When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,66
scraping when he said, “Good morning.”
He had a moment to think that something was wrong. That he should feel guilty for something. But then she leaned down.
“We didn’t wait the full month.” She blushed.
“Is that all right?” he asked slowly, trying to understand her mood.
“Yes.” A corner of her mouth quirked up. “And it means I’ll have my moneys sooner.”
Little schemer.
She kissed him, her pretty breasts crushed against his chest, and he tried to push away the apprehension. The guilt.
This could not last.
For the moment she was his—fully and in every way. No one could take her away from him because now their marriage was real.
But Julian Greycourt had come to London. No doubt the duke already knew and would be demanding Gideon’s part of the bargain.
He was going to have to murder Greycourt within days.
And when Messalina discovered that he’d killed her brother—and she would discover, he knew it now—all this would evaporate. She would look at him with horror and loathing.
She would leave him.
His time with her was fleeting. Soon—too soon—it would be over.
Best he use it well, then.
He rolled to his back and pulled her over him in a sprawl, catching her giggle in his mouth.
This, this was what he’d wanted all his life.
He ran his hand down her naked back to her arse, palming one plump buttock with possession. She was soft and warm from sleep, pliable in the way her limbs slumped over him, and he could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressed into her belly. He shifted her hips, bringing her velvety cunny over his erection.
She moaned into his mouth as he spread her legs to either side of his hips. She might be sore this morning and he didn’t want to hurt her. He ground against her slick folds instead, gently, letting her get used to the notion.
She wriggled, nearly making him lose control of their movements. He had the animal urge to thrust and penetrate, but he beat it down.
Easy.
Slow.
There was no rush, after all. Not this morning, anyway. This was his wife, his bed. He twisted his head, seeking the depths of her mouth, chasing the quiet whimpers she made. He could feel her wetness now, that plush feminine softness, and it was taking all he had to keep this languid.
He heard her gasp. She pulled back her head, her hair brushing against his face and throat.
She swallowed, her lips parted and shining wet from their kiss.
He grasped her hips and arched against her, rubbing his penis into her cunt, his balls drawn up tight, his blood beginning to boil.
Her brows drew together as if she were choosing the trim on a new frock. If he’d had the breath he might’ve laughed at the thought.
But then she bit her bottom lip and he was jealous of the movement.
He caught her mouth, licking that bottom lip, soothing it before he claimed it for himself, biting and teasing.
She groaned and stiffened, her hands clutching his shoulders, her fingers scrabbling against his perspiring skin. She shuddered and he felt the heat of her orgasm.
He thrust into her sweet, soft mouth, taking advantage of her limp relaxation.
His.
His.
His.
He came on the thought. On her sweet, wet softness. On her lips, open in submission to him.
She was his.
For now.
* * *
Late that morning, Julian Greycourt stood on the steps of Windemere House and stared down the butler. Johnson was his name, and he’d been in service to the duke since before Julian and his siblings had come to live at Windemere House.
The butler was an imposing man of middle age with a great sloping belly and a perfect, snowy wig on his head. He’d been one of the most eager of Augustus’s spies and informants.
Johnson attempted to block his way. “Shall I see if His Grace is in to receive you?”
“No need.” Julian placed the flat of his hand against the man’s chest and pushed.
The butler stumbled back with a yelp.
Julian strode inside the house.
Two burly footmen converged on him.
Julian raised one eyebrow and drawled, “Really?”
The footmen halted.
Julian didn’t bother acknowledging them further, but simply climbed the stairs to Augustus’s study.
The duke looked up when Julian opened the door and then glanced to the clock atop his desk. “You’re late. I expected you days ago.”
“Did you?” Julian took a chair before the desk, because there was no point in waiting for one to be offered. Augustus enjoyed making people stand before him like criminals about to be judged. “Is that why you’ve done this obscene thing?”