Page 88 of Lessons for Marquesses
She strained upward. His mouth lowered. Heat radiated between them. Farther in, she tasted him, and he was warm and sweet. A man could taste sweet. It was like a rushing river parting her soul. It was heart-slamming and dangerous and she wanted more of it. She wanted to be filled with it.
She drew back, breathless. Her fingers trembled as they slid over his mouth, hoping to discover what made him special. He kissed each fingertip as she savored the space between his lips, the flash of his teeth.
His head dipped, his eyes suffused with gold, and for moments she was lost in them, unable to speak or move.
She kissed him again. This time, his mouth angled, skimming over her upper lip. He tipped her chin so that the fitting was more perfect.
"Open for me,” he cajoled, his tongue feathering between her lips. "Allow me in.”
She parted her mouth without hesitation, too ungainly, too just there, as if visiting a barber to have her tooth pulled.
He chuckled softly, nipping her upper lip and nudging her nose. "You’re a good ’un, George. So damn good.”
"Am I? I’m sure”—she spoke beneath her breath as if someone might overhear her—"I’m doing this all wrong.”
He groaned, and in it was something she had never heard though she recognized it immediately as lust. A man’s need. His big arm slipped under her shoulders, pulling her closer. He explored her with exquisite care, slipping his tongue between her lips, drawing and caressing her own with gentle sweeps.
She slid a hand along the cords of his neck, falling back to the mattress. He followed her down in a flush of amber and warmth that unfurled at her core, languid, building with each nod, each shift, left to right, nose to nose, right to left. His naked chest was hard against her breasts. His heart pounded with hers, a powerful leg between her legs. Their bare feet grazed each other’s in sweet intimacy.
His hands raked up through her hair, sending a shiver down her spine, and she mimicked the path it took upon his back, down, between the twin ridges along his spine. What she wanted was here. Possibilities. Things she’d never imagined, things she wished to say that had no words.
His hands were everywhere. Along her shoulder, gripping her wrist, pulling her arm over her head, landing softly on herbreast, brushing her nipples with his palms, making her squirm, and why had she ever thought breasts useless?
His big hand clasped her hip, pulling her harder against him. And she felt small. Never had she felt small or pliable. She had always been rigid, strong, unbreakable, and now she melted into the down and linen, molding along his length. Exploring every tremble, every angle of his kiss.
Hungry for him, she raised her hips to meet his and what she found was hard, harder than any part of him. Very specific, very shocking. Very male.
He pinned her with a slow, sweeping grind.
"God,” he grit at her throat where he pressed searing kisses. His hand wedged between her breeches, cupping her mound, stirring fire and a strange wetness, an urgency to open herself more. "I want to fuck you hard. I want you to come. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me you’ll take my cock. All of it.”
Georgiana twisted her cheek to the linens, his intentions sweeping over her like freezing water. A tempo of ragged, masculine breaths beat at her ear, blowing the tendrils at her nape. From apex to navel, he throbbed against her.
Her mouth formed words, but nothing she said made sense.
He jerked his hand from between her thighs and groaned. “Christ. Forgive me.”
His elbows dug into the mattress, lifting off of her except there. His head did a tortured weave as he extracted himself like a man stuck in a bog, carefully, lest he be sucked under. He settled back on his heels, shoulders crouched, fingers splayed on his half-naked thighs. At his drawers was a formidable organ, straining against the linen, aggressive, hungry, raging at being awakened. And then thwarted.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what came over me. Believe me, please, I only wished to save you from yourdreams. I should never have”—she choked on the word—“kissed you.”
The silence lengthened, stretched, and unraveled as they considered each other.
She reached for him.
He caught her hand, faster than a whip, bringing it to his lips. “Be a good girl and leave. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Do you hate me?”
A mournful laugh shook his bare shoulders. He lowered himself over her and kissed her lips, her cheek, and finally, the scar on her brow. “No one could ever hate you, no matter how hard they tried.”
He prowled across the bed, coming to his feet in the shadows. The great V of his back to her, it rippled as the heel of his hand skid across his jaw.
Georgiana fled the room, running the pitch-black passages, bursting into her room, and scrambling into the safety of the window seat. She yanked the drapery closed on her sanctuary, folding her knees to her chin and holding close the lingering fire of his touch. Her emotions defied naming except for reeling and out of her grasp as she waited out the interminable hours before sunrise.
Her fate was sealed. She had fallen in love with Mr. Wolf. If he had only given her time to accustom herself to his male needs, she knew she would have obliged. Done those things. Came? Whatever it was, it sounded wonderful.
She would follow him into the depths of hell gladly because she would love him forever, and if he broke her heart, the better she had once known love. Yes, she would tell Charlotte so, one day.
