“Taking more notes for your book, my dear?” he managed to tease, before her increasingly sure touch turned the possibility of speech into nothing more than a gurgle of lust at the back of his throat.
“No need. I’m quite sure Granville is not—ah!—anything like this,” she said with a breathless laugh as his own fingers slipped over her damp, swollen flesh. Raising her skirts higher, he pulled her closer, lower, until her wet heat brushed his groin. “Yes-s-s-s.”
He captured that hiss of sound with his mouth as he entered her, relishing the feel of their joining. In this position, he was utterly surrounded by her—her arms, her legs, her sex. Utterly hers. She moved experimentally at first, a trifle unsteady. But with his hands on her hips to guide her, she soon mastered the rhythm, and was well on the way to mastering him. Her hair tumbled loose, and he reached up one hand to tug her bodice down to free her breasts. Releasing her mouth, he caught one pink bud between his lips and sucked as she arched against him.
When the tremors of her climax began, he knew his own could not be far behind. Darkness edged his vision, and he was on the point of surrendering to it when a voice niggled at him. The memory of her voice. The voice of reason.
“Ah, love,” he gasped, digging his fingers into her hip bones to slow her, to free himself. “We can’t—I’ve got to—for your sake—” He could not leave her with child.
“No. Don’t.” Her thighs gripped him tighter, like a rider urging a wary mount over a jump. “I want you—all of you,” she pleaded, sensing his weakening resolve. “Together…please.”
It was not a particularly well-reasoned argument, but he found it surprisingly persuasive. And after another stroke, it was a moot point. He hadn’t the strength to deny her, to do more than meet her downward thrust with an upward one of his own, and he was coming…with her, in her. Beyond reckless. Beyond ecstasy.
Afterward, with her body slumped against his, he let sleep claim him, refusing for once to let his mind go to work calculating odds.
* * * *
Cami wasn’t initially sure what had woken her. A noise? Without opening her eyes, she took stock of her surroundings. The late marquess’ study. Birdsong. Sunlight pressed on her eyelids. Gabriel was warm, relaxed, asleep beneath her. They lay chest to chest, his head tipped back, her arms flung around his neck, one hand dangling off the back of the sofa, her cheek resting against the top of his shoulder. She was—oh, dear—still sitting astride him, and that cool draft suggested her skirts were still hiked to her waist. Between her thighs, she felt heat and stickiness, and she recalled what she’d urged him to do last night. A risk, yes. One of many.
And she would not be sorry for taking any of them. No matter what happened.
She shifted slightly and realized she also felt…him, hard and eager, even in sleep. Before she could decide what, if anything, to do about that, she heard again a strange snuffling sound and something wet swiped across her hand. Licking her. She cracked open one eye and drew in a sharp breath. Titan was standing behind the sofa, his broad head tilted to the side, studying her with sad brown eyes. When she didn’t move, he nudged her hand again, clearly trying to decide whether she was edible, or…perhaps, asking to be petted?
Did she dare?
As if sensing her hesitation, Titan dipped his head, nuzzling under her fingers to make it impossible for her to refuse. His coat was short and tan; the darker mask about his eyes and muzzle was flecked with gray. But silky soft, she discovered as she rubbed her thumb over his forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles there before reaching back to scratch behind his ears. When she paused, he nudged again. Gently. Just as Gabriel had promised.
“Good boy,” she whispered, and his tongue lolled out. “What are you doing here?”
Her brain put together the answer to that question just as her ears told her the truth.
“Ashborough?” The steward’s voice. “Are you down here?”
Cami scrambled to her feet, reaching for her spectacles, jostling Gabriel awake. “Mr. Hawthorne is coming. Get up!”
Thankfully, it took but a moment to shake her skirts down to their proper places and to tuck her less than ample bosom back where it belonged. When she looked up again, Gabriel had paused in his own flurry of tucking and buttoning to give her an appreciative ogle.
“For goodness’ sake, you’re meant to be a notorious rake,” she whispered furiously. “You’ve seen my—oh, just hurry!”
Mr. Hawthorne’s boots could be heard thumping ever closer. “Mrs. Neville said you never made it to your bed last night, and I feared—”
Her hair was a wild tangle she was trying to tame with one hand while digging between the couch cushions for hairpins with the other. Wordlessly, Gabriel held out his wrinkled cravat.
“What are you suggesting?” she hissed. “That we blindfold Mr. Hawthorne?”
His lips twitched, trying to contain a laugh. “For your hair,” he mouthed, gesturing with a swirling motion toward her head.
A few seconds later, the steward crossed the threshold and his dog plodded obligingly toward him. “Why, Titan, here you are.”
Grateful for that brief distraction, Cami wound the cravat around her hair, turban-style, and threw herself into the chair by the now cold hearth, hoping desperately she’d achieved something approaching eccentric fashion statement, studied nonchalance, or both.
“Ah, good morning, Ashborough. What, did you fall asleep down here? And…why, Miss Burke. You’re up early. I, er, didn’t—oh.” He’d been looking from one to the other of them as he spoke, oblivious to what he’d stumbled upon. Until Gabriel stifled another laugh. “Oh, forgive
