The Duke’s Perfect Wife (MacKenzies & McBrides #4)(47)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“You were an interesting… instructor.”

He smiled, his forehead against hers. “El, you make me young again. You make me…”

His smile died with his words. Hart’s hands went to her waist, fingers unfastening her skirt and the petticoat beneath. Eleanor’s skirts fell—she’d donned no bustle to wander the rainy meadow this morning.

“I make you what?” she whispered.

Hart’s warm hands glided to her bu**ocks, his laughter completely gone. She saw stark need in his eyes, and loneliness, and fear. Fear of many things, all complicated, all too real.

“I can’t do this alone,” he said. “I need you, El.”

She knew he didn’t mean for ravishing in a canal boat while the Romany raced off to see Cameron work the horses.

“I… need… you.” The words tore from him, this man who never dared voice weakness to anyone.

Eleanor slid off her camisole and twined her arms around Hart’s neck.

“I’m here,” she said.

Hart slid his thumb across Eleanor’s lower lip, in wonder, as always, at her softness. He was a hard, hard man, and Eleanor was all things warmth and comfort. He’d been a fool to let her walk away.

He drew her up to him and sank himself into another kiss. She tasted like rainwater, heat, and desire.

He’d taught her, yes, he’d taught her. Not everything—not by a long way—but he’d taught her.

Eleanor looked up at him with her warm blue eyes, her passion shining unashamed. He loved that about her—Eleanor had never seen any shame in her need.

Her skirts were on the floor, she standing in nothing but her drawers. Hart smoothed the fabric that cupped her bu**ocks, linen so fine it was almost silk. She’d obeyed him and gotten new ones.

He ached for her, his cockstand berating him to get on with it. But he did not want to go too fast, did not want to rush. The Romany and Ian had given Hart this gift—a gift of time with Eleanor.

More than that. Eleanor might consider this a stolen moment, but Hart was not going to keep it to a moment. He had to keep her safe from the world, and now from Sinclair bloody McBride. McBride was a handsome Scot with two small children and badly in need of a wife, and here was Eleanor ripe for the plucking. He saw what Ainsley was up to, asking him here.

Hart had to move swiftly, never mind his plans. No more waiting.

He untied the tapes that held her drawers closed and slid his hands inside them. Softness met his fingers, the silk of Eleanor. He circled his thumbs on her skin as he kissed her, then moved one hand to the warmth between her thighs.

She was hot, wet, ready, as needy as Hart was. He moved his fingers, rewarded by her little noise of pleasure as her body loosened. Anything maidenly and resistant in her dissolved and floated away. The prim young spinster vanished, and Eleanor the passionate woman filled her place.

Her br**sts were soft, fuller now than when she’d been twenty. Hart leaned down and licked between them, tasting warm, salty skin.

The cabin was narrow and low. Hart didn’t have room to sweep Eleanor into his arms and carry her to the nearest bunk, but he guided her back to it, kissing her and touching her all the way.

He lifted her and rested her bu**ocks on the bunk, stepping between her thighs as he parted them, and slipped her drawers the rest of the way off. Eleanor cupped his face in her hands, her eyes half closed as she waited for what was to come.

Hart unfastened the pin that held his kilt closed and caught the folds as they fell. He pulled the plaid up and draped it across the bunk behind Eleanor.

The bunk was too narrow. It would never hold them. Hart lifted Eleanor again, and their bodies came together, both damp from the rain and slick from the stove’s heat.

Hart moved his hands down her spine to her bu**ocks, smoothing, soothing. He lifted her a little more, and then he was gliding into her, her slick depths welcoming him.

Inside her. His Eleanor.

Hart stilled, the sensation of her surrounding him filling him with joy.

“Hart.” Her warm breath feathered over his damp skin. She touched his face, smiling a little as she rubbed fingers over his rough whiskers.

Eleanor’s red hair was dark with rain, the ringlets soft under his lips. She’d rushed out into the wet without a hat. Typical Eleanor. Impetuous, impatient.

Her nose was gloriously dusted with freckles. Hart kissed one, then another, then another, all the while feeling the sharp joy of being inside her. Part of her. She was his.

Hart braced his hand against the cabin wall and thrust up into her. It was awkward in this space, but he did it. “El.”

His voice grew more grating with each thrust, her body welcoming him. Hart’s fist grew tight against the wall, his head bowing to her neck. Eleanor was pressed firmly against him, her skin to his. Water from his hair trickled down on both of them.

More, more. Never stop. Never.

Eleanor let her hands rove his back, gliding down to his bu**ocks, touching every inch of him. She’d always loved to explore his body, and Hart willingly let her.

He nipped her earlobe where the emeralds had dangled, licked the shell of her ear. His mouth moved to her neck, lips closing to leave a love bite.

El, I’ve missed you. I’ve died a little every day without you.

Eleanor tilted her head, letting him taste her. When he raised up again, she lowered her mouth to his neck, and he felt the small bite of her teeth, her mouth leaving its mark.

A wave of need rushed at him, slamming into him to carry him away. He knew he was coming, finishing, but he stayed hard inside her, his hand braced on the wall to keep him on his feet. Eleanor’s little moans became cries of delight as she reached her own peak.

“Eleanor.” Hart closed his eyes and tried to slow himself. Climax meant that it was over, that he’d have to let her go.

No. No. Never.

Hart held on to her, feeling the last of it, the mixture of excitement and lassitude that meant he’d reached a perfect moment.

“I can’t do this without you, El.” He opened his eyes, hearing the catch in his voice. “I need you.”

“Hart…”

“Don’t go away from me again.” The note in his voice was desperation. “I’ll never bear it if you go away again.”

Tell her everything, Ian had admonished.

I can’t. Not until she’s mine, not until she can’t ever leave me.

Eleanor looked at him with her beautiful blue eyes, her brows together, Eleanor assessing him.

“Please,” he said. Dear God, he almost sobbed it. But his heart was hurting. She’d go again, and that would be the end of him.