Page 41 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

‘Is this okay?’ he asked, his hand hovering on the buttons of his jeans.

The harsh demand registered, but she couldn’t seem to process what he was saying through the heady fog of desire.

‘Will it harm the baby?’ he asked again, as he stroked the thick length, desperation turning his gaze to a rich emerald.

All she could do was shake her head dumbly, while her every thought was obliterated by the throbbing need to feel him inside her again.

He grunted, then dragged her panties down her legs, before finding the swollen nub of her clitoris with his thumb. She braced her hands on the counter, dropped her head back and gave herself over to his sure, devastating touch as he worked her into a frenzy.

She was panting, sobbing, as she flew to her peak, but just as the pleasure broke over her, she heard him fumbling with his jeans and releasing the thick erection.

Hooking her legs over his hips, he dragged her forward and entered her to the hilt.

She clung to his shoulders as his forehead touched hers, his harsh breathing matching her own. He gave her time to adjust to the overwhelming pleasure, the exquisite sensation, the intense connection. Then he began to move, drawing out, thrusting back, slowly, carefully but with a purpose, a determination which sent her careering back to that terrifying peak. The pleasure rose to crest again—so fast, too furious—the sensations consuming her vicious and unstoppable now.

The molten pleasure exploded along her nerve-endings as she let out a feral cry of completion, shattering one last time. She heard him shout out, and fly over right behind her.

What the hell did I do?

Mason clasped Beatrice’s bare hips and pressed his face into her fragrant hair, trying desperately to level himself. To take stock. To think past the bone-melting climax which had left him weak and shaky and strung out.

But he couldn’t seem to battle his way out of the thick fog of afterglow. Couldn’t seem to feel anything but the tight clasp of her body, massaging him through the last of his orgasm, and her hands, limp and trembling, as she clung to him. And couldn’t hear anything but the thunder of his own heartbeat and the ragged pants of her breathing.

He’d just taken her like an insane person.

One minute they’d been standing too close in the cramped space, and the next he’d been dragging off her panties and thrusting heavily into that tight, wet heat.

His chest heaved as enough of his faculties returned to dump him off the glittering cloud and plunge him into brutal reality.

He shifted back, felt her twitch as he moved away from her.

She looked shell-shocked, dazed, her breathing uneven, her nipple reddened where he had mauled it moments ago. He braced against the swift spike of desire as she banded an arm across her chest to cover her nakedness.

Shame engulfed him as he stuffed himself back into his jeans.

He bent to pick up her underwear, brutally aware of her struggling to repair her own clothing. He clasped her elbow to help her get down from the narrow counter. As she landed on her feet, she tugged her arm free, and shame closed his throat.

What could he say to make amends? He’d planned to be smart, sophisticated, pragmatic, to reason with her about her living conditions, to persuade her to give up her job and let him support her... And then, eventually, to show her that whatever they’d shared in London wasn’t over.

But, instead of that, he’d jumped her as soon as he’d scented her arousal and got close enough to touch.

He handed her the scrap of lace.

She grabbed it and slipped her panties back on.

‘Thank you,’ she said, the polite reply incongruous.

‘I didn’t use a condom,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her gaze finally connected with his, but the vivid blush on her cheeks only made her seem more innocent. More vulnerable. And made him feel like more of an animal.

Where had all his cool points gone? Before Beatrice he’d always strived to be, if not charming, at least generous with women in bed. He knew he was rough around the edges, but he never wanted any women to be able to say he wasn’t aware of their pleasure too. But with Beatrice, sex had always been different. It had never been fun, or light, or recreational. It had always been basic and elemental—a force of nature he couldn’t control. He’d come close to losing it completely just now, and it shocked him.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, running her fingers through her short cap of curls and breaking eye contact. ‘Luckily, I don’t think you can get me pregnant twice,’ she added with a dry wit which might have been funny—if he hadn’t felt so raw and exposed.

The comment brought the baby back to the forefront of his mind, the way it hadn’t been as soon as she’d given him the go-ahead earlier.

The shame kicked up another notch.

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