Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,98

and covering herself.

George popped up, disheveled, stunned, and…fully aroused. Not angry though. Desire swept through her, and sudden tears swarmed.

He wanted honesty, didn’t he? So did she. One more issue must be addressed.

“I was…” She cleared her throat. “A disappointing lover. As you know. Nor did I learn to enjoy…” She squeezed her eyes shut. Bed sport, Fitz had called it.

A calloused finger tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and stroked down over her neck, the touch gentle.

“What you said that day, George…I know it was perhaps a lack on my part too.”

Strong arms came around her then, pressing her face to the soft linen shirt and the hard muscles under it, filling her senses with the spice of his cologne and his own musky male scent. His large hand stroked her back, the touch soothing, reassuring…arousing.

When he set her back from him, he was wearing his businessman’s face. “Glanford is dead. You’re alive. And I guarantee, you are not disappointing me. What you don’t know, I will very much enjoy teaching you. It won’t be a chore for me, Sophie, and it won’t be for you, if you want me. That is the question, is it not? Do you want me? Am I wrong in thinking that you do?”

The deep midnight blue of his eyes promised everything. But could she be sure?

For years, she’d shoved down her anger and…her disappointment. She loved her boys but she’d never enjoyed the breeding of them. Might it be different with George?

A gasp escaped her. It was already different. “You aren’t wrong.”

“Then I will begin as I mean to go on—with a well-educated and well-satisfied wife.”

She set her palm to his chest, the hard muscle making her shiver.

But they must discuss everything. “I’m older than you.”

His smile was wicked. “I know. It doesn’t matter. Let me prove it to you.”

Finding the air to speak was impossible.

“We won’t anticipate our vows.” His grin widened. “Not entirely.” And then he kissed her and without breaking the kiss, pushed the chemise down and let it fall to her waist, stepping back.

“Like Botticelli’s Venus.” Laughing, he picked her up and settled her onto the bed. In moments he was shirtless and shoeless and stretched on the bed next to her, all wide shoulders and lean-muscled chest, with a sprinkling of dark hair leading down to—

“What are you grinning about, my lady?” The tip of one calloused finger swept down from her neck, between her breasts, over her belly, down, down until pleasure jolted her.

When his hand moved, her mind turned to mush.

She smiled, and then laughed as he suckled her breast. Pleasure sparked through her, melted her inside, built in her as it had never before done. She’d heard whispers about the pleasure of coupling. Late to the effort, Glanford had tried, making sure she knew it was always an effort he didn’t enjoy. Her greatest pleasure had always been him leaving her bed.

“How does that feel, my love?”

George was watching her, his hot gaze making her blood leap.

His love. Her love. Love made the difference.

“Don’t stop.”

He grinned and resumed his ministrations, and moments later her world exploded.

She came back to earth in his arms and found him eying her, a smug smile softening his features.

“You’re still dressed.”

“Half-dressed.”

“And unsatisfied.”

“I am in heaven.” His finger lazily circled her breast, sending another jolt of pleasure through her. “Your pleasure, my lady, brings me pleasure.”

“I fear…oh.” He’d touched a particularly sensitive spot. “Oh, George. I fear you were wrong all those years ago.”

“What idiotic thing did I say?”

“You said, ‘It takes a woman more than a minute to liven up’.” She rolled onto her side and set her hand atop his. “But you were wrong. It only takes the right man.”

“And am I the right man?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “Most certainly.”

Early Christmas morning, George slipped on his shoes and shirt and carried his coats back to his bedchamber. Quickly washing, shaving and changing into fresh clothing, he made his way to the nursery, which was already abuzz. The maids were busy wrangling the two youngest into their clothes, while the three half-dressed older boys stretched on the playroom floor engaged in the Battle of Waterloo.

“Not dressed yet?” George said. “You’ll want breakfast before church.”

Arthur clambered to his feet. James groaned, rising also.

“Church,” Edward grumbled.

“No church, no gifts. Now go on, Lovelaces, and finish dressing. Arthur, stay a moment. I would speak with you.”

He closed the connecting door to the bedchamber and drew Arthur to the far corner of the