Lord of Wicked Intentions(Lost Lords of Pembrook,Book 3)(64) by Lorraine Heath
He turned his head to the side and looked at her. “You asked how I came to have the scar. That’s how I got it.”
“But how did you get away? Why was he there?”
“Our uncle hired him and his two mates to do away with us. They came out of the shadows. I beat them to a bloody mess until they were unconscious.”
“While you were wounded you managed to overcome all three of them.”
“I was angry. They tried to murder Sebastian. If he dies, Tristan becomes duke. He’s killed? I become duke. I don’t want to become duke.”
“I think you would make a marvelous duke.”
He scoffed. “I have no patience with Society and it has none with me. But you on the other hand—” He rolled onto his side, slipped his hand inside the silk, and cupped her breast. “I have quite a bit of patience for you.”
“I don’t know about that. Things went rather quickly earlier.”
“They will again, I suspect,” he murmured just before he leaned in and kissed her.
He tasted of strawberries this time, and she couldn’t determine if she preferred the fruit over the heady taste of his liquor. The spirits seem to suit him more; the other seemed far too innocent for one such as he.
Without breaking off the kiss, he deftly unknotted her sash and spread her robe wide so he could have easier access to everything he wanted, and it appeared he wanted everything. She had to admit that he was a considerate lover. With an understanding now of how things were between a man and a woman, she was well aware that he could have taken his own pleasure without giving any to her. While she thought it would increase her enjoyment to be able to engage him fully—holding him, climbing over him, rolling about with him—she couldn’t fault him for giving her what he could.
She didn’t want her hands clamped together this time so she refrained from reaching out to touch him, but it was difficult, so difficult not to touch, not to feel the warmth of his flesh, the softness of his hair.
He lurched from the bed, and she bit back the cry of protest. Of course, he needed to rid himself of his trousers. While he was about that, she worked her way out of her robe completely and tossed it onto the floor.
When she turned back to him, he was standing there magnificently displayed, the flickering flame in the lamp sending light and shadows dancing over him. She rose up on her knees, sat back on her heels, and simply appreciated the sight of him, of what she longed to touch.
With a devilish grin, he crooked a finger at her. With widened eyes, she wondered if he’d managed to read her thoughts, if he knew her deepest desires resided in sharing more with him. “What are you thinking?”
“Just come here.”
She scooted to the edge of the bed, made to get off of it, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Lay back, your legs dangling over the edge.”
She’d be so extremely exposed, and while he’d seen all of her, touched all of her, to do as he asked made her feel vulnerable. Yet how could she deny him, and she wondered when his wants and needs had begun to take precedence over hers. She did as he asked, lay back, and stared at the canopy.
He skimmed his warm roughened hands over her, and she slid her gaze down to his. At least he allowed her to hold his gaze.
“You’re perfect, you know,” he said.
“Careful. You’re beginning to sound like that poetry you abhor.”
“You’re far more comfortable with me than I’d ever hoped you would be.”
She was far more comfortable with him than she’d ever expected to be. But she sensed that he was not nearly as comfortable with her. Oh, when it came to the physical, certainly he had no qualms about baring his flesh to her, but it was his soul she longed to see, his heart she yearned to find.
Kneeling, he gently parted her thighs and buried his face against her soft curls. She sighed in bliss. She dearly wanted to rub her soles up his back, over his shoulders. Instead, she pressed her tongue against her upper lip and fought to concentrate on her own escalating pleasure instead of what she might give to him.
With his tongue, he worked his magic, circling and stroking. Oh, the wicked, wicked man. Welcoming the sensations rioting through her, she dug her fingers into the sheets. Glorious, glorious. She wondered if he was spoiling her for any other man.
She thought she might be beginning to understand why a woman was ruined if she was bedded before she was wedded. Having known one man, would a wanton forever compare the next to the one who’d come before?
With his hands, he kneaded her breasts, and the sensations tripled, quadrupled, threatened to overwhelm her, to bring tears to her eyes. It felt so good. She shouldn’t allow it to be so, but she could no more deny herself the gift he gave her now than she could deny the acceptance of the pearls.
When she thought she could stand no more, her body folded in on itself, raising her back off the bed before slamming her into a whirlwind of pleasure that had her crying out. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched as he rose to his feet like some sort of god emerging from desire, his face set in a mask of determination, his nostrils flaring, his eyes burning with want, want of her. Cupping her thighs, he brought her nearer before plunging into her with one bold sure stroke.
She was fascinated by the pumping of his hips, the undulating of his flat stomach. She could see him so much clearer from this position: the tautening of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth, the flopping of his hair against his brow. The muscles bunching in his arms as he adjusted her position, held her legs.
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