“You are the first.” He kissed the bared nape of her neck. “And the last.”
“You were so certain of my capitulation?”
He laughed softly, a warm and sensual sound. “Until a sennight ago, this place served a far less pleasurable purpose.”
“Oh?”
“A tale for another night,” he promised, his deep voice raspy with desire.
The house had been her home ever since, her refuge from the censure of Society for forsaking their approval to become his mistress.
“Je t’adore,” Saint-Martin groaned, his thrusts increasing in speed and power.
Inside her, his thick c*ck swelled further, inundating her with delight. She whimpered and his embrace tightened, pushing her forward so that he could pump deeper. His lean, powerfully built body mantled hers, and his mouth touched her ear.
“Come for me, mon coeur,” he whispered.
His hand slid between her legs, his knowledgeable fingers rubbing her distended, swollen clitoris with precision. His carnal expertise and the long, rhythmic strokes of his c*ck made the impetus to cl**ax irresistible. Crying out, she orgasmed, her hands reaching behind her to cup his flexing buttocks. She tightened around him in rippling waves and he groaned, jerking with his own release, filling her with the rich creamy wash of his ejaculate.
As he always did in the aftermath of their passion, Philippe clung to her, his parted lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along her throat and cheek.
“Je t’aime, ” she gasped, nuzzling her damp cheek against his.
He withdrew from her and bent to lift her into his arms. The thick, golden strands of his hair clung to his damp neck and temples, accentuating the flush of his skin and the satiated gleam in his dark eyes. He carried her to the bed with the ease of a man accustomed to physical labor, a proclivity which led to his magnificent form. Marguerite could never have imagined that he was so beautiful beneath his garments, but then he kept a great deal hidden under his dissolute façade.
A knock came to the outer bedchamber door just as Philippe began to crawl over her reclining body.
He cursed and called out, “What is it?”
“You have a visitor, my lord,” came the muffled reply of the butler.
Marguerite looked at the clock on the mantel and noted the hour. It was nearly two in the morning.
He cupped her cheek and kissed the tip of her nose. “A moment, no more.”
She smiled, knowing it was a lie but indulging him regardless. When he had first confided his activities as an agent in something he called the secret du roi—a group of agents whose purpose was to further the king’s hidden diplomacy—she had been stunned and unable to reconcile this new image of him with the one he cultivated in Society. How could a man known as a voluptuary who lived only for his own pleasure be in truth someone who risked life and limb in service to his king?
But as love grew from their lust and their daily interactions progressed to a true joining of the minds, Marguerite realized how layered her lover was and how brilliant was his disguise. The proliferation of mistresses had not been entirely an affectation, of course, but he was not heartless. To this day he felt remorse for luring her to her “downfall.”
When she had professed a similar regret for leading him away from his wife, he’d held her and revealed a surprising truth: Marchioness Saint-Martin—so pitied in private discourse for her husband’s excesses—maintained her own lovers. Theirs was a marriage of duty. It was not unpleasant and they were both content to proceed with separate agendas.
Marguerite watched him shrug into his robe of black silk, then walk to the door. “I will miss you,” she said. “If you are gone too long, I might cry out in the streets for you.”
He paused on the threshold and arched a brow. “Mon Dieu, do not believe that nonsense. It was one woman and her brain was afflicted.”
“Poor thing. However, I doubt it was her brain you were attracted to.”
Philippe growled. “Wait up for me.”
“Perhaps . . .”
He blew her a kiss and made his egress.
As he shut the bedchamber door behind him, Philippe’s smile faded. He belted his robe more securely and descended the stairs to the lower floor. Good news was rarely delivered at this hour, so he approached the coming discussion with grimness. With the scent of sex and Marguerite still clinging to his skin, he was more aware than usual of how vital her presence was in his life. She kept him connected with his humanity, something he feared had been lost by years of pretending to be someone he was not.
The door to the parlor was open and he entered without slowing his stride, his bare feet crossing onto the rug from the cool marble of the foyer.
“Thierry,” he greeted, startled by the identity of his visitor. “You were to report to Desjardins this evening.”