Page 17 of Nice Earls Do

When he took a step backward, the better to take in what had been revealed, she had to close her eyes against his stark expression, carved like granite by the firelight. Her body at forty-one wasn’t what her body had been at twenty, all coltish long legs and pert breasts. “Not quite what you’d imagined?” she whispered.

“No.” The sudden gruffness of his voice made her shiver. “So much better. My God, Beth.” The hand at her waist smoothed over the curve of her lower belly before settling on one round hip. “So soft and plush and”—he closed the slight distance he’d put between them and brought his mouth to the curve of her jaw—“kissable. I hardly know where to begin.”

The tip of his tongue against her throat, the tiniest of movements, set off a series of progressively larger explosions in her breasts, her belly, the place between her legs. Though it was cool in the room, so far from the hearth, her skin was on fire. One shrug of her shoulders sent the dressing gown to the floor, baring her entirely to the night air. To him. “Anywhere,” she told him. “Everywhere. Just—I need you, Kit. I’ve always needed you. If only I’d realized—”

“Hush,” he commanded, nipping sharply at her earlobe. “None of that. This is a moment for looking forward, not looking back.”

“All right,” she agreed, emboldened by the heat of his breath. “Then tell me, what have you most looked forward to?”

“Learning the taste of you.” The boldness of his answer made her whimper, the eager sound caught in her throat. “Hearing you cry out in ecstasy.” The hand cupping her head dropped to her breast, his callused thumb brushing across her nipple, and the unexpected pleasure of the sensation drove the whimper from her throat and past her lips as a gasp. “I fantasized about spending hours sampling each delight. But now that the moment’s finally here, I—” The hand at her hip tightened convulsively, snugging her against his erection. “I want to—”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Make me yours.”

Releasing her with a nudge toward the bed, he shucked off his remaining clothes, tossing them aside with the sort of carefree abandon she’d somehow thought Kit incapable of. Boots, breeches, waistcoat, each one flying in a different direction, a spectacle of lust, but she had eyes only for him. His shoulders were as broad as she remembered, the muscles of his legs as finely hewn as she’d suspected. And then he lifted his arms above his head to strip off his last remaining item of clothing, and the long tails of his shirt rose high enough to reveal—well.

Twenty years ago, perhaps, his stomach had been tauter, the hair on his chest a shade or two nearer to brown. But it was impossible to imagine his cock had ever been more impressive than it was at this moment: thick and hard and straining toward what it wanted, straining toward her. She fumbled behind her for the edge of the bed, sank down on the mattress, and parted her legs in blatant invitation.

“You want this, Beth,” he said as he stalked toward her. “You want me.”

Was he asking her? Or trying to persuade her? But she did not need convincing. She held out her hands, encircling his erection the moment it was within her reach.

He hissed at her touch, the searing heat of his flesh making her own feel comparatively cool. One of his hands settled heavily on her shoulder, pushing her onto the mattress, while the other slipped between her legs. She was wet already, eager, but he teased her nonetheless, stroking first one and then another finger inside her, circling her nub with his thumb.

Already, her climax tingled at the base of her spine. Could he sense it? “Come inside me,” she pleaded, brushing the head of his cock against her damp curls, nudging his fingers away. Her need shocked her. All her married life, sex had been a chore, and pleasure something reserved for moments when she was alone. But this...this must be why some called it lovemaking, the joining of both bodies and hearts. “Please.”

He obliged. One deep, perfect thrust of his hips that made her cry out with the rightness of it. “Mine,” he grunted, pinning her to the bed with his weight, and yes. Yes! She was Kit’s. Some part of her had always been Kit’s, and now he was finally hers, filling her, each stroke driving her further along the road to release.

She wrapped her legs around his pelvis and held him to her as she shattered. Then, as she lay pliant and open beneath him, he changed both the angle and tempo of his thrusts, urging her to gather up the pieces of her soul and come for him again. “Yes, again,” he whispered against her hair, his thumb once more seeking out that little bundle of nerves and coaxing her toward another climax. “Come with me.”

And she did, her inner muscles rippling in time with the hot spurts of his seed.

With another, sleepier grunt, he clambered over her, dragging her into the bed with him, their limbs a wonderous, sticky tangle.

“I love you, Kit Killigrew,” she said, the words muffled against his shoulder. Then, with what strength she had left, she curled her hands around his back, clinging to something that had almost slipped through her fingers.

Chapter 6

Even before he opened his eyes, Kit smiled. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to describe his expression as a grin. Despite a few sore muscles and a largely sleepless night, he could not remember a morning in which he’d awoken so satisfied.

Beth lay curled against his side, snoring softly. The realness of it made his heart squeeze. Their lovemaking had been beyond his wildest imaginings. But this—the sort of comfortable, ordinary, everyday thing that came with sharing a life with another person—was somehow even better.

His deep satisfaction with the present moment did not entirely erase the desire to rouse her with kisses and pleasure her again, however. Something slow and easy this time, with the morning sun streaming across the bed, across her body, and the—

He blinked toward the window. Morning sun, yes. Not terribly bright; it was, after all, still November, no matter that spring had sprung in his heart. And the angle of the windows here was less familiar to him than in his own bedchamber. But if he had to guess, by both the quality and quantity of light, it must be...

Good God. Midmorning, at least. The only possible explanation for their not having been found out by some poor housemaid sent to sweep the hearth and light a fire was that Mrs. Rushworth had declared Mrs. Goode’s room off limits. Had she suspected something? Certainly, the housekeeper would have had the staff up and at their tasks at the crack of dawn on such an auspicious day.

His niece and nephew could arrive any moment. And nothing was ready for them. Especially not their uncle.

Carefully, he extricated himself from Beth’s arms, from her bed, and scurried about gathering up his clothes. He dressed hurriedly, dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder before drawing the bed coverings more snugly over her, and slipped out of the room after a quick scan of the corridor.

His own chamber was also suspiciously empty of servants. But the valet’s earlier presence was marked by a basin of water and a pot of coffee, both now tepid. The door between the dressing room and bedroom stood open, and although the curtains were still closed, it was amply clear the bed hadn’t been slept in. Kit stripped off his shirt and washed with cold water, thankful not to have to look a whistling Winston in the eye.

Not that he was ashamed of having spent the night with Beth. Far from it. In fact, he intended to spend every night of the rest of his life similarly situated. But for a host of reasons—not the least of which was the previously spotless reputation of that paragon of domesticity, Mrs. Goode—he ought to have been more circumspect in his comings and goings.

Just as he finished knotting his cravat, he heard a tap on the bedchamber door.

“Come,” he said, hoping against hope that the visitor was Beth.