Page 114 of The Lyon Whisperer
“You’ve done so many things for me, shown me kindnesses I never expected. You moved us to the countryside for my benefit, indulged me with my plans for a dinner party though in all likelihood we can’t afford to host one, furnished me with the carriage, twice now, as promised so that I could attend my meetings…” She paused to give him a meaningful look which he pretended not to notice.
“…and then, there’s the puppies.”
“The puppies?”
“You made it clear you did not want them underfoot, yet you have taken on much of the responsibility for caring for them, for me.”
“Temporarily,” he reminded her gruffly. For some reason, instead of feeling good about his treatment of her to date, her recitation of his so-called good deeds left him feeling vastly incompetent. The things she’d listed didn’t add up to a brass farthing.
She loosed a small, self-conscious laugh, and her cheeks flushed a violent pink, but she did not look away. “What I’m trying to say is, I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Chase stared at her. Warmth flooded his insides, blood rushed in his ears, and an undeniable sense of deep satisfaction filled him. She had fallen in love with him.
“Have you nothing to say, my lord?”
He reached one arm toward her. “Come here, madam wife.”
With no hesitation, she crossed the narrow divide.
Before she could drop onto the bench beside him, he scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap.
“Oh, Chase,” she breathed and twined her arms around his neck. She pressed kisses to his neck. “Can you ever forgive me?”
He closed his eyes, savoring her soft, pliant form, her scent, her feathery kisses.
“Yes, sweetheart, I forgive you. Tell me again.”
She tilted her head back and gazed up at him with adoring eyes. “I love you.”
He crushed her mouth with his, his arms tightening around her. An overwhelming need to claim her pounded through him, despite the fact they traversed the oft-traveled road between London and Wimbledon.
Anchoring her in place with one arm, his free hand fisted in her skirts, bunching them ever upward.
She shivered against him. “What are you…”
“Shhh,” he whispered against her lips. He slid a hand beneath the heavy fabrics, smoothed his palm up her silk-stocking-clad thigh, her hip, the full curve of her bottom. His fingertips traced the cleft of her buttocks, continuing on until he found the entrance to her core.
He hissed in a breath. She was hot and wet.
“My God, sweetheart,” he choked, his fingers sliding between her silken folds.
She whimpered and arched her back, granting him easier access.
“Amelia, take me in your hands,” he urged, his voice hoarse with need.
“Yes, darling,” she whispered, her small hands already working at the buttons of his trousers. Every brush of her hands sent a shock wave of heady lust through him. Then she was pushing at his drawers. Finally, one soft, cool hand wrapped around him and squeezed gently. He swallowed a groan, on the edge of losing control.
“I can’t wait,” he half whimpered.
“I know. It’s all right.”
He needed no further encouragement. He lifted her lithe body, shoved her skirts aside, and positioned her over him.
She parted her legs, her bent knees on either side of his hips.
He brought her down and thrust into her.
“Chase, oh my God, Chase.”
