Page 63 of Desperate Proposals
“And so now, dear wife…” He slid his hand between her legs, feeling her wetness. “Or should I say, dearestEvelyn, whenever you sit here for your morning toilette, you shall not be able to think of anything else.”
Something lit in her eyes, a ferocity to match his, and she stared at him in the mirror, willing him to get on with it.
Marcus positioned himself against her, teasing her as he slid along her slick entrance.
She sucked in a breath, her eyelashes fluttering.
“I think we can do better than that,” he tutted. “Were you not gently bred?”
She wet her lips, but did not quaver, holding his gaze. By god. Marcus would never have dreamed she’d meet him in her bed with equal force of will. It was maddening. He tightened his hold on his cock, stroking with ease now that he was wet with her arousal.
“Please,” she whispered, the red in her cheeks the only evidence of her usual sensibilities. When Marcus did not move, she shut her eyes and whimpered, “Please, I beg you!”
He thrust into her with a groan, finding no resistance this time. He pulled back and thrust again, then again. Evelyn’s breath quickened and she moved back against him, driving all logical thought from his head. Soon they discovered their rhythm together, as anticipation twisted and built within him until he finally caught sense enough to lean forward and reach for her.
For she deserved her pleasure as well. And Marcus needed to hear it, needed to feel her cunny warm around him as her body shook with ecstasy.
She called out when he touched her, and began writhing upon his cock as he stroked her. It didn’t take long; she rammed back into him, a long, desperate moan escaping her lips.
Marcus felt her growing heat, felt her body quiver. Instinct took over, and he grasped her hips, pushing deep into her, watching her pretty features in the mirror, watching her face loosen and her eyes lose focus as she rode out her climax.
And then he found his own. He called out her name as he finished, then collapsed upon her, their nightclothes damp with perspiration.
And for a few glorious moments, he forgot himself and his failures. He felt warm and sated. Complete.
For now, at least.
Chapter Sixteen
“A hotel?” Evelyn said,staring out the window of her carriage. “Are we not staying at Sir Philip’s residence?”
They were pulling up before a massive building right in the city center—no trees, no lawn, no long gravel drive. Just people, towering bland buildings, and soot. Ever so much soot.It must not be good for one’s health, breathing this muck.She wrinkled her nose.
If she squinted, she could just see beyond the gilded doors, to a space done up in marble and red carpeting. But that was all.
“I’m afraid not. Towle’s practically the Methuselah of the lower chamber. Or he was, I suppose. At any rate, there’s a score of gents he’s known longer,” Mr. Hartley said in a curt tone. Then, with a smile, he added, “We likely won’t even have a seat at the dinner table. Assume we’ll be standing against the wall, holding our plates, and choose your footwear accordingly.”
Evelyn paled.
Dutton, who sat alongside her, gasped.
“No, don’t fret, I’m only joking,” he said, then hastily repeated with a laugh, “Please, do not fret.”
Evelyn sat back, staring at him.
“Why, I never,” Dutton said, as disapproving as Evelyn had ever heard her.
“A joke, Evelyn,” he repeated, his face softening. “I’m sure we’ll be seated. Just at the far end of the table. So have no fear, Dutton. Your mistress has not been slighted, I assure you.”
They’d awoken together that morning, in her bed. It had been oddly pleasant, if one could forget how atrociously… human one felt upon waking, what with one’s hot, unpleasant breath and sleep-mussed hair—her plait had come undone at some point during their exertions. She made a mental note to never accept his assistance in that regard ever again. Though shehadenjoyed what had transpired between them after his poor showing as a lady’s maid. If she’d known all the forms bedsport could take, perhaps she’d have been keener to marry. Though admittedly, accepting Rowland’s offer all those years ago would not have led to such activities as they had engaged in last night. It seemed that while she and Mr. Hartley were not of similar dispositions outside of the marital bed, within it they were quitesimpatico.
Even still, she did not seem to have his measure by the sun’s light.
“I don’t understand. You speak of him almost… paternally. Surely he would extend his hospitality?”
“Why, I’ll have you know this is the finest hotel in Birmingham,” he scoffed. “Costing me a fortune, I might add.”
Dutton harrumphed at that.
