My Lord Wicked (Historical Regency Romance) (31 page)

Her face lifted to his for a wet, passionate kiss as his fingers fumbled with the row of buttons at the back of her dress. To his surprise, her tongue slid through his parted lips, showing none of the repulsion most maidens did over open-mouthed kissing.

When he had finished with all the buttons, she surprised him again by lifting off the dress. Then, balancing herself on one leg then the other, removed her shoes and stockings. Wearing only her shift, she merged her body into his once more. He felt the milk of life flowing, zinging through him. He was lost to sanity, mindful only of the cries of his starved body, his need to become one with her. He inched up the shift until he splayed his hand on the smooth flesh of her thigh. And she moaned a throaty approval.

Goaded on by her insatiable rhythm, his hand went higher. Then higher still until his fingers dipped into her slickness. And she moaned again, this time widening her thighs.

He had to keep telling himself this was for her. It was her pleasure, not his, that he sought. She was tight. Very tight. And, thank God, blessedly lubricated.

His voice was husky and low. "May I undress you?"

"Yes, please."

He removed his coat first, then her shift, throwing it on his discarded coat. Next, he began to unlace her stays. When her breasts sprang free, he nearly lost his breath. His eyes slowly, agonizingly travelled over the length of her slender, milky flesh, taking in the glory of her peach-sized breasts, the smooth curve of her waist, then lower, the crevice of brown above her long shapely legs. And he thought he'd never before beheld so innocent a beauty.

He dropped to his knees as if he were worshipping her, as, indeed, he was. She moved to him and his mouth covered one breast, his hands stroking her, kneading her, playing with her as he languidly sucked at a her nipple and his fingers once again slipped into her warmth, taking up where they had lift off.

And once again her lower torso began to roll toward him, slowly at first, then faster and at last in jerky, thrusting motions.

It was time.

He stood up, planting his still-booted feet in front of her. She moved closer and began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. "It grows terribly hot in here." Her voice was a growl. His Freddie was no child but a full-fledged woman with a woman's body, a woman's needs.

And he wanted her not just for his surging need but for his life and all the days it had yet to yield.

Once she helped him remove his shirt, he lifted her and carried her to the sofa. She lay on it, scooting back to make room for him. He sat on the edge and removed his boots, then stretched his body beside her, clad only in breeches. Her hands glided over his heated flesh as she arched toward him, urging him on with her maddening, erratic rhythm. He drew her ever closer, exulting in the feel of her, the taste, the light lavender scent.

Now, if he could but complete the act they both desired so excruciatingly.

He kissed her gently at first, then hungrily, his hand cupping her low, stroking her until she cried out. Then he adjusted his breeches. She widened herself for him and he eased into her.

***

She had wanted to show him how good it was for a man and woman who loved each other to make love. She had planned to offer herself on the altar of his redemption. But never in her wildest fantasies had she ever imagined it could be like this, that she could ever feel so thoroughly complete, so utterly sated.

Her hands glided possessively over the powerful muscles of his back, urging him deeper and deeper until she had called out his name as if he were her savior. She contracted herself around his movement, euphoric over the groans she had brought to his lips. And when she had felt his liquid heat flowing into her core, the primitive, breathless panting from deep within him, she trembled violently. Not just there, low in her body, but in shuddering waves washing over her from head to foot, leaving her hot and wet and satisfied beyond comprehension.

Long after the gush of frenzied love making had stilled, he stayed within her, stroking her, smoothing the damp hair from her face. She took the hand that had touched her
there
and sucked his fingers into her mouth.

He propped himself up on one arm and gazed into her heated eyes. "The next time you do this, my love, it shall be in my bed as my much cherished wife."

"Then you have at last dispelled your aberration over ever marrying again?"

"No, woman of mine,
you
have dispelled it. And most thoroughly, I might add."

Her mouth curved into a smile.

EPILOGUE

"Has the post come, Eason?" Freddie asked.

"Yes, Lady Stacks. I was just going to bring it to his lordship."

Freddie held out a slim hand. "I'll take it to him." As she strode through the great room, she rifled through the letters. Two caught her eye. One was from Perth, the other she recognized as being from Thomas's publisher. She broke the seal, running her eyes over the text as she made her way to the library.

When the door opened Stacks looked up from the papers on his desk. "Tommy down for his nap?" he queried.

She smiled. "Thank goodness for his poor nurse and for Marmalade. Your son has been a holy terror today." She handed him the letters, then plopped down on the sofa.

She watched as he opened the one from Australia. "Why are you receiving mail from Australia?"

He finished reading the letter but he still did not answer her.

"It's not the first letter you've received from Perth."

He took a deep breath. "When we were first married I made the decision not to prosecute Julia Taylor for Elizabeth's murder. I wanted to spare you the scandal."

"I wish to God she could hang for what she did to Elizabeth--and to you."

"It was also my intent that she be punished for her crime, and I have no remorse that I had one of my men abduct her and put her on a ship bound for Australia--where I had arranged for her to serve as an indentured servant."

Freddie's hand flew to her mouth.

His eyes ran over the script on the letter before him. "My man in Australia writes that Mrs. Taylor burned to death in a house fire some months ago."

"I'm not sorry," Freddie said with defiance.

He put aside the letter. "Nor am I." Then he took up the letter from his publisher.

"Are you reading the post from your publisher?"

"
Our
publisher," he corrected. "Mr. Symmington informs me they've gone into another printing on the book, and he wants to know when he can expect the next."

"If you didn't spend so much time indulging Tommy--and me," she said, her eyes alight. "I declare, Thomas, your mission on earth is to smooth away life's bumps for Tommy and me. You're far too indulgent."

He shrugged. "It's not indulgent to make my wife labor on my boring botany notes day in and day out. You should be spending my money frivolously as other wives do--not working in my dreary library all your waking hours."

"I will have you know I do not think your notes boring or your library dreary." Her voice softer, she added, "I am happiest here in this room where we first declared our love."

"And where we first made love." His voice was throaty, his eyes smoldering.

"Yes," she whispered, getting up and moving to him. She placed her hand gently on his chiseled cheek, then linked her hands behind his neck as he pulled her onto his lap. "When shall we tell Mr. Symmington to look for the next book?"

"If my wife would quit distracting me I might be able to finish the book this week." He covered her lips with his.

When he was finished, she spoke. "Shall we go upstairs for a
nap
?"

He scooted his chair back. "A very good plan, my love."

"Your book can wait."

"
Our
book," he said, lifting her hand to his lips.

THE END

Win a $50 Gift Certificate

I hope you enjoyed
My Lord Wicked
.
If you did, would you please consider posting a review by the book's listing at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, Smashwords or a site where you might have read it? If you do, please send me an email at
[email protected]
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Thank you from Cheryl Bolen

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