“I’m not a delicate flower,” she said, taking his earlobe between her teeth. “Nor at this moment am I a patient lady.”
Susannah was no sort of lady at all, she was simply Willow Dorning’s lover, his woman. While he could restrain his passion with endless self-discipline, Susannah wanted no part of such sophistication. Will had shown her how to lure satisfaction closer, how to ignore volition and thought, and follow instinct to pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure.
Just as Susannah might have bit Will for his measured, maddening lovemaking, he shifted over her, and increased his tempo.
For a few luminous moments in Will’s arms, Susannah Haddonfield, spinster in training, bluestocking, and literary glutton, was made of pleasure’s fire. The entire firmament glistened dully compared to the sensations shimmering through her, and the rays of the sun were cool when measured against the warmth Will inspired in her heart.
Susannah lay beneath him, spent, undone, unmoving. “All done, Willow,” she managed. “All done forever. I cannot convey—”
He moved, the beast, and sensation ricocheted out from where he and Susannah were joined.
“Not all done,” he growled. “Not nearly. Not by half, not by a quarter. My lady may have as many treats as she pleases.”
“Again?” Susannah marveled as the sun blossomed anew inside her. “Again, Willow?”
“And again, and again, and again.”
*
Will’s balls probably matched his eyes in color, but he’d subject himself to the last two hours all over again, simply to see Susannah Haddonfield stretching naked and replete by the guttering light of the single candle.
He’d let himself spend, after he’d withdrawn, though a man’s singular pleasure was a vulgar, messy conclusion to the soul-boggling intimacy of becoming Susannah Haddonfield’s lover.
“Will you nap with me?” Susannah asked, her toes trailing up the side of Will’s calf. She could provoke riots with those toes, convey glee, mischief, passion, determination.
“I don’t dare nap,” Will said, turning on his side to face her. The bed was wide and comfortable, and somewhere in its vast depths was Susannah’s nightgown. Will fished around with his foot, found a promising hint of silk and embroidery, and snagged it by a hem.
“Your nightgown,” he said, passing it over.
Susannah stuffed her garment under the pillow. “My sister Kirsten has recently attached the affections of a clergyman. I hadn’t realized how convenient that will be, for weddings, christenings, and so forth, assuming Daniel remains with the Church.”
“You are capable of thinking and holding a conversation,” Will said, tracing a finger along Susannah’s lips. “This is unfair. I will be tripping over my own tongue for the next week, but it’s too soon to make wedding plans, my love.”
Not too soon to dream, though. Will didn’t begrudge Susannah her dreams.
“Nonsense,” Susannah said, sitting up. The covers gaped and a tantalizing view of a full, rosy breast flashed in the candlelit shadows.
Down. Will was sore—oh, happy state—and that meant Susannah was likely sore, and he hadn’t a damned sheath, and—
“What do you mean ‘nonsense,’ Susannah? My prospects are no better now than they were two hours ago, and while I am hopeful, and strongly motivated to improve those prospects, that will take time.”
A year, two, possibly more. Fortunately, Susannah was a patient woman—when dressed—and Will was nothing if not tenacious.
She smoothed a hand over the covers, and Will felt her caresses all over again—on his back, his chest, his hair, his—
He should get out of the bed and get his sore, weary, not-quite-engaged arse down the maple tree and into the dark, lonely, safe garden. Quimbey’s nephew needed a dog, and might want training services as well. The Duchess of Ambrose might do for Hector, in another month or two, because she was patient and calm.
Susannah scooted back against the headboard, which caused jiggling in Will’s brainbox and other places. Truly, he was a brother to Sycamore Dorning.
A litter mate.
“I can understand why you’re reluctant to send Alexander back to Lady March,” Susannah said, “but we can call on the Earl of Hunterton—you do know his dog’s gone missing?—and you’ll send your brothers to the bear gardens. I’ve been thinking, and if you implied to the right parties that you know of some large dogs that need good homes—”