Page 100 of Pride: The Rogue
Latimer bit the silky lobe of her left ear. “Be a good girl, now,” he rasped, “and do that for m—”
Livian stiffened.
“Lachlan,” she screamed, arching wildly, taking his length deep inside her as she came.
Unrelenting, Latimer filled her body with deeper, harder strokes while she cried and wept and pleaded, and then even as she collapsed in sated surrender under him, he continued driving himself higher and higher towards a climax.
“You. Are. So. Fucking. Perfect,” he rasped; lust left his speech punctured.
She stared up at Lachlan with luminescent eyes, glimmering with an emotion that would’ve scared the everlasting hell out of him had he been capable of anything other than the feel of her.
Then, he couldn’t take any more.
His body stiffened, and at the last possible moment, he managed to pull out.
Thundering his release to the rafters, Lachlan came in large, spurting arcs over the flat, creamy expanse of her belly.
With a guttural groan, he collapsed above Livian, catching himself by his elbows.
He lay with her sweet body framed under him.
His ears buzzing and vision spotted from the force of his climax, Lachlan struggled in vain to get himself to rights.
He’d made love to her. There’d been nothing like it—like her.
Reality whispered forward. Tensing, Lachlan rolled off of Livian’s sweet body, and drew her against his chest so he couldn’t see her. He didn’t need to see her.
Now, he could purge himself of this untenable fascination with Livian Lovelace.
That was the last thought he had, before he drifted off to a deep, black, dreamless sleep.
Six hours later
The George Inn
The following morning, with the sun not even a hint near to touching the horizon, Latimer went about finishing up his ablutions.
In a reversal of roles from yesterday, when Livian sneaked off and left him without a word, he now prepared to do the same.
Buried under the blankets the way Livian was, Latimer couldn’t make out a hint of the spirited beauty—who’d for a brief time, bewitched him—sleeping there.
He’d bedded any number of beautiful women, and left, without so much as a backward glance.
After he’d spent the night making love to Livian, he’d had a warm bath summoned. Now, while she lay sated, he let himself recall all the wicked things they’d done together in that same small wooden tub. In that bed. Against the wall.
He’d never bedded a virgin. Ladies didn’t fuck men like Lachlan Latimer. Women raised on the streets either had that scrap of flesh so valued by the peerage stolen when they were girls or sold it for food to eat or a temporary place to callhome.
Tossing aside the rag he’d used to rinse himself, he finished washing with the remaining buckets of water that’d since gone cold. Leaning over one, he splashed that chilled water at his face.
A familiar bleating snore split the quiet. That shuddery, exhausted exhalation harkened back to his first—and volatile—meeting with Livian Lovelace.
Lachlan’s lips curled into a wistful smile, and he stared at the spot where she slept like the dead before he caught himself.
His grin vanished.
Bloody hell, since when had he become the muddled sort?
It’d merely been this stolen interlude where the world, his responsibilities, and impending marriage had faded away.
