Page 62 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“Sin,” she moaned, reaching down to grasp his hair, holding on for purchase as it swept over her too swiftly to be controlled. “Sinclair!”
He refused to let up, his fingers moving even faster inside her, his other hand coming up to pinch a nipple and adding another surge of heat and ecstasy spiraling straight to her core. She shuddered and groaned atop him, her hips bucking against his face as her climax crested and swelled, then slowly abated, turning from pounding spasms into light flutters drawn out by his gentle kisses and softening caresses.
When she went limp, he took hold of her hips and threw her onto the bed beside him. She had hardly recovered before he was on her, swiftly snatching her legs apart and hooking his arms beneath her knees to draw her up against him. He knocked the wind from her, slamming into her with a swift, brutal thrust. The invasion stung after so many weeks without having had him inside her, but the way was eased by her wetness, letting him fall into her to the hilt. He lifted her until her hips came up off the bed, his grip on her legs keeping her from moving, putting her at his mercy. Then, he began driving into her, swift, hard thrusts that dragged each breath from her on a whimper, the impact of them resounding through her entire body.
Gripping the bedclothes, she held on for dear life as he closed his eyes and pounded her relentlessly, his tortured expression melting away into something else. She let him, laid there and opened her body to him, accepting his pain and his loss, letting him give it all to her. His eyes flew open, and he was gazing down at her, his fingers digging into her hips possessively, the cords in his neck tensing and straining as he seemed to hover on the edge of rapture, intent on holding it back.
“My Lydia,” he rasped, his voice strained and gruff, breathless from his exertions. “You will be mine when I come back for you … all mine … mine alone.”
“Yes,” she moaned, another climax looming close, her body going taut in anticipation. “Yes, Sinclair.”
She cried out, her back arching and lifting her farther off the bed as he rode the waves of her rapture, his hips surging harder, faster, heightening every ripple of the orgasm as it tore through her like a hurricane. He let her hips drop back to the bed, palming her thighs and spreading them wide, pushing them up toward her shoulders to open her up more.
Modesty had long ago left her, and she delighted in the way he looked at her, staring down at the place where their bodies were joined as if enthralled, unable to look away. He fucked her like a man possessed, thick veins appearing along his arms, the strain of his muscles causing them to bulge, the grooves between them becoming more prominent. She could hardly look away from him, not wanting to miss the exquisite moment when he finally spent.
“Christ,” he growled, his movements becoming less controlled, tremors beginning to wrack him from head to toe. “Lydia … Lydia …Lydia.”
He pulled from her abruptly, one hand fumbling to grip his cock as his head fell back, his lips parting on a rough groan as he spent, his seed spilling from him and wetting her thighs, her belly, her mons. It seemed to go on and on, spurts of his hot mettle staining her, marking her as his.
When it had finished, he went back on his haunches, struggling to calm his breathing. She could not even think of moving, her limbs like jelly and her mind floating in some blissful place, her vision swimming dizzily. She faintly registered the dip of the mattress as Sinclair began to move, his weight going away for a moment. She heard him rifling about across the room for a moment before he came back, appearing above her. Something warm and wet touched her, and she realized it was a damp cloth, which he used to clean her of his seed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, gently abrading her skin with the linen until he’d removed the evidence of what they’d just done. “If there’s one thing I desire most, it is to stay buried deep inside when you when I come, so I can fill you. Pulling out at the end is torture.”
She gathered the strength to move, resting a hand over his and bringing it over her belly, where a child might grow if he allowed himself to spend inside of her. “You do not have to explain. I understand that we cannot risk it.”
Rising to dispose of the cloth, he returned quickly, climbing back into bed with her, gathering her close before covering them both with the counterpane. “No, not now, but … someday, Lydia. If it is what you want, I will give you as many children as you wish.”
She grinned at that, thinking of the things he’d confided in her, his dreams of a Buckton overrun with children, filled with laughter and pounding feet. It was exactly the same dream she’d had for herself when considering her future. That she would now get to have it with Sinclair only made it all the sweeter, all the more real.
Kissing his neck, she closed her eyes and began drifting to sleep, nestled close to his side.
“Someday,” she murmured, a smile remaining on her lips even as fatigue finally began to drag her under.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lydia pulled the curtain back so she could peer through the coach window at the passing scenery. A soft smile curved her lips at the familiar sights that made up home. They’d just arrived on Oakmoor lands, a few short days after setting out from Buckton. Before leaving with Henry for Belcourt, Sinclair had seen to it that a coach was prepared for her journey, as well as two footmen to act as her escorts. The morning of his departure, he’d pulled her into his chamber for a private goodbye, taking her into his arms and holding her tight.
“I know we decided this was best, but I cannot tell you how difficult this is for me,” he’d murmured against the top of her head. “After being away from you for so many years, I hate the thought of being without you, even for a few weeks.”
“I feel the same way,” she had assured him. “But this time, we will part ways knowing this is not the end. I will wait for you, Sin, and when you send the word, I will come back to you.”
He’d kissed her thoroughly then, his hands tight and possessive at her back, his tongue invading her mouth and imprinting his taste into her memory. “You had better.”
She had visited Henry, as well, finding him in his chambers waiting for his things to be taken down to the waiting coach. He’d clung to her with tears in his eyes, stating that he did not understand why she could not come with them to Belcourt. Her heart had broken at those tear-filled eyes, so young, yet so filled with pain and confusion.
“Because, after the death of a loved one, families need one another,” she told him, stroking his hair as she held him close against her side. “And as much as I adore you, and as fond as we are of each other, we are not family, Henry. You and your father must go and visit your Uncle Milton and help him to lay your mama to rest. But I will be here when you return, I swear it.”
He’d simply held her tighter, his tears wetting her bodice. “I wish you were our family, Miss Darling. Then you could come with us.”
So do I, little love,she had thought.With all my heart.
She had stood on the front steps beside Charles and Amberly, waving as the coach disappeared down the lane with them, a wagon carrying Lady Clayton’s coffin trailing behind it.
The following day, she’d departed on her own journey, her heart heavy in her chest with each mile that separated her from Buckton.
However, as the coach now rolled into a stop before the grand mansion she had grown up in, the heart of Oakmoor, her spirits began to lift. If she must be away from Sinclair and Henry, then this was the only place she would wish to be.
She thanked the footman who opened the door for her, accepting his assistance in alighting from the coach. Her steps were light as she approached the house, only making it halfway up the stairs before one of the massive double doors swung open to reveal Shaw, the man who had served as butler of Oakmoor for as long as she could remember.
