He planted a hand in her unbound hair, clutching a fistful, holding her tight to him as he kissed her.
One more pump of his hips, and he was all the way inside her. Deep. Nothing could have prepared Jo for this moment, this consummation of their relationship, this communion of souls and desires and frantic, all-consuming, pent-up desire. He severed the kiss, raising his head.
“How do you feel, darling?” he asked, holding himself still instead of continuing as her body wanted him to.
“Full,” she answered honestly. “And wonderful.”
He kissed her on a groan, and then he began moving again. Slowly at first, gliding in and out of her body with a steady pace that threatened to unravel her. She clutched him, instinctively following his motions, her hips undulating in time to his rhythm. As his tongue plundered her mouth, his fingers once more found that slick nub at her center. He played with her. The combination of his shaft inside her, his fingers flying over her flesh, the weight of his body atop hers, and his mouth owning her lips proved too much.
She clenched on him, convulsing as pleasure overwhelmed her. This was more potent than the euphoria which had come before. Different, better, because he was within her, thrusting faster now, less controlled. As the last ripples of desire lingered, his body stiffened. On a low groan, he withdrew from her. Grasping his rigid cock in his hand, he spent into the bedclothes before hurling himself to his back.
Jo lay there, heart thundering, body humming with the aftereffects of lovemaking.
“When do you want the cream ice?” he asked suddenly into the silence, sounding as winded as if he had just run the course of St. James’s Square.
“Mmm.” She turned to him, smiling shyly, feeling sated, blissful, and wholly unlike herself. “What is cream ice?”
Laughter tore from him. Bold, deep, dark.
Beautiful.
She did not think she had ever heard him laugh before. Or if she had, certainly not with such unrestrained delight. Jo found herself smiling back at him, knowing she was the source of his pleasure, his humor. How intoxicating it was to think that she, a mere wallflower, could so thoroughly please a man like Elijah Decker without trying.
“Vixen.” There was no heat in his voice as he made the charge. Indeed, if anything, his voice was laden with undeniable approval.
“You would not have me any other way,” she dared to say.
“Come here, minx,” he ordered her affectionately.
She scooted nearer, settling against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, mooring her to him. Gently, he brushed a hand over her hair. She inhaled deeply of his scent and returned his embrace.
And as she listened to the steady thump of his heart, that was when she knew for certain what she had been too hesitant to accept until this very moment.
Jo was in love.
Hopelessly, desperately in love with her husband.
I feel as if my heart has always known his.
How terrifying.
Chapter Twelve
Ways to be Wicked
1. Kiss a man until you are breathless.
2. Arrange for an assignation. Perhaps with Lord Q?
3. Get caught in the rain with a gentleman. (This will necessitate the removal of wet garments. Choose said gentleman wisely.)
4. Sneak into a gentleman’s bedchamber in the midst of the night.
5. Go to a gentleman’s private apartments.
6. Spend a night in a gentleman’s bed.
7. Make love in the outdoors.
8. Ask
Once had not been enough.
A terrifying realization, that.
Decker had woke that morning with an erection to rival Priapus. His new wife had been tucked safely away in her chambers, sleeping soundly, no doubt, leaving him to once more take himself in hand to thoughts of her.
Thoughts which were a thousand times more erotic now that he had actually been inside her tight, wet heat. His cock, however, refused to oblige him. He had been unable to spend.
Frustrated, he had settled himself at the breakfast table where his newspapers awaited him only to discover Jo was already there, looking utterly ravishing and giving him a second go at winning the prize for cockstand of the century. All before half past eight in the morning.
He, who prided himself upon his silver tongue and rakish charm, was unexpectedly speechless. He stopped at the threshold of the dining room, drinking in the sight of her. She was wearing a cobalt-blue silk gown patterned with blushing pink roses. The gown was eye-catching and bright, but it was the loving fit of it, showing off her curved waist, the décolletage trimmed with blonde lace revealing a mouthwatering hint