Page 153 of Her Beast

He’d been grateful when she’d not wanted cards and chatter after their meal. Instead, they had retired to his favorite guest room where he’d spent most of the night reacquainting his mouth with her body.

It had taken some effort to distract her from her stated goal of intercourse—she was nothing if not dogged—but Malcolm had discovered that his Julia became just as malleable as anyone else when subjected to repeated and protracted orgasms.

He’d had his tongue and fingers in and on every part of her, so why he was resisting engaging in theultimatedeed with her, he did not know. Did he believe she’d find some consolation—after she’d learned the depth of destruction he’d visited upon her family—if they’d never actually fucked?

Malcolm snorted at the foolish thought.

He’d resisted her considerable efforts last night and had—yet again—left her exhausted and sleeping, compounding his cowardice by eating his breakfast just after dawn to ensure he didn’t encounter her accusing gaze over coddled eggs and kippers.

Something told him that she’d be less amenable to sensual manipulation—no matter how fulfilling—tonight.

The door to his office opened and Butkins entered.

“I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.” Allegedly because of all the work he had to do, but really because he’d wanted to fantasize about last night… and what might happen tonight.

“Er, Mr. Smith is here, sir.”

Malcolm glanced at the clock and frowned; it was just after three. A visit from his friend in the middle of the day was unusual. Smith must have something important to say.

“Send him right in.”

“It will take me a moment to go fetch him.”

“Fetch him from where?”

“He is waiting in the greenhouse, sir.”

Malcolm snorted. “With Miss Harlow?”

“Yes, sir. She was painting when he arrived.”

“How long has he been here, Butkins?”

His secretary’s pale skin flamed. “Er, perhaps a quarter of an hour.”

“And nobody thought to tell me until now?”

“Well, sir, it seems he… er, sneaked in.”

Malcolm sighed.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

“It’s not your fault. If Smith wants to get in somewhere, he’ll get in. Go and fetch him.”

Malcolm allowed himself a laugh when Butkins shut the door; Smith and his bloody meddling. The man was a force of nature once he sank his teeth into something and Malcolm knew from his last visit—when he’d barged into Malcolm’s library so he could meet Julia—that his controlling friend had decided it was time for Malcolm to marry.

“She is perfect for you and you for her,” Smith had insisted.

“Julia would be perfect for any man, Smith. While I—I am a debauched, damaged pervert twice her age.”

“More than twice, actually.”

That had made Malcolm laugh.

He could only assume the other man was back for more of the same today. Why Smith was so damned determined to see him wed was anyone’s guess.

Malcolm shuffled his papers into a neat pile and was just tucking them away when the door opened.

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