In Bed with the Devil(Scoundrels of St. James,Book 1)(71) by Lorraine Heath
Tearing her mouth from his, breathing heavily, she stared down at him. “Can we make it work this way?”
He grinned. “We can make it work any way we want.”
She ran her hands over his chest. He cradled her breasts, adoring the weight of them in his palms. There was no aspect to her that he didn’t adore.
Raising her hips, she wrapped her fingers around him. He groaned low in anticipation.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
She slid down, enveloping him in her silky wetness. He almost spilled his seed then and there. Instead he clenched his jaw, fought for control. He ran his hands up her slender back, slid them back around to her breasts, and began to knead her soft flesh.
Dropping her head back, she moaned. Then she began to ride him as though her life depended on it.
He thought he would die from holding back—but he’d not give in to his own release until he’d given her hers. But she felt so wonderfully good, her passion igniting the blood rushing through his veins.
She rocked against him, her cries escalating. He pumped his hips as she drove herself down. Her fingers were digging into his shoulders, his fingers were holding her hips, each of them holding on for dear life. He’d never experienced anything this intense.
He had to hold back, for her, for her—
But his body wouldn’t be held back. He bucked beneath her, his deep feral groan nearly drowning out her cry of satisfaction, her back arched, her face carved in an expression of awe and wonder. Shudders wracked his body as the pleasure coursed through her.
She went limp, falling to his chest, spent. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength to wrap his arms around her, but he wanted to hold her close too much not to find the energy. He thought he could lie there forever. If he died this moment, he’d die content.
Never in his life had he ever known such peace, such joy. He’d thought once more with her would be enough. But as he held her, and listened to her breathing, he feared he might never have enough of her.
They walked from the house in the early hours of the morning, with him carrying a picnic basket, while she carted a blanket. She wore a servant’s dress that he’d located for her in the servant’s quarters, because she’d brought so little of her own clothing. It wasn’t confining and in a way, she preferred it to her usual attire. She was surprised that she could feel so relaxed knowing what awaited them.
That morning, after another rousing session of lovemaking, Claybourne had tried to convince Catherine to go to the village and wait for him there, but she’d brought them to this moment. She wasn’t about to retreat now. He thought it would be another day or so
—possibly longer—before Avendale made an appearance. Catherine wasn’t certain that he’d show at all.
But she was delighted with the prospect of having a picnic with Claybourne.
They walked for some time before they reached a pond. While Claybourne spread out the blanket, she asked, “Are there fish in there?”
He stilled, looked at her, looked at the water. “I think so.”
“Have you never fished in it?”
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I don’t think so. No.”
“Is your head bothering you?”
He opened his eyes and smiled. “Only a bit. It’ll go away.”
“I wonder what makes it hurt.”
“People have headaches all the time. It’s nothing in particular.”
“Then you’re very fortunate.”
He took her hand and helped her to sit on the blanket. She glanced around. “Are you certain we shouldn’t be more alert?”
“We’ll become more vigilant this evening, and I have men watching the roads. For just a bit longer, let’s pretend that all is right with the world.”
He poured them each some wine and removed a block of cheese from the basket.
She took a sip of wine. “Do you want to hear something silly?”
Leaning over, he gave her a quick kiss. “I’d never consider you silly.”
“It could just be wishful thinking, but I don’t think Frannie would find fault with all that’s happened between us.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t intend to tell her.”
“No, I wasn’t expecting you to. It’s just something she said.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“When I told her that I didn’t want you to be alone, she encouraged me to come with you. She even said that I shouldn’t leave you alone at night. I think she was giving me permission to be wicked.” Voiced aloud, it sounded even sillier than it had bouncing around in her head. “That sounds so ludicrous, doesn’t it? If you were mine, I certainly wouldn’t give another woman—” She stopped, glanced around. “The hole I’m digging is getting rather large, isn’t it?”
“Do you feel guilty about last night?” he asked.
“Strangely, no. Do you?”
“I know I should, but I don’t. I suspect because Frannie doesn’t really consider me hers, yet. I’m beginning to realize that I’m simply one of Feagan’s lads, and that you had the right of it. I need to spend more time with her. Our feelings, I fear, are based on our childhood, not our adulthood.”
Oh, yes, the hole she’d dug was monstrously large now, large enough to bury her. She wished she’d kept her thoughts to herself.
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