Page 111 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Is there more?” she whispered, knowing that there was.
His hips jerked, and the uncontrolled push made her quiver.
“Again,” she whispered.
He drew out slowly, but before he was gone, he slammed back in. The impact sparked a soft cry of delight. This is what she’d wanted. This was the possession she’d craved.
“Again!”
He was already doing it. Already sliding back before that glorious thrust back inside.
She didn’t have to ask again. His tempo grew faster, the impacts harder. She helped with her legs, pulling him into her, then moaning as he slid back.
When the quickening came, it was nearly an afterthought. Her belly tightened, her body arched, but the whole of her was already pulsing, gripping, taking.
His rasp was loud in her ear, and then…
He moaned.
A slow release of sound while his body shuddered inside her.
And it went on. He jerked against her. Hard and harder.
His breath caught.
And then he exhaled.
Soft. Low. A release.
He’d done it. He’d given himself to her.
She knew it on a level so deep, so holy, that she did not question it.
He was hers.
Forever.
Then he kissed her. A tiny press of his lips so tender that it brought tears to her eyes. She was languid in her pleasure, boneless and awed by what they had done. And when she would have snuggled closer, he set her aside.
“Bram?”
“Shhh.”
He climbed out of her bed and tucked the covers gently about her. Then he pulled on his clothes.
“Bram,” she said, sadness in his name, because she knew what was to come.
“Good night.”
He climbed out her window and was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When a bastard gives his heart, he barely misses it since it’s lain unused for solong.
Bram wasn’t aman who drank. Even in his youngest years, he’d been too afraid of what he might say. He knew some things from his mother that should not be told. And as he aged, his secrets grew more dangerous. So he didn’t drink.
Tonight he was blind, stinking drunk. So bloody pissed that he couldn’t stand himself. And yet he sat on the floor of his tiny room and swilled cheap gin, while glaring at the only person in the world he could risk this kind of drunk with: his mother. She’d come to see him, barging in, when he was already three sheets to the wind.
