Page 99 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“No,” Bink said, and “Yes” Paulette said, both at the same time.
He groaned, and before Paulette could stop him, grabbed the bundle from Jenny, slammed the door, and tossed the dress on a chair where it fell to the floor and unrolled, spilling out dark trousers, coats and a shirt.
She spun him around, praying he hadn’t seen the garments, and pulled him back into that passionate kiss. He took the kiss deep, worked her skirts up, and found the opening in her drawers.
She choked at the feel of his fingers.
“Unfasten me,” he groaned, pushing her back against the closed door.
She reached for his coat, and a low rumble told her he’d meant his fall.
Her fingers were clumsy; her mind filled with the need to dissemble, her body filled with his fingers working into her, her heart filled with such a wish to trust and be trusted, she thought she might burst.
She pushed down the top of his trousers and wrapped a hand around his stout shaft. Gasping, his eyes fluttered closed, his free arm braced the door frame, his big chest collapsed against her, and they were one union of grunting, panting, and moaning.
Then he was shoving at her skirts and lifting her. She guided him through the slit in her drawers, and moaned when he filled her.
So wet from him, she was. He had that power, to wring her dry, to fill her again, a power that built with each drive into her until she shattered and he bellowed his own release.
They stood, joined, braced against the door, for longer minutes than they’d needed to achieve that climax, until she felt his muscles tremble from the weight of holding her. She unlocked her ankles and slid down.
And remembered the trousers and shirts spread across the floor.
“Oh, my. That was…” She straightened her gown and forced her hand to her heart when it wanted to wander back under her skirts. She did not want to stop. She did not want to put her attention back to leaving. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave either. Perhaps they should both stay here for several more days. “You must be exhausted. Do you want to sleep here?”
He tipped her chin up and kissed her nose again, his handsome face wrinkling into a curious examination. His was a strong face, the face of a man one could rely on.
Unless that was the last strong face one saw before being locked in a manor house.
But what had he said earlier about conspiring? She sorted through her sluggish brain to try to remember what had happened before he’d so thoroughly muddled her.
“Let’s get you out of this dress.” When his fingers flew to the lacings in the back of her gown, warmth rippled anew. They would make love again. Yes, she wanted that. It had not taken long. There would be plenty of time to carry out her plan.
She slipped the dress off, stepped out of it, and he helped her out of her stays and her chemise and drawers until all that remained were her stockings.
She stepped close, touched her breasts to his waistcoat and her lips to his neck.
“Ah, lass,” he said. “You’re hungry for more.”
She stilled. Was he criticizing?
“As am I. Ravenous. For you.” He stroked her cheek and looked at her.
She suddenly felt her nakedness. “You are too tired. Let me get my chemise.”
“No. I mean, tired I am, but my willingness is not in question. What’s in question is time.”
“I see.” He wanted to sleep. He was leaving within hours.
“And we haven’t done our conspiring yet.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” He set her back and everywhere his gaze touched her, she burned. When his eyes finally settled on her face, they glowed with a dark humor. “We need to talk, yes, and we need to see if those trousers and coats will fit you.”
