She was almost sorry that they needed to escape.
He set her down again, then pushed at her hips, her backside bumping against the wood. “Like that, Georgie, but harder,” he murmured. “You make some loud noise, and I’ll get those bolts out.”
She nodded. “I can do that.”
“Then start yelling.”
Yelling? Georgiana thought she just had to bang against it. “What do I say?”
“Like this,” he said softly, then raised his voice. “Going to spread you wide and fill you up, Georgie!”—his elbow thumped against the door and he gave a heavy grunt—“Going to shag your hot pu**y deep and hard!”
“Thom!” she cried—scandalized and muffling her wild laughter behind her hands.
“You’ll soon be screaming my name.” He thumped and grunted again. “Lift your beautiful tits to my mouth now.” Thump. “I’m going to suck on your sweet ni**les until you come all over my cock!”
“Thom!” With her face ablaze, Georgiana bumped her backside against the door. “Oh, Thom!”
Grinning, Thom lowered his head, his lips against her ear. “My mouth is full, so I have reason to be quiet. Now you start shouting all those things you said last night.”
He left her bumping at the door, trying to recall exactly what she’d said. Every moment had been seared into her brain, but she’d barely given a thought to most of what had been tumbling out of her mouth.
“Oh, Thom!” Bump. “Thom!” Bump. “Oh, yes, Thom!”
At the porthole, another bolt squealed. Georgiana threw her hips back harder, faster, trying to cover the sound.
“You’re so deep, Thom. Oh! Oh! Don’t slow down. Oh! Harder, now. Thom! I need more! More!”
His back to her, Thom seemed to hunch over. His shoulders were shaking so hard that when he reached for another bolt, his juddering fingers missed it—twice.
Laughing.
Oh, Georgiana always loved to see him do that. Enjoying herself now, she slammed harder and harder. “Thom! Oh! Faster! Don’t stop! I feel it coming!”
And she was running out of things to shout. Remembering last night was no help. Mostly she had just moaned and cried his name.
Desperately, she called up her memories of touching his body afterward, exploring every ridge of muscle—“You’re so hard, Thom!”—running her hands up his thick shaft—“And so big. So long and strong and powerful!”—circling her fingertips around the flared crown—“They should call you the King of the North Sea. Oh, Thom, make me your queen! Oh, oh, Thoooommmmm!”
By the time her wail faded, the glass was out of the porthole frame and her husband had collapsed into the settee with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face and choking on his laughter. His muffled snorts likely fit quite well into their impromptu bit of theater.
Her face flushed from the exercise, Georgiana joined him. “I must say, Thom—that was quite invigorating.”
Still laughing, he pushed to his feet. Catching her around the waist, he kissed her hard and far too briefly. “I love you, Georgie. Now are you ready?”
No. She wanted to stay here and bask in those words. She’d known he did. Love had never been in question between them—only whether it was enough to overcome all the other hurts.
But even knowing that Thom loved her, it was so sweet to hear him say so. And to say it in return. “Oh, Thom. I love you, too.”
Eyes dark with emotion, he kissed her again. Longer this time. But not as long as Georgiana wished.
Within a few minutes, she was standing at the porthole with the blankets and satchel strapped to her back. Thom had offered to carry them, but had agreed it was more important for him to move as freely as he needed to than to relieve her of a few pounds’ burden.
Gripping the cold frame, she leaned out and looked over. Here at the front of the airship, the prow projected forward over the steep slant of the hull, presenting a sheer hundred-foot drop to the moonlit water below.
Oh, dear God. Her heart thundered against her ribs. This had been so easy to imagine before. Just a simple climb to the weather deck.
Craning her neck, she looked up. With the glass blocking the porthole, she hadn’t been able to stick her head out like this and see exactly what they’d have to climb. But there was almost ten feet of smooth, polished wood between the porthole and the rail on the upper deck—and all of it at that same steep angle.
She pulled her head back in. “I made a mistake, Thom. I don’t think this will work.”