Page 73 of The Good Girl's Guide to Rakes
Then he brought one of his hands between them, caressing her clitoris in time with his thrusts. She didn’t think it would have been possible to climax again. Yet she did, the force of it so intense her whole body locked tightly around his, her cry long and keening.
He moved his hips faster, and faster, and she looked down to see the gorgeous sight of his cock plunging in and out of her body.
A moment later, he pulled out. Gripping his cock, he gave it two hard pumps before his seed shot from him and across her belly.
He held himself above her as they gasped in the aftermath. Their eyes met. Something shadowed moved across his gaze, no doubt a reflection of her own stunned state. Her body was limp and sated, yet her heart pounded.
The Lady of Dubious Quality hadn’t fully prepared Celeste for sex. Oh, she’d understood its more animal qualities, even the mechanical aspects of it. She’d hoped for and had received physical pleasure.
But these moments afterward... as she and Kieran stared at each other... as if the joining of their bodies had also aligned their souls... this intimacy was unexpected. And not entirely welcome.
Because whatever happened tonight, they had to go on as they had before, merely friends who had entered into a mutually beneficial bargain. He had given her access to a forbidden world of freedom, and she... she would help him find a bride.
Somehow, she was going to have to keep pointing him in the direction of eligible ladies, watch him select one to court, and then smile as he offeredthat lady his hand in marriage. God help her, she might even have to attend his wedding. To another woman.
There was every possibility that when that day happened, she would be the Countess of Montford.
She stared up into the face of the man who’d made love to her. Because of him, her first time had been extraordinary. There had been so much more than pleasure, and tenderness filled her to think of all that he’d given her. To think of him marrying someone else...
Oh, God.When she pictured his wedding day, the woman who stood beside him in front of the altar washer.
But that could never be.
Later, when she was safely in her own bed, she might allow herself to feel the jagged hurt that threatened to tear her into tatters. Right now, she simply needed to put on her normal clothing, remove the paint from her face, and go home.
Before she could do any of that, however, he grabbed his discarded neckcloth and used it to clean her belly. The starched fabric scratched a little, but she appreciated his thoughtfulness. He stuffed the soiled fabric into his coat pocket before tucking himself back into and fastening up his breeches.
She thought he might simply throw the remainder of his clothing back on and urge her to do the same. Instead, he stretched out beside her on the chaise, gathering her into his arms. As she snuggled against him, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
A shard of sweet pain lodged in her chest.
“Are you very sore?” he murmured against her hair.
“Some,” she admitted, “but it’s worth it.”
“That was my hope.”
“You’re very good at that, you know.” She shivered as a draft moved across her cooling, damp body.
“The advantages of practice.” He reached down to pull a discarded shawl over her, its silky fabric sliding along her skin.
“But never before with a virgin,” she noted.
“Well, no.” Humor tinged his voice.
She shifted to look up at him. “I warrant half the virginal women of London would beat down your door if they knew you could make their first time so wonderful.”
It was safer to retreat into badinage than say what she truly wanted: that she appreciated him, that she hated the thought of life without him, and that she would spend every moment after this dreaming of tonight. Dreaming of him.
“My landlady wouldn’t appreciate that. And though I’m flattered that you think my skills would warrant such demand, I’m not in the market to initiate other people into the realm of sex.”
“Yet you did with me,” she pointed out, stroking her hand back and forth across the extraordinary sculpture of his torso.
“You’re exceptional in every way.” He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips, and her chest tightened.
“Will you write a poem about this?” she asked softly.
“It’s already written here.” He tapped one of his fingers against his chest. “But I won’t put it to paper—it’s for us alone.” Quietly, he added, “I’ve written about you, though.”
