The Matter of a Marquess - Jess Michaels Page 0,74

goddess and he wanted to worship at her shrine until he forgot everything else in the world. With a shaking hand, he loosened the placard on his trousers. His cock bounced free and he took himself in hand even as he pressed a hand against her lower back, flattening her further against the bed. Her pink, wet sex taunted him, and he groaned as he stroked the head of his cock back and forth against her. She was hot and ready and he ached, he burned, he was lost.

“I had so much in mind in terms of pleasuring you,” he gasped. “But…”

“Just do it,” she pleaded. “I need you.”

He didn’t have to be asked twice. With one long thrust he slid to the hilt inside of her tight, wet heat. She pulsed around him and he was nearly unmanned at the otherworldly sensation of their joined bodies. He drew back, almost all the way out of her clenching sex and then glided forward again. She let out a wail that she buried in her coverlet, then snaked her hand between her legs. He felt her fingers stroking her clitoris, the tips slick against the root of his cock when he fully seated himself.

That she pleasured herself while he pleasured her was too much. He gripped the soft flesh of her hips to balance himself and took her. Hard and fast until he was nearly undone, then slower, slower, circling against her as she moaned and flexed, her fingers stroking wildly.

When she came, she pulsed around him, gripping him hard as she called out his name. He jerked against her in time to the rhythm of her orgasm, letting her milk him with her pleasure until he could take no more. With a grunt, he pulled out of her just in time and let his seed splash over her bottom and lower back before he collapsed over her, their sweat mingling, their breath matched.

He had no idea how long they leaned against the edge of her bed, but at some point she crawled out from under him, up onto her pillows. She reached back for his hand and he followed her, cradling her into his side and reveling in the remarkable feel of her.

He could have this forever. He wanted her forever.

And yet…he couldn’t help thinking of what she’d said before they made love. She wanted to protect him, give him what he’d wanted for years. Her answer to that was to make herself some kind of dirty little secret. What would he do? Come here to her home three times a week and tup her? Put her up in some finer house like she was his mistress? They could be careful as they liked, but people would find out. His friends would know.

He would know that he was treating her as a shame to be pulled beneath the covers so no one would know about her.

“Oh, don’t go doing that,” Aurora whispered.

He jerked from his thoughts. “Doing what?”

“Thinking,” she said with a husky laugh. “I can practically hear you thinking, and right now I don’t want to think. I want to just…feel.”

She didn’t say anything more. Instead, she trailed her mouth along his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she went, reawakening him so quickly he was taken off guard. And so he pushed away the troubles in his mind and simply sank into the pleasure of her lips as she closed them around his length and brought him back to the ready.

But his unease remained. As did the knowledge that if he made a mistake, it might just ruin the rest of his life.

Chapter 18

Nicholas didn’t know what to think as he stood in the parlor of the Earl of Bramwell. He’d come home the day before to find a missive from the new earl—his old friend, Aurora’s brother. As well as one from Nicholas’ father, who still served that household as man of affairs. Considering that he hadn’t spoken to the earl in nine years and normally met with his father at his own home, he had no idea what either man would wish to say to him.

The door to the parlor opened and Thomas stepped inside. The dowager countess followed at his heels and Nicholas straightened up a fraction. Both had broad smiles. They seemed welcoming. And they both had so much of Aurora in their faces that he almost stepped back. Thomas shared her dark eyes, Lady Bramwell the shape of her face, the graceful glide of