Page 36 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
She wiggled, giving a laugh he did not share. “Hurry.”
“I would, my dear,” he grumbled, “if you would not grind your pretty arse into my cock!”
She giggled into the wood of the wall. The one eye she had trained on him winked, and, inspired, he got the corset to fall away. Then he spun her around, and this time, he shared her chuckle.
In a flash, she crossed her arms and tore off her chemise.
The shock of her naked, the beauty of all that perfect skin, stopped him cold. His arms at his sides, he could do naught but stare at all the riches bared before him and shrouded in the shadows. Tomorrow in the daylight, he hoped she still cared enough to allow him the full pleasure of her bare splendor. He would treasure and taste her, feast on and thrill her so that she never forgot him. “Christ,” he murmured, spellbound, “what am I to do with all this?”
“Love me,” she whispered, and stepped forward to fit all that magnificent beauty against him. Her arms around his shoulders, her breasts huge, her nipples hard, her hips flat against his poor, confined, and begging cock, she rubbed her nose along his jaw and up across his cheek to plant tiny kisses on his lips.
She fit him like a puzzle. Plane to plane, arc to arc, round breasts boring into the many layers of his own clothing.
“You feel wonderful,” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around his waist and sank further into his embrace.
Oh, he loved her. Had he not for days, for weeks now?
He could bear no more. He sank to his knees. His arms around her hips and thighs, he nuzzled her bare stomach, and her knees buckled and she would have swooned from her joy of it.
But he had her. She gasped as he spread kisses over the skin above her thatch. She sank her fingers in his hair and twisted. Smiling to himself, he kissed her belly until she squealed. Gasping, she trailed her nails against his scalp. He’d be bald, but he’d love her like this for the next century. What did he care for hair when he could savor her crying his name as he loved her?
He needed more, so stood, upended her, and threw her over his shoulder.
She was chuckling and pinching his ass while he strode to their bedroom and the bed that, up until now, had gotten nogood use. Tonight, they would fill it with every fond regard he had for her, and she for him.
At the side of the bed, turned down by their maid while they were at the ball, he stood her up.
He paused, a man caught in time. Now in more light from the lit sconces, he stood still, stunned, reverent of the sight before him. Such beauty humbled him. And he was deaf to the words she uttered, dumb to any frail response he could make.
He had long admired the cut of her silhouette. In form, she was a tall woman with bounteous breasts, fine waist, and long, lean legs.
But standing before him only in her skin and those white stockings, she was the epitome of every woman. Her skin was pale, a red-head’s porcelain perfection. Her breasts were large, her huge nipples glossy and faintly pink, hard, and pointed at him in her excitement. Her waist flared at her hips; her thighs were sinuous. The legs he had imagined were trim from riding and dancing were also so nimble that, outside in the road, she had wrapped one around his own.
His mouth watered. His arms ached. His cock strained his breeches. He was a mess of a man, paralyzed by the beauty he dared to take in his arms and hope he could show her how he valued her there.
Her eyes narrowed on him in question, then she reached out and her breasts jiggled. She undid his flies, and his cock could not take the torment.
Impulsively, he stepped backward and found the chair, yanked off his boots and socks, and went back to her. He took her hands and put them to the buttons of his flies. “Be aware, my girl, that I don’t want to be sixty when this happens.”
Defiant but smiling, she undid each button with a deliberate, slow twist of her fingers. But in a blink, he was standing, his breeches around his ankles.
“Good work,” he said as he stepped out of them.
She grinned, her hands on her hips as she appraised his standing penis. “I think you’ll do well no matter your age.”
“Madam,” he said as he pointed toward the bed, “I grow gray waiting for you. Get up there.”
She scrambled up on the bed like an eager child. Then she spread herself out on the ivory linens, her arms up, beseeching him to fill them.
He stood, memorizing the moment when the woman he adored was welcoming him to take what he had yearned for—and what he had feared she would never grant.
He loved her.
She wanted him.
For tonight, desire was all she gave.
For tonight, that was enough.
