Page 79 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Bawdy wordplay? Or the promise of a new writing venture beyond anything he had imagined? Either way, he hardly dared hope.

Her fingertip slid higher up his leg.

“And would you write exactly what I told you?” he growled.

She shot him a look of mock disbelief. “Certainly not. I was not offering to take dictation. A woman with my knowledge of the theater, not to mention my experience on the stage”—her fingertip abandoned his leg in favor of tracing the edge of her bodice; the oversized gown had slipped lower while she slept, leaving Perpetua Philpot with a delightfully daring decolletage—“ought to be considered an equal partner in this venture.”

“I agree,” he said, reaching up to wrap his hand around her neck and draw her down for a kiss. “But until I’m healed, you’ll have to do a bit more of the work.”

Thankfully, this time, she understood exactly what he meant. In a matter of moments, she had peeled off her clothing, tossed aside the coverings, and climbed back into the bed, straddling one of his knees.

“Does this mean I finally get to see what’s under your kilt?”

He groaned as her hands swept beneath the plaid, one on either thigh, to his groin. The brush of her fingers against his cock was the sweetest agony as she bared him to her gaze in the early morning light. “You already know.”

Still, the eager flare of her eyes was flattering. And he admired the sight of her slender hand, adorned with his ring and curled around his ruddy shaft, more than a gentleman ought.

Still less should he have enjoyed it when she leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss across his crown. Another groan rumbled through him as her hands pushed up his shirt and her mouth moved higher, her tongue teasing the ridged muscles of his abdomen, his flat nipples, the hollow at the base of his throat.

Meanwhile, he caressed her breast with his left hand—less nimble, perhaps, than his right, but hardly useless—then reached down to cup her already slick mound. “Take me inside you, Julia.”

With eager, uncertain motions, she shuffled her hips higher, her knees spreading wide around his body, and led him to her entrance. Slowly, inch by inch, she sank down on his cock.

“That’s right,” he urged as she shifted her position until a shuddering gasp of pleasure burst from her lips. She lifted her hips once, experimentally, then slid down again. “Ride me.”

Prone, he gave himself over to her pleasure, guiding her with his hand on one hip, then sliding his fingers across her belly to circle her bud with his thumb. The sweet, hot clasp of her sex was exquisite, her passion like nothing he had ever known.

“Graham!” Her voice was almost a sob, her rhythm already beginning to fray. “I’m going to—”

“Yes!” Someday, he would teach her patience. But not today. Because he was already on the edge of climax, too. And in his position, withdrawal was out of the question. After this, she would be truly his.

He thrust upward as she ground her pelvis against him, the pulsing of her channel calling forth his seed.

Both spent, they collapsed together, damp with sweat though the room was cool.

Around them, morning crept ever closer, and with it the arrival of servants to sweep the hearth and newspapers containing columns about the shocking events at the Theatre Royal and almost certainly one brother in high dudgeon about where his sister had spent the night. Carefully, he wrapped both arms around her, a shield against the day to come.

Pray God Keynes knew the ins and outs of acquiring a special license.

Because Graham meant never to wake up alone again.

Chapter 24

Half a day to acquire a special license.

Two days, at Mrs. Whyte’s insistence, to prepare for the wedding breakfast.

Another day on top of that for the modiste to finish the new dress.

Julia tapped her toe impatiently, making the scalloped hem of her gown ripple.

“Only a few minutes more,” the modiste insisted around a mouthful of pins. “I’m almost done.”

With a frustrated sigh, Julia stopped moving her foot and folded her arms across her chest instead—which earned her a gentle scold from Mama. “Stand up straight, dear. You’re going to be a countess!”

I don’t give a fig about that, she wanted to retort, but didn’t.

Because it wasn’t entirely true.