Page 122 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Helia moaned and lifted her hips.
Unhurried in his attentions, Anthony made love to her with his mouth.
All the while, the carriage rocked under them, that slight back-and-forth bouncing heightening the effects of his efforts.
At last, Anthony brought Helia to a gentle, but no less transcendental, climax.
Gasping, replete, Helia collapsed into the velvet squabs and allowed her heart to find its normal tempo.
A powerful wave of emotion threatened to bring her under. She would never not want him. He was the very air in her lungs. The reason her heart beat.
Tenderly, Anthony dropped a kiss atop her damp curls and then drew her skirts down into place.
The bench dipped as Anthony joined her. “It was good, love?”
“Good?” A sated smile played at her lips. “You strutting rooster, you ken it was splendorous.”
He grinned, flashing two rows of perfectly even, pearl-white teeth. A loose black curl fell over his eyes, giving him a boyish look, and her heart melted.
Dark, enigmatic marquess. Masterful, attentive lover. Naughty, bonny boy. Guarded, hurting man. She loved every dazzlingly different facet of him.
“We’re here,” he murmured.
It took a moment to register that at some point the carriage had come to a stop.
Here? “Where is ‘here’?” She reached for the gold velvet curtains.
Anthony caught her hand and effectively intercepted her efforts. “Uh-uh.” He touched his lips to the delicate place where her hand met her wrist.
Helia’s breath hitched.How is it possible for such a small kiss to have this dizzying effect?
Anthony shot a fist up.
The carriage dipped. There came a slight hurry-scurry, and then the footman, John Thomas, drew the door open.
Helia went to steal a peek outside, but as Anthony made to exit, his broad frame completely blocked the entrance and robbed her of that attempt.
When his feet touched the ground, John Thomas reached a hand up.
She made to place her gloved fingertips within his palm.
Anthony growled; that menacing sound caused the servant to stumble several steps away from Helia.
In the nighttime still and winter’s quiet, there came John Thomas’s telltale audible nervous swallowing. The man fell back into the shadows.
That imagined threat gone, Anthony, in one fluid movement, caught Helia by the waist and helped her down himself.
“You know, you’ve scared poor Mr. John Thomas,” she chided the moment her feet touched the snow-covered ground.
“Good,” he said tersely. “No man touches what is mine.”
Butterflies danced around her belly.
That possessive threat was softened as he carefully drew her fur-lined hood into place.
Helia caught his hands and linked her fingers through his; she forced him to look at her. “Do you truly believe I could ever want anyone but you, husband?”
“No,” he said bluntly, with a deserved masculine conceit. “But I do not trust any man won’t lust after you and be compelled to do something as foolish as daring to touch you.” His eyes darkened. “Then I’d be forced to kill him.”
