The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,5

toward her, his parted lips settling on her neck. Nerves forgotten, her skin burned at the erotic contact as his tongue swept over her flesh.

The slow sensual lick was vastly different to the chaste, perfunctory peck he’d given her in the chapel, or the almost-kiss on the balcony, but she wasn’t complaining. He bit her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth, and her entire body shuddered. Good Lord, this wasn’t even kissing, it was…it was…devouring. The idea of his mouth trailing down her body in a similar fashion nearly made her eyes roll back in her head.

Would he?

As if she’d demanded it, he continued his journey south of her jaw until Isobel moaned, her hands climbing up to wind in her husband’s hair as she succumbed to his skill. Heavens above, she’d never felt more alive, more on edge. Every muscle in her body strained and shook as he reached the valley between her breasts, his lips wet and warm. She felt faint from the pleasure coiling in her stomach, her brain a muddled mess. Could a person die from such sensation? Surely it was possible.

One more lick, one more dangerously sinful bite, and she’d be done for.

A whimper broke from her. “Winter.”

Cool air blew against the damp skin of her body when he broke away, a stormy gaze boring into hers. Was he going to stop? Pull away? He wouldn’t be so cruel, would he? He’d told her to use his given name!

But with a fraught growl, his mouth descended to where he’d left off and kissed its way down her body, lingering over each of her breasts until she was certain she’d go mad. By the time he lifted himself above her, she no longer had a rational thought in her head. She was a blinding mass of need and raw desire. When his body finally slid into hers, it pinched, but his careful preparation had soothed the way.

“Hold still,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with strain as his breath sawed out of him. “Get used to me.”

It wasn’t his words as much as his thoughtfulness that melted her. Once she’d adjusted to accommodate him, Isobel sucked in air as he began to move, withdrawing almost all the way before easing back in.

“Is this too much?” he asked.

“No, you’re perfect.”

Winter stilled, but she didn’t have time to feel embarrassed by the blurted admission before he repeated the motion, making her gasp. With each pass, it felt better. Sensation upon sensation built inside her with every stroke until he reached between them to caress a spot that made her see stars and she cried out as pleasure took her.

A few short thrusts later, and Winter groaned what sounded like her name, though she couldn’t be sure, his huge frame withdrawing completely from her and then going rigid with what she imagined was the culmination of his own release. Breathing hard, he slumped forward, his large body blanketing hers. It was strangely nice, though the moment did not last.

Her husband lifted off of her. For an unguarded moment his eyes met hers, a flare of shock evident before he rolled away. Isobel did not feel slighted when he stood and reached for his trousers. She could only remember the tenderness of his touch, and the kindness he’d displayed with her inexperienced body. Her husband had to care to be so gentle and considerate.

Isobel draped herself in the warmth of everything she felt and smiled to herself.

One day, perhaps soon, she would tell him she loved him.

Chapter Two

Chelmsford, England

3 years later

Oh how she hated that bloody, black-hearted jackanapes!

The brisk morning wind teased the pins from Isobel’s hair, blond tendrils lashing into her face as she galloped at a breakneck pace across the moors. She was in a fine froth, and she pushed her mare Hellion to go even faster. Faintly, Isobel heard a voice calling out from somewhere behind her, but she couldn’t turn back now. Nothing but a grueling ride would cool the heat in her veins.

According to the newssheets she’d read that morning, her husband was up to his disreputable exploits in London again, while she, the poor, pathetic—and any number of other uncharitable descriptors—country mouse of a wife remained at home in pious, devoted silence.

Devoted, my furious foot.

Her maggot of a marquess had abandoned her here.

After their wedding, Isobel had assumed she and Winter would live together in Chelmsford. It was his father’s ducal seat, after all, and his family home. Old bitterness, buried down deep, spilled through