Before she could protest his tongue was slithering up the valley between her thighs, parting, probing. His hand come up to rest against her belly, pushed her onto her back as his mouth locked over the sensitive peak now exposed to his predations.
George’s fingers wound into his hair, nails stroking his skull, palm coming to rest on his crown. A moment later she tugged, trying to dislodge him.
Ivo smiled to himself and sucked harder, flicking his tongue over her faster, pressing in against already overly sensitive flesh.
How was it that he hadn’t tasted her yet? He’d spent an entire night in her bed and never once gotten his mouth on her like this.
She pulled harder, a fistful of hair steadily wrenching upward.
She could pull his hair out if she liked. He wasn’t about to stop. Not now. She was panting. Her feet pressing against him. She got one up and pushed hard against his shoulder.
Ivo shrugged it off, wrapped his hands around her hips, and held her down. She was making a series of inarticulate protests which he suddenly realized were his name. ‘I-Iv-Iv-oh. I-I-Iv…oh!’
His stomach clenched while his cock swelled inside his breeches, impatient to get loose. He slid two fingers inside her, locked his mouth over her, and took her over the edge.
Legs wrapped around his shoulders, squeezed with impressive strength, trembled with her release. When she let go, Ivo stood, thumbed open the fall of his breeches, and flipped her over with one hand.
She twisted like a cat, amber eyes meeting his. Ivo slid his hands over her exposed bottom, gripped her hips, and leaned in until the head of his cock found the entrance to her body.
George’s eyes widened. Her hands fisted in the sheets.
Without preamble he thrust in, pelvis meeting derrière as she took him all, encased him in hot slick flesh. She arched up, rising to meet him, silk-clad feet scrabbling for purchase on the polished wooden floor.
He found his rhythm. Fast. Hard. Lost himself in the simple sensation of body meeting body. There was nothing simpler. Nothing purer. Nothing truer than the understanding two people could establish in the solitude of a bed.
When George had been reduced to a writhing wanton, Ivo stopped. He didn’t want her to finish. Not just yet.
He leaned forward, used his weight to hold her in place, and quickly pulled loose the knot holding her stays shut. He yanked out the lace and ran his hands up her torso. There was nothing but a layer of fine linen between them.
George twisted, the fine muscles of her back sweetly alive under his hands. She moaned as he pushed his thumbs up the line of her spine, arched and rolled. He let her pull away, roll over, shed her stays and shift.
Naked, she curled up in the middle of her bed. A thing of beauty. ‘Do you intend to remove your coat and boots, or is the point to spend the afternoon taking me like a pirate?’
Ivo laughed, peeled off his coat, and turned to sit on the bed while he wrestled with his boots. Much as the picture she painted appealed, that hadn’t been his intent.
Chapter Twelve
Whatever the truth of Lord S—’s life abroad, he is clearly not pining for any lady he may have chanced to leave behind.
Tête-à-Tête, 25 October 1788
Philippe ground his teeth as Mrs Exley’s carriage rolled away from the curb. The wheels rattled on the cobbles, gratingly loud. A costermonger hawked her oranges, a young shepherd ambled past, his small flock of sheep trotting gamely before him.
The bitch was supposed to be dead, not setting off to cavort in the country with yet another of her lovers. He cracked his knuckles one at a time, enjoying the sound and the momentary hollow feeling of each joint as it popped. He leaned back against the cold stone of the building, sucked in through his teeth, and spat.
It was bad enough to discover he’d killed the wrong woman, had, in fact, wasted his time strangling a servant. But in the past few days he’d seen that damn bitch squired about on the arm of no less than five different men.
She was going to pay. He’d see that she paid. And he was going to enjoy it. Every delicious, overdue moment.
When she arrived back in town, George found Brimstone, attired in full evening kit, kicking his heels in her boudoir. He was sprawled in a chair, voraciously eating shortbread while reading a gothic novel she herself had abandoned halfway through. Ghosts and imprisoned heirs had littered its pages.
A dusting of powder dulled his hair to steely grey. Heavily ribbed silk encased long limbs. Paste glinted from his buttons and his buckles.
She’d left the colonel at her country house to become reacquainted with his daughter, with a firm promise that the two of them would make the journey to Winsham Court in a few weeks to join the earl’s family for their Christmas celebrations.
All she wanted tonight was to send a footman round to Dauntry’s residence with a note inviting him to a late supper. She’d been actively scheming towards that end all day while trapped in her carriage. Planning exactly what she’d do to him once she had him alone…
Gabriel’s presence clearly made that impossible. She blew her breath out in resignation. The anticipatory lust she’d been firing with daydreams turned to ash.
‘There you are,’ Gabriel said, not bothering to get up. ‘This is a ghastly book.’ He tossed the offending volume away and sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a crack.
‘I’m sure it is, but it’s also all the rage right now. It gives me something to make small talk about with other women when we retire after dinner.’
‘Well, I’m not here to read your dreadful book,’ he announced, reaching for the last piece of shortbread. ‘I’ve come to escort you to the theatre. The dowager is
