Winner Takes All - Anna Harrington Page 0,15

into his mouth, the force of it hollowing out his cheeks. This wasn’t like the tender kisses of before. This was sheer plunder. With each deep suck that seemed to pull all the way down to the demanding ache between her legs, his wicked tongue circled her nipple in a tantalizing lick.

Yearning overwhelmed her, and she cried out.

As if calming a skittish colt, his hands brushed down her body in long, soothing strokes to gentle her even as his mouth continued to ravish her breast. He suckled, licked, nipped, kissed…worshipped. She shivered with a heated pleasure that stood her hair on end and dotted goosebumps across her skin.

“I want—” she forced out to cajole him into giving her more of himself. All of himself, just as she’d always wanted. “Jack, I want—please…”

When her desire-fogged brain couldn’t find the words, she let out a groan of frustration and reached down for her hem, to pull up her skirt and invite him to give her all kinds of wonderful—

“Miss Darlington!” A breathless female shout rose from the yard, hoarse not with emotion or use but exertion. It came again, even more frantic than before. “Miss! Where are you?”

Shaw stilled, his body stiff against hers. Then he quickly pulled up her bodice and underclothes with one hand and shoved down her skirt with the other. In an instant he’d moved to the other side of the room, putting the distance of the kitchen between them as he turned toward the fire.

“You’d better go see who’s looking for you.” His voice was husky with arousal.

Confusion poured through her as her hand darted up to check her hair and neckline. “But I—I don’t—”

The look he shot her over his shoulder was quelling. And revealing. He was in no condition to greet guests.

“Of course.” Her cheeks burned as if they were on fire, and she shook as she slipped down from the table and left the house. She firmly closed the door behind herself to give Shaw time to recover, then took several deep breaths of her own.

Mrs. Whitaker, Uncle Jonas’s housekeeper, rushed across the yard toward her, huffing and puffing hard to claim every breath. Her hat perched lopsided on her head, and she’d missed a button on her coat so that the right side of the collar stood up two inches taller than the left. Her round face glowed bright red.

“Mrs. Whitaker, whatever is the matter?” Worried, Frankie took the woman’s arm to lead her to a rough-hewn bench beside the old stone farmhouse.

But the old housekeeper waved her away, then fanned her hand in front of her face to give herself air as she struggled to force out the words. “I ran…all…the way…here.”

Good Lord! Uncle Jonas’s estate was at least two miles away. “Why?” Her worry changed into panic. “Did something happen to my uncle?”

The woman shook her head emphatically as she gulped in enough air to partially recapture her breath. “He’s fine.” She paused to huff and puff down a few more breaths in an attempt to speak more easily, only to choke out, “But he sent me ahead—said I needed to be here. Immediately.”

“Why?” She glanced up as Shaw appeared in the doorway. He was once more presentable except for the confused frown that darkened his face. A look she was certain matched her own.

This time when Frankie attempted to help the woman sit, Mrs. Whitaker grabbed at her arm insistently. “I’m to say I’ve been here the whole day with you and never once let you out of my sight.” Her eyes darted between Frankie and Shaw. A world of meaning lived in that glance. Then she looked over her shoulder, down the lane toward the road, where the distant rumble of a rig was just beginning to be heard. Giving up on further explanation, she waved her hands wildly in panic. “He’s coming here!”

“Who? Uncle Jonas?”

“The viscount.” The old housekeeper sank her fingers into Frankie’s arm in warning. “Your father.”

Shaw stepped into the yard just in time to see Jonas’s little dog cart turn into the drive, then bump and roll its way toward the farmhouse and outbuildings. A pack of hounds bounced around it, certain they were going hunting, but the grim expression on Jonas’s face showed that he wasn’t at all up for sport today. So did the very slow way he handled the horse, slowing it even more by pulling back the reins long before the cart reached the yard.

Judging from the impatient look on her