Page 75 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“No.”
Bink felt her grip tighten and the madness rose again. God’s bones, how he wanted her. He clamped his eyes shut and gripped fistfuls of silky damp hair.
“I’ll have you just as you are.” Her breathless murmur warmed his chest as it had done in the room at the inn.
He tilted her chin and kissed her again, working the robe from her shoulders, slanting his lips to plunge himself deeper. While her hands found his neck, he grabbed handfuls of sweet arse, squeezing like he’d wanted to do the day they’d first met.
With one hearty leap she was up in his arms, her skirts up, her legs wrapped around him.
Sweet Jesus, he could not be this blessed.
He kicked the pooled silk of the robe aside and staggered to the bed, settling there while she pushed off his coats, her breasts straining the thin lace of the gown.
She yanked at his shirt. “Lift your arms.”
Bink laughed and complied, and her sigh almost undid him. “You have so many freckles.” Her palms skimmed his chest, a look of wonder in her eyes. “And the hair here is soft. Not at all like your beard.”
Let’s see how soft is your chest.
He should shave. A bloody gentleman wouldn’t burn his bride with his beard on their wedding night.
But he was no bloody gentleman. He was a bastard and a beast and a raging cock.
Hands shaking as he fought for control, he fumbled the gown’s straps over her shoulders, tugging until it fell to her waist, her mouth dropping with it, hands flying up as shields.
He lifted them away and savored the view, his vision fogging and tunneling. The creamy smooth skin here was lighter. Never exposed. Uncharted territory no other man had explored.
She was his.
A surge of power, a desire to claim, roared through him. He bent his head and licked at her nipple, swirling his tongue on the rosy pink bead.
Her sharp inhale sent her closer, deeper. When he suckled, she bucked, her soft core rubbing against his shaft.
Bink froze and unlatched from the teat, trying to stay the urge to spill. Her answering tension he could do nothing about at the moment.
“Did I…did I do something wrong?” she whispered.
He held her close and tried to think of something—the account books, the autumn harvest, the repairs to the roof. Anything.
“Mr. Gibson.” Her voice had gone timid.
His Paulette feared him, feared this. Shame slowed his lust, and he gripped her hunched shoulders. “You’re a dream, Paulette. So beautiful, so right, I must slow a bit, or I’ll rush like a ravening barbarian and you won’t feel the pleasure I promised.”
“Oh,” she said on a long breath, unclenching her hands.
“And you may only call me Mr. Gibson when you’re angry—no,very angry—with me.”
She dragged a thumb over his hairy cheek.
She can’t stop touching me. His cock twitched against the fall of his breeches, raging to get down to business.
“What shall I call you then?”
“What do you want to call me?”
“Your real name is Edward, Bakeley said.”
“Bink is really my name also. It’s my middle name, true, but the one everyone knows me by.”
