Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Good.” His voice was strained as he lowered his weight onto hers. “Because—forgive me, darling—this time will have to be quick.”


She gasped as he insinuated one hand between them, probing the slick folds of her sex and spreading her thighs apart. Then she felt the blunt head of him—there—pressing, pushing, stretching her to the point of pain. And beyond.

“Are you hurt?” He panted against her neck.

“A little.”

“Shall I stop?”

“No.” She clutched his back and hooked her legs over his. “Don’t you dare.” She had fought for him, fought to experience this pain, and she felt oddly possessive of the dull ache between her legs. She wouldn’t let him take it away. The pain was real, it was now—it meant he had truly come home at last. Home to her.

All too soon, the ache dissipated, lessening with each thrust, and a desperate yearning took its place. She rose up to meet each wild buck of his hips, her hands sliding over his back on a thin sheen of perspiration. His tempo increased, driving her closer and closer to that horizon of delicious pleasure he’d pushed her beyond that afternoon. But this time, it would be so much better. This time he would come too.

With a guttural moan, he froze deep inside her. His gaze caught hers, and Cecily instinctively understood the question in his eyes. They could create a child this way, if she allowed him to continue.

She swept a lock of hair from his brow and waited. He knew her feelings already. This decision should be his.

“I do,” he said roughly. “My God, Cecily. I do love you.”

Joy swelled inside her, until she trembled with the effort of containing it. Smiling up at him, she whispered, “Then damn the consequences.”

No more words after that. Only sighs and moans and wild, inarticulate urgings. Faster. More. There. Yes, there.

Now.





“CAN WE STAY HERE ALL NIGHT?” Cecily asked. She lay tangled with him on the narrow bed, struggling to catch her breath. Only now growing aware of the musty closeness in the cottage.

“We could,” he answered sleepily. “If we wish to be awoken by Denny’s footmen crashing down the door. He’ll have them all searching for us soon enough.”

“He knows I’m with you.” In more ways than one. She felt a pang of sympathy for her old friend. There’d been true disappointment in his expression, when she’d broken their kiss and refused him that afternoon. But Denny deserved to find love too, and she never could have made him truly happy. Not when her heart and soul belonged to Luke.

As if exerting his claim on her body as well, Luke tightened his arms around her. Kissing the hollow of her throat, he murmured, “Perhaps we can stay a half hour more.”

Afterward, they rose and dressed quietly, pausing to tidy the small dwelling before latching the door as they left. The night was cloudless, and the nearly full moon provided them sufficient light to follow the path. They walked hand in hand.

“Did you see it last night?” she asked quietly. “The stag?”

“Yes.”

“It was beautiful.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Don’t you agree?” Perhaps men did not think animals “beautiful”, or did not admit to it if they did.

“Yes.” He gave her a rare, easy smile. “It reminded me of you. Beautiful, graceful, fearless.”

“And here I thought him so much like you. Proud, wild, strong.” She laughed softly. “Perhaps he didn’t exist at all, and we were just out here chasing each other.”

If the stag truly existed, they did not see it again before reaching the border of Swinford Woods and emerging onto the green. Then again, a whole herd of bloodthirsty man-deer could have been lurking in the thickets, and Cecily would have remained oblivious. She only had eyes for Luke.

And that fact must have been painfully obvious to Denny, when he nearly collided with them at the entrance to the drawing room.

“Cecily.” His gaze wandered from her unbound hair to her disheveled gown, to her fingers still laced with Luke’s. “I…I was just about to go searching for you.”

“There you are!” Portia called from behind him. “Come in, come in.” She lay swaddled in blankets on the divan, with her bandaged leg propped on a nearby ottoman. Brooke sat beside her, balancing a teacup in either hand.

Cecily turned to Denny. “I’m sorry to have worried you, but…” She squeezed Luke’s hand for courage. “You see, Luke and I—”

“I understand,” he replied. The serious expression on his face told her he did understand, completely. To his credit, he took it well. He turned to Luke. “When will you be married?”

“Married?” Portia exclaimed.

Cecily sighed. Just like Denny, to take his responsibilities as her third cousin twice removed—and only male relation in the vicinity—so seriously. But did he have to force the issue now? Certainly, she hoped that she and Luke might one day—

“As soon as possible.” Luke’s arm slid around her waist.

Cecily’s gaze snapped up to his. Are you certain? she asked him silently.