Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

Because with her touch trailing down his ribs, there was none left, not even the bare semblance of civility he’d been struggling to maintain. Not with her hands undoing his waistcoat, her fingers dancing down his abdomen. Not with his mouth on her neck, nor the sweet swells of her br**sts soft against his touch. The lacy edge of her bodice was in the way; he tugged it back, revealing the muslin of her shift. He could see the dark rose circle of her nipple through the fabric. Every last sinful fantasy flitted up in his mind and screamed to be made reality.

“What control?” he whispered again, and he fastened his mouth around her breast. Fantasy and reality merged; she was responsive and willing in his arms. The hard nub of her nipple tasted sweet, even through the sheer material of her shift. She gasped, and his fevered imagination could never have manufactured the hard choking sound of her desire, the feel of her body. He should think. He should stop. But instead, he kissed his way up her neck. His thumb found her wet nipple. A thousand desires flooded him; he circled it back and forth, feeling her own want build up. She was gasping. And then he leaned down and gathered her skirts in his hands. Lace and starched petticoats foiled his approach for the barest seconds; then he found the muslin of her drawers. He reached inside to the place between her legs.

She was wet and silky, as hot as he’d ever hoped. He tasted her mouth as his fingers found that spot. He’d learned her last night. Now he knew just where to touch her, knew just how to flick his fingers along her sensitive flesh.

Dimly he recalled that he should…that he was supposed to… What was he supposed to do? Any consideration beyond this—this hot need for her—seemed immaterial. There was nothing but his want. His hands fell to her waist. His groin pressed into her pelvis. It felt wonderful against his erection. She felt so damned good.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough, not with this distance between them. He wanted her in every way possible.

But there were consequences. There were considerations. He knew there were, even if his mind could not recall what they were.

When he pulled away, however, her hands fell to the placket of his breeches. He could feel himself twitch against the rough fabric. She undid his breeches, and then her fingers were warm against the length of him. He might have come right then, from her touch. He didn’t. Instead, he gritted his teeth and slid his fingers against her. It didn’t take much to imagine plunging into that warmth, to imagine those legs of hers around his waist. Her fingers brushed the head of his penis.

“Damn,” he swore. “If you keep doing that, I’ll—”

“Do it.” Her words were a taunt, a dare to shed the last vestiges of his discipline. And when she ran her finger down the length of his erection, he did. He growled, wordless, and lifted her against the wall. He didn’t think; instead, his hands held her steady.

She wrapped her legs around him, and then, with one motion, he sank inside her. Gravity pulled her down his cock, settling her around him. The slick friction of her was glorious. He leaned down and found the tip of her nipple again. She was joined to him. He pulled out and stroked back in, and she shuddered.

Yes. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d needed. This slick wetness. This unthinking bliss. This spiraling, thrusting want, their bodies coupled. He’d needed this damned burn, painfully pleasurable, a satisfaction that raged from his balls all the way to his hands, clasping her to the wall.

Her body tensed around his. She was his fully; he was inside her, taking every last stroke he’d denied himself.

When she came, he felt the heat of it like the opening of an oven. He pumped inside of her again, and again, and again, until he was shooting all of himself inside her. Until he was sated and weak and barely able to hold even her slight weight against the wall.

Breath returned first.

Then followed the scream of his muscles, aching after that physical exertion.

Sanity was longer in coming. She was looking up at him, smoothing away the sweat on his forehead, a faint smile playing across her lips. Her legs were wrapped around him; he was still embedded in her, his c**k too sensitive, aware of the pulse deep in her body. Perhaps that beat was in him. He couldn’t tell any longer.

And they were in the thrice-be-damned hallway, for God’s sake, where anyone could see them. What the hell had he been thinking?

He hadn’t. He hadn’t even waited to take her to bed like a civilized man.

“Damn me.”

That shy smile spread across her face, lighting it up. “If I had known that it would be like this, I would have goaded Harcroft to manhandle me years ago.” God truly had damned Ned. He’d ignored everything—his concerns for her well-being, his control. Rage had transformed into desire. He’d not had one thought in his head but taking his pleasure of her.

Then again, she hadn’t seemed to mind. Quite the contrary. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. Slowly, he disengaged from her. He lowered her to the floor with all the gentleness that he could muster.

She did up his breeches, her hands steady. She bit her lip in concentration as she worked, and an unbidden flush of affection hit him. He’d always thought his wife a striking woman. How had he not noticed before now how adorable she was?