s second daughter?” Isabel blinked.
Lady Susannah was indeed a sensible choice. Her breeding was exceptional, her deportment flawless, and her suitability for the rank of duchess could not be denied. But the delicate blonde girl had no fire, no passion. “She would bore you to tears.”
“Come now,” he demurred. “She cannot be as bad as that.”
Her eyes widened. “You have yet to meet the girl you are considering marrying?”
“I’ve seen her! I would not marry a chit sight unseen.” He cleared his throat. “I simply have not had the pleasure of speaking with her yet.”
Shaking her head, Isabel felt again like she did not quite fit in with her sensible family. Yes, falling out of love was a dreadful experience, but falling into it wasn’t so bad. She was certainly a far wiser and better-rounded individual than she had been before meeting Pelham. “Thank heaven you are coming with me today, for Lady Susannah will certainly be at the breakfast. Be certain you speak with her.”
“Of course.” As they left the house and approached his waiting phaeton, Rhys adjusted his long-legged stride to hers. “This might be just the thing to make dealing with an angry Grayson worthwhile.”
