A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(76)
Author: Tessa Dare

While Thorne explored her mouth, he laid her back on the plush velvet carpeting and worked his hand under her skirts. They were on the floor, in the middle of Sir Lewis Finch’s medieval hall, while a ball went on mere steps away.

The wise man would have hurried, or put a stop to this entirely. But he meant to take his time. This wasn’t a hasty, scandalous tryst.

This was making love.

As he lifted her blue silk skirts, he took care to arrange the folds carefully so they wouldn’t wrinkle any more than necessary. He bunched the petticoats strategically, baring her legs.

Thank God. She wore no drawers.

He needn’t have removed her stockings, but he couldn’t resist. The garters taunted him with neat ribbon bows.

He undid them with his teeth. After easing one silk stocking down her smooth, taut thigh and shapely calf, he was filled with sorrow to reach her neatly turned toes. Then his spirits were buoyed when he realized he could immediately repeat the experience with her other leg.

Once he had the second bared, he placed a kiss to the tender arch of her foot. He worked his way upward, ignoring her little twitches and protestations when he licked the inside of her knee or the slope of her inner thigh. He had some tickling to repay.

By the time he reached the cleft of her sex, she was writhing, eager for his kiss. Her folds glistened in the dim light. He loved knowing anticipation worked just as well as application. He rewarded her patience with a single, lazy, savoring pass of his tongue. She whimpered, arching in a plea for more.

He sat back on his haunches, hurriedly unbuttoning his trouser falls while he drank in the view of her pale, sprawled legs and the dark triangle of curls guarding her sex. There was something unspeakably arousing about this perspective. From her waist up she was poised, elegant, perfect. A lady. From the waist down she was nothing but pure, natural woman.

And she belonged to him. All of her.

He freed his erection, already rock-hard and pulsing.

She bent one leg at the knee, opening herself in invitation.

He couldn’t refuse.

With care not to crush her skirts, he settled into the cradle of her thighs and positioned himself at her warm, wet entrance. He told himself to go slow, to not hurt her. But she tilted her hips, and he slid straight in.

Sweet mercy.

She was tight, yes. But not guarded or clenching in pain. She was perfect, and he fitted himself deep, sinking in all the way to the root. The soft welcome he found made him want to never leave.

“Yes,” she sighed.

He began to thrust slowly, steadily—knowing that this was a race more easily won at a walk than a gallop. Drawing on all the self-control he possessed, he kept his pace unhurried, reveling in each easy glide, every silken inch.

Beneath him, she sighed and moaned, climbing closer and closer to release.

All too soon, Thorne felt himself approaching that dangerous edge. Slipping closer and closer to the unknown. If he fell over the brink, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Panic built in his chest. He should withdraw. He should protect her.

She seemed to sense his struggle. One of her warm, slender legs wrapped over his.

“Don’t leave me,” she said. “I want all of you. Everything you have to give.”

Her words spurred him faster. Soon his hips were bucking with force, slapping against her thighs. The edge was near, and he raced toward it—for good or ill, determined not to hold anything back.

She cried out and clung to his neck, arching her back in the throes of bliss. He felt the sharp bite against his nape. Not her fingernails, no. His ring, on her finger. A razor edge of bliss.

He couldn’t last long now. The climax built in his loins and the base of his spine. Pleasure surged through his veins as he pumped hard and fast. He was wild to get closer, deeper. So deep, where it would be safe.

He forced himself to keep his eyes open, focused on her face. She would be his anchor if he found himself flung somewhere else.

“God, Katie. Hold on to me. Tight.”

She held him, and the climax seized him, too. And he did find himself flung somewhere else. But it wasn’t a land of shadows and smoke and explosion. Instead, he found a landscape of luminous skin and perfect pink lips and eyes so wide and so deep, they were seas of love. Here, he was reasonably certain hearts had wings. He intended to make many return trips.

Above all, it was beautiful. It was so beautiful, he could have wept.

He wouldn’t have wept alone. As he slowed to a stop, a few tears glistened on her cheeks. He didn’t worry about them, just kissed them away.

“I love you, too,” she said.

He lifted his head, surprised. “Did I say it?”

She smiled. “Only several times.”

“Oh. Then good.” He kissed her again. “I felt it enough for a thousand.”

She stroked his hair, and he allowed himself a few moments’ rest, nestled close to her bosom. If he had to be a broken, fragmented man, liable to slip into strange territories from time to time and be unaware of his actions—he was glad to know he could do something good and loving on occasion.

“We should be getting back,” he said, withdrawing from her embrace. “I should speak with Drewe.”

“Kate?” The deep, masculine voice came from the corridor. “Kate, are you down here?”

Damn, damn, damn. Speak of the devil.

Thorne didn’t panic. He rose and pulled Katie to her feet, moments before Drewe entered the room. As she stood, her carefully draped skirts fell naturally to the floor. No one would have known what had just gone on beneath them.

“We’re in here, Drewe,” Thorne called, trying to make his voice nonchalant.

“We?” Drewe asked, striding into the room.

Thorne tried to be calm as he buttoned his falls. He knew the shadows would hide him for a few moments, as Drewe’s eyes adjusted to the candlelight.

Just one more closure . . .

Then the coat buttons. Drewe was halfway to them now.

One more button. There.

“Drewe.” Thorne bowed. “I was looking for you.”

The marquess eyed him warily. “Kate, what’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”

Her protests were a little too strenuous for Thorne’s liking, and Drewe was definitely suspicious. But he was reasonably certain they’d managed to cover any real evidence.

That was, until Drewe’s gaze fell to the two discarded stockings on the floor.

Damn.

In the dark, his eyes flashed with unholy rage. “You rutting bastard,” he seethed. “I’ll kill you.”