Page 50 of West End Earl
Phee clung to him, pressing their slick chests together while her tongue battled his, gasping as if coming up for air after holding her breath underwater. With a roll of her hips, she settled her heated center over his cock.
The first Earl of Carlyle, Henry Battenmore, gifted the title by Queen Elizabeth on August 25, 1598…
Water splashed in cool droplets against his legs as he got them the rest of the way to shore with more speed than grace. When he laid her on the bank, Cal took a second to take in the picture she made. Long limbs, creamy skin, and that thatch of curls where she’d soaked the top of his dick a moment before.
“You’re sure?” he had to ask, even as he prayed she wouldn’t say no.
A disbelieving laugh shook her chest. “Calvin, get inside me.” A frown cut her laughter short. “Unlessyouaren’t sure. If you’re having second thoughts—”
His mouth stopped the flow of words and doubt, and he let his body answer her question. Reaching down to guide himself into her inch by amazing inch, Cal held her gaze, held his breath, and tried to hold time still even as his body shook.
Bloody hell, he was having sex with Phee. God, she felt good. Slick and tight andright.
Resting on his elbows, he tried to hold his weight off her slender frame, but Phee was having none of it. She sank her hands into his hair and pulled him down for a kiss, then wrapped her legs around him and squeezed until he was fully inside her.
With every stroke, she welcomed him with another flood of silky wet heat, and Cal’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Skin on skin, moans, and breathy words of encouragement echoed off the lake. Her name became a chant on his lips as they stared into each other’s eyes. She tugged his head down until their foreheads touched.
“Good?” she murmured.
“Better than good.” Understatement of the century, but all he could manage when his bollocks were this tight. Pressing against her nub, he rocked deep until her breathing stopped altogether for several beats. There. That was what she needed to topple over the edge before him, because damn, he couldn’t wait much longer.
Her hands didn’t rest, clutching the muscles of his arse with every thrust, then along his spine until they anchored again in his hair.
When she broke, she arched, squeezing his cock until he saw stars and claiming him as thoroughly as he claimed her.
“I’m too close,” he managed, slipping from her body at the last minute. He trembled, then groaned when she stroked him once, twice, before he spilled on the grass.
“So that’s what all the fuss is about. Sex, I mean.” Warm breath fanned over his ear. He chuckled against her shoulder, then kissed it, too exhausted for more than that. She turned and he caught her smile—wide and happy and satisfied. “I’m glad it was you.”
Later, after another bout of lovemaking under the stars, exploratory and by turns tender and frantic, they swam to where they’d left their clothing. And when he tugged her into his room instead of opening the door to hers, she didn’t argue.
Chapter Sixteen
Pardon me, milord. Lady Emma has arrived, and I’m afraid she’s in a state of distress.”
Cal cracked open one lid. Kingston stood by the door, pointedlynotlooking at the occupants of the bed. Glancing over at Phee, Cal got an eyeful of pert breasts and creamy skin his valet didn’t have any business seeing. Throwing the blanket to cover her, Cal rubbed his eyes.
“What time is it?”
“Three in the afternoon, milord. I brought a pot of coffee, since I believed a restorative of some kind might be warranted.” Kingston cleared his throat delicately. “I took the liberty of bringing more than one cup.”
They’d taken a nap after a spontaneous afternoon romp between the sheets. To be fair, he and Phee had hardly left the room for two weeks. “Restorative before dealing with my sister? That bad, is it?”
“She is less than happy, milord.” Kingston, king of the understatement. “Shall I bring the cart in?”
“Please.” Cal donned the robe draped over a chair nearby. Behind him, Phee didn’t stir. That woman could sleep through anything. But he’d bet on her coming awake once she smelled coffee. The bedroom door opened, and his valet pushed a cart into the room. Coffee and small bite-sized things triggered Cal’s stomach to gurgle happily in anticipation.
His valet didn’t meet his gaze as he fussed with items on the cart that didn’t need adjustment.
Cal lowered his voice in case Phee woke. “Kingston, I know you saw her. I have no choice but to trust in your loyalty and discretion in this matter.”
Kingston straightened and finally looked him in the eye. “You can rely on me, milord. In the future, shall I bring two cups with your morning coffee tray?”
A smile kicked up one corner of Cal’s mouth. “I’m sure she would appreciate that.” Kingston nodded and turned but stopped when Cal said, “Kingston? By holding your tongue, you are protecting someone precious to me. And she has a damn good reason for having this secret.”
Another nod, then he left. Cal poured his coffee, then another for Phee, adding cream until it turned the shade she preferred. He blew on the surface, then took a sip before carrying the cups to the bed. The room smelled like them, like warm sex and fresh coffee. If Emma wasn’t waiting for him—mid-meltdown, by the sounds of it—he’d love to wake Phee in a way that would guarantee more time in bed. Over the past two weeks, he’d learned the trick to waking her without triggering a defensive panic. Once he said her name a few times—just enough to make her eyelashes flutter as she surfaced from dreams—it was safe to approach the fair maiden with the wicked right hook.
He hated to go. Guests would arrive tomorrow, and then official host duties would interrupt their current habit of whiling the days away, lost in one another, sans clothing.
