Gray eyes were soft and glazed, the dark centers so wide, they dwarfed their silvery rings. Her lips were swollen and red, her neck chafed from his lips and jaw. Slowly, he withdrew pins from her hair and scattered wine and flame across the oak.
All the while, he remained buried deep inside her tight heat, his hardness scarcely depleted by his release. But it soon returned. Her breathing shifted. Quickened. He bent forward and nuzzled a velvety nipple, enjoying the jerk of her body against him.
Her callused little hands stroked his back and raked his hair. “Bastian. I—I am too sensitive. It … you are making me … ooooh.”
He began his thrusts again, this time slow and deliberate. He felt her wince but kept his pace. Taking her other nipple in his mouth, he continued playing with the first, squeezing and rolling the ripe tip between his fingers, testing how far he could push her.
As it turned out, her limits were boundless. She loved his roughness. She reveled in the hard pressure of his fingers, the firm suction of his mouth, the steady thrust of his cock, even though she must be sore.
She took him anyway. And she moaned, arching for more. Begging him. Bastian. Bastian. Bastian. Like a prayer for pleasure.
He granted her everything he had, letting his body bring hers to the outermost edge, then spinning both of them tighter. Higher. She ran her hands everywhere—his back and neck, his hair and chest. She even discovered she could bring him pleasure by running her callused thumbs across his nipples.
It lasted longer than the first time, but not long, for all that. He could not sustain the steady rhythm, needing to ride her harder. Deeper.
So, he did, wrapping her legs around his waist once again and propping himself on his elbows above her so his chest could pleasure her breasts. This time, he watched more closely as she found her peak. He listened to every breath and whimper and gasp. He savored the sight of her neck arching, her mouth open in a long, hitched moan. He loved her flush and her strength and her frantic passion.
He loved … her.
Augusta. His Gus. He loved her.
The thought, which was no surprise, nevertheless caught him unawares. Lit a fire beneath his pleasure he hadn’t even felt the first time.
He came suddenly. Sharply. Exploding in a cataclysm so intense, he thought he might fly apart. Perhaps he did, because when he returned to earth, he felt as though he’d been reassembled into a new form.
Broken into pieces and remade by Augusta’s gentle, callused hands.
~~*
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Mornings are an excellent opportunity to set a proper tone. A kind word or affectionate gesture or humble apology soothes many aggravations a wife might suffer over the course of a day. Being awakened too early, for example. Or being married to a man.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining effective measures for achieving domestic tranquility.
Upon awakening in Sebastian’s bed the following morning, Augusta stretched and winced. Good heavens, she felt as though she’d been thrown from a horse and then washed an entire houseful of bedding.
It was glorious. She grinned, rolling onto her back and blinking at the light from the windows.
He’d loved her four … no, five times. The first two had blended together a bit. The last three had been slower. He’d been thorough. With his hands. With his mouth. Yes, most diligent, indeed, as though he’d had something to prove.
God, how she adored him, her rough man.
Nothing he’d done had much surprised her, apart from the extraordinary pleasure of it. Her mother had been a plainspoken, earthy woman, and she’d been adamant that, before her death, Augusta would be well informed about every aspect of womanhood and marital congress. At age eleven, Augusta had sat at her mother’s bedside, round-eyed and alarmed by her descriptions.
“He will touch you everywhere, Augusta.”
She’d gulped and dropped her gaze to her own flat bodice. “There?”
“When your bosoms grow, you will understand why it is pleasurable.”
“I don’t think I should like to have bosoms.”
Mama’s laugh had quickly turned into a terrible cough before she’d continued, “You shall feel pain the first time he beds you. A man worth having will ensure this is balanced by pleasure, but you should be prepared to endure the discomfort. It eases considerably after the first time or two.”
“D-discomfort?”
Mama’s gaunt features had gentled into a smile. “Choose a good man, my darling, and you will soon forget such pain occurred. Now, let us move on to childbearing.”
“Oh, must we?”
Augusta could still hear her mother’s laugh, feel the squeeze of her strong, capable hand, see the steadfast love in her eyes. Augusta smiled at the memory, knowing how well Mama would have liked Sebastian. Father would have approved as well, she thought. Particularly once he learned Sebastian stood to inherit a title. Father had wanted gentlemen—preferably titled ones—for his daughters. She’d meant to keep her promise to him that she would find a gentleman of quality for Phoebe.
Glassington might be titled, but he certainly wasn’t of quality.
She sighed and rolled over, wondering where Sebastian had gone. She wanted to speak to him about her sister. She quickly washed and dressed, donning a soft, gracefully draped gown of cerulean wool.
She found him in the morning room, sipping coffee and reading The Times, frowning past his spectacles. Phoebe was there, too, her lips colorless, her eyes dull. Augusta frowned. “Phee, have you lost your appetite again?”
Phoebe looked up. “I had chocolate and a bun.”
“No eggs? Perhaps some bacon?”
Phoebe shook her head.
“Come now, you must have more than—”
“Leave her be,” Sebastian said quietly, folding his paper and tucking his spectacles in his coat pocket.
Augusta blinked and raised a brow at him. “I beg your pardon.”
Phoebe scooted her chair back and stood. “I shall take tea and ginger biscuits in my chamber. Later, perhaps. Please excuse me.” She left, looking haunted and listless.
Gathering her breakfast and taking her seat beside her husband, Augusta waited until the footman had exited before saying in a low voice, “She must eat, Bastian. You know why.”
“Mmm. She also knows why.” He took a sip of his coffee and looked infuriatingly unfazed by her irritation.
“You don’t understand anything,” she snapped, her fork scraping hard against her plate as she cut into her baked eggs. “When we were at the lodging house, it was all I could do to persuade her to eat a bit of bread and butter. She was dreadfully ill—”
“Aye. Now she’s better. You’ve been managing her too long, Gus.”
“I do not manage her.”
He snorted.
She slammed her fork down and leaned closer to him. “I do not,” she hissed. “I care for her. She is my sister.”
“She’ll soon be a mother.” His eyes roved between her lips and bosom. “So will you be, should things continue as they did last night, eh?”
Heat bloomed everywhere—her belly, her breasts, her thighs, her skin. “Do not change the subject.”