Page 88 of One Wicked Secret
She blushed. “I touched myself and imagined it was you.”
“Were you aching to have me, love?”
“I was in love with you.”
His heart slammed against his chest. “Was?”
“I am in love with you. You’re the only man I’ll ever love.”
A smile tugged at his lips, one of triumph and abiding gratitude. “I’ll spend my life making sure you have no reason to doubt me. I’ll fight to the death to bring you peace.”
“Not to the death.” Her hands settled on his chest. “We’ll run away if we have to. There’s no shame in putting our happiness first.”
“Let’s put our happiness first now. Tell me you love me, Elsa. Show me how you touched yourself while imagining it was me.” His cock was already weeping at the thought. “Tell me how it begins, this wicked fantasy of yours.”
His minx grinned. “Which fantasy would you prefer? The scene in the stables when I return on Zephyr and find you there, wearing nothing but a pair of tight breeches? Or whereyou climb into my chamber through the open window and sneak into my bed?”
He chuckled to himself.
While he’d been at home, worried about waking her, not wanting to risk her getting caught, she was hot under the bedsheets, his name a breathless pant on her lips.
“I like the idea of a romp outdoors,” he said, though he would probably spill over his imagined breeches before she’d set the scene. “It’s too cold to remove our clothes, and we want it to feel authentic.”
His warrior wife did not shy from a challenge.
She kept her gaze fixed on his, her sultry smile like a stroke on his hard cock. “I rode Zephyr hard that day. Despite the chilly weather, I was hot and couldn’t wait to return him to the stall and slip off my riding habit.” She began unbuttoning her pelisse. “Just for a few minutes.”
“The cool air must have brought relief,” he said, hearing the huskiness in his voice and longing for his own release.
“Oh, you have no idea. I took the ladle from the bucket, filled my hands and splashed my face, but the water trickled down my throat”—her fingers retraced the path—“and between my breasts.”
“Did you know I was watching you?” he said, desperate to move this along so he could bury himself inside her.
“Not at first, but then I saw you in the stall, shirtless, all golden skin and muscle.” She ran her hand over his chest, her touch light but so damned arousing. “And those tight breeches did nothing to protect a woman’s heart or her imagination.”
He captured her hand, locking his fingers with hers. “My mouth was so dry as I stared at you I couldn’t form a word.”
“We didn’t need to speak. The connection between us hasalways been there. It was as if our hearts already knew what would follow”—she kissed him, soft and deep—“and our minds had simply stopped trying to interfere.”
“What did follow?”
“I entered the stall and pushed you onto a bed of clean straw. While you unbuttoned your breeches, I gathered up my undergarments and sat astride you.”
She slipped off his lap and, despite the unsteady rocking of the carriage, shrugged out of her pelisse. He followed her lead, freeing himself from his trousers with the reckless hunger of a randy youth.
His wife was wet and willing.
She didn’t wait for him to touch her intimately, but straddled his lap as he held his cock and sheathed him with excruciating slowness.
“God, Elsa,” he rasped, the feel of her stealing the breath from his lungs. “You’ll be the death of me.”
She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. “Then die happy, my love.”
With a low, shuddering growl, he thrust up to meet her, matching her slow, torturous rhythm. The carriage swayed and jolted around them, but Elsa rode him with a boldness that left him blind with need. Every roll of her hips, every gasp that escaped her lips, drove him closer to the brink, until the rest of the world—the lies, the secrets, the scandals—ceased to exist.
There was only her.
Only this.
