Page 11 of The Spy Who Loved Her
Strong teeth nipped the lobe of her ear, nibbled gently. “You’re going to come against my fingers,” he said, “and then I am going to lay you down upon this couch and make certain you never look upon it again without thinking of me.”
She shattered with a low, helpless sound of completion, her back bending with the force of it. Behind her closed eyes, a starburst of lights sparkled and shimmered as every muscle tightened and pulled in a burst of agonized pleasure.
She hadn’t recovered before he’d rid her of dress and chemise and petticoats all. But the chill of the air hadn’t yet had the time to cool her overheated skin before he’d laid her out in an ungainly sprawl against the velvet cushions and covered her with his body.
The fabric of his coat scratched across the flesh of her belly. The fine wool of his trousers rasped the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. His hands wrestled with the fall, wrenching at buttons until the length of him sprang free, heavy and hot and demanding.
With a muted growl, he slid his elbows beneath her knees, lifting her—holding her in place, her hips levered off of the couch entirely. She gasped at the stretch of being invaded, plundered, even as her body still pulsed with satisfaction. It didn’t hurt; he wasn’t careless or reckless or greedy.
But hewasrelentless. And she—she wasn’t finished. Another climax beckoned, kindling deep in her belly with every masterful inward stroke. Each deep, powerful plunge drew it closer and closer to the surface, until she could only grasp at his shoulders, claw at his back with fingernails that scratched across the fabric of his coat, and whimper through the maelstrom that dragged her beneath it once more.
A low groan and a fierce shudder told her that he’d found his pleasure in her as well, and she thought—Good. He had deserved that.
And then she turned her face into the pillow of her arm and let a few tears slip free, her heart aching anew at the terrible realization that this assignation with a stranger had felt more like love to her starved heart than the act ever had with her late husband.
∞∞∞
He’d taken her with all the finesse of a starving man presented with a feast, but by God it had been satisfying to see her find her pleasure. To watch that passion-flush wash down the delicate, lightly freckled skin of her throat, painting her breasts a lovely pink. To see them rise and fall with each fractured breath.
He shouldn’t have come inside her, but she’d not conceived in three years of marriage—and Ambrose had had at least one bastard that he knew of—so it was probably safe enough.
Rafe had never given much thought to children, but he’d have quite liked to plant his baby in Emma’s belly. It was the thought process of a savage, primal creature; unworthy of the man he was meant to be. And still, as he slid free of her body and watched a trickle of his spend drip free, he found himself swiping it up with his forefinger and pushing it back inside her.
She made a soft, choked sound, swiping at her eyes with one hand. “If you are thinking a child might secure you a wealthy wife,” she said caustically, “you’re mistaken. That field has always lain fallow.” Despite the acerbic slant to the words, still they sounded shaded with sorrow.
Probably, he thought, she’d welcome even a bastard child given to her by a stranger, if it meant having one of her own to love.
He’d given her pleasure, but he’d also given her the tears that she swiped from her eyes just before she flung her hand over the edge of the couch, rooting about for her discarded gown. If he let her, she’d recover herself within moments, stuffing down every bit of herself that had come loose this past half hour. She would retreat once again within the shell of the lady she was meant to be and bury the woman she was.
She would crawl into her lonely bed. Cry still more tears that Ambrose had never deserved from her.
He hadn’t ever meant to let it go this far between them, had been certain she would come to her senses long before the act. Another misstep in a long line of them that had ruined him. Ruined her. But he was going to make yet another, and by God, he wouldenjoyit.
“Have you got servants wandering about this time of night?” he asked.
Emma froze, her fingertips brushing the rumpled skirt of her gown there on the floor. “No,” she said, her auburn brows knitting. “No; they—they stay near the children. On the other side of the house.”
“Good.” He snatched the gown and chemise both out from beneath her fingers, balled them up, and tossed them somewhere behind him, provoking a protest from her.
“What the devil are you doing?” she gasped.
“We’re not done.”
“I begyour pardon.” She levered herself up upon her elbows, those dark blue eyes imperious, agitation scrawled into the haughty purse of her lips.
“You will beg, before I am through with you.” The thread of anger that wove itself into his voice as he butted himself back into his trousers was directed inward, though she couldn’t know that. He hadn’t even removed his coat. Before he left her, he meant to have her skin to skin.
Meant to make her forget why she’d cried.
She was silent, wary—but she threw one arm over her breasts, concealing the coral nipples that had gone to tight points once more.
He leaned closer, braced one arm above her head, and rubbed his chin against the curve of her shoulder just as he had learned she liked. He relished the shiver that wracked her, the soft panting of her breath with an arousal she could not quite control. Mastered by it in the same was he was.
“In a moment,” he said, in a silky whisper right into the shell of her ear, “I am going to let you up. And youare going to run back to your bedchamber.”
“You’ll catch me.” There was a faint whistle to the words, as if they had rasped over dry lips.
“Emma,” he chided on a low snicker, “of courseI am going to catch you. You’re going toletme catch you. But not,” he specified, “before you reach your bedchamber. Or I’ll take you right where I catch you. Do you understand?”
