3. Chapter 3 #2
His jaw worked. His chest rose and fell beneath the open shirt, and she couldn’t stop staring at the lines of the muscles she longed to touch.
“You are an unmarried woman in my bedchamber in the middle of the night. If anyone saw you come in here—”
“No one saw.”
“That is not the point.” He stood, and she could see the evidence of what she'd interrupted still straining against his half-fastened breeches.
“Max asked me to keep an eye on you, so you would avoid situations like this one.
You're his sister, and you are—” He stopped.
Swallowed. “Georgie, go back to your room.”
“I'm not what you think I am, Louis.”
That stopped him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I'm not some blushing virgin who needs protecting. You’re a couple years too late for that.”
“What? Who? Does Max know? Did someone take advantage of you?”
“None of that matters right now.” She untied her dressing robe and let it slide from her shoulders, exposing her night rail to him. “I came here because I want to. I know what I want, Louis. And right now I want you.”
His throat moved. His gaze dropped from her face to her body and came back up with visible effort. “But Max—”
“He never has to know. No one does.” She closed the distance between them and put her hands on his chest, his skin warm under her palms where his shirt fell open.
He didn’t back away. Then she pushed him back onto the settee and climbed into his lap, one knee on either side of his hips.
The hard length of him pressed against her beneath the opening of her night rail.
His hands came to her waist. Still not pushing her away. Holding her there, fingers digging into the fabric while his breath came ragged against her collarbone.
“This is a terrible idea.” But instead of stopping, his hips shifted under her, pressing up against the heat between her thighs.
“You're right.” She rocked against him, slowly, and watched his eyes close. “Tell me to stop then, Louis.”
He didn't tell her to stop. His fingers tightened on her hips and a sound came out of him—low and rough. His mouth found the base of her throat, and his teeth grazed her skin. She ground down against him harder, the friction of his clothed cock dragging a gasp from both of them.
“I want to feel you,” she said against his ear. “Please. I need you.”
His hands fisted in the hem of her night rail, and she felt his question in the hesitation—one last chance to stop this—before he pulled the fabric up and over her head in a single motion.
The night air hit her bare skin and his gaze dropped to her breasts, her stomach, the place where her thighs gripped his hips.
“Hell.” The word came out of him like it had been punched loose. His mouth closed over her nipple, and the heat of it—his tongue, his teeth, the groan that vibrated against her skin—went straight to her core. She arched into him, her fingers raking into his hair, and rolled her hips against him.
She reached between them and freed him from his breeches, wrapping her fingers around his cock and stroking him the way she'd watched him stroke himself. His head dropped back, his throat exposed, and his hand gripped her thighs hard enough that she could feel each finger.
“Christ, Georgie.”
“Is this what you were thinking about?” She twisted her wrist at the head, ran her thumb through the wetness there. “When I walked in? Your hand on your cock, thinking about me?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate in his response, but he sounded wrecked. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Show me.” She rose up on her knees, guided him to her entrance, and sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
The stretch of his cock filling her dragged a moan from her chest. She braced her hands on his shoulders and held still, her body adjusting around the thick length of him, feeling every inch.
His forehead dropped against her collarbone, and a shudder ran through him, his hands trembling on her hips.
“God, you're so wet.” His voice was half gone, his mouth hot against her throat. “You feel incredible.”
She rolled her hips, slowly at first, in a rocking motion that let her control the angle and dragged him against the spot inside her that made her wanton.
His fingers pressed into her skin, hard enough to leave marks.
She wanted them there. Proof that, at least for the house party, the Viscount Ashworth was hers.
His control snapped. His hips drove up to meet hers, hard, and the sound she made was loud enough that she pressed her mouth against his shoulder to muffle it. He thrust into her again, his hands pulling her down onto him. The new rhythm was his—rough, deep, relentless.
She stilled her hips and held herself there—full of him, his cock buried deep, her body clenching tight around him—and watched his composure shatter.
His hands flexed on her hips. “Don't stop, Louis. Please.”
He gave her what she asked for. Faster, harder, her body bouncing on his cock.
The wet sounds of their bodies slapping together was loud in the quiet room.
His hand slid between them, and his thumb pressed against her clit in tight circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts, and her breath broke apart.
“Yes,” she gasped.
His thumb worked her in a rhythm that wound the tension tighter with every circle, his cock driving into her, and when it broke, it broke hard.
Her back arched and her fingers clenched on his shoulders.
She buried her cries into his neck. He followed moments later with a groan pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. He drove his hips up one final time, before he lifted her off of him, stroked himself once more, and coated her stomach with his warm seed.
They stayed like that. Her forehead against his shoulder, his hands loose on her thighs, their breathing the only sound in the room. His thumb traced an absent line along the outside of her hip—a small, careless gesture that was too tender for what this was supposed to be.
Then Georgie lifted herself off him, stood, and pulled her night rail back over her head.
The material stuck to her from where he’d finished on her.
He watched her from the settee, his breeches still open, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, his breathing not yet even.
She retrieved her dressing robe from the floor and pulled it on, tying the sash.
“I can’t believe that just happened.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m a dead man. Max is going to kill me.”
“Max is never going to find out, remember?” She met his gaze and held it. “But there’s no reason we can’t enjoy an arrangement while he’s not here.”
“Georgie—” he started. Then something crossed his face as he continued to stare at her. “And then we will never speak of it again.”
“It seems we have a mutually beneficial understanding.” She crossed to the door, checked the corridor through a crack, and found it empty. She glanced back at him over her shoulder and then stepped into the hall.
She’d done this before. Only a couple times, but she knew how this worked. She was good at this part. Walking away, not looking back, and keeping a man at the distance that let her enjoy his body without risking anything deeper.
Louis Prescott was no different. He was charming and handsome, and after several nights of pleasurable amusement, that would be the end of it.
But as she climbed into her bed and closed her eyes, his was the face she saw.
She did her best to push that realization aside. She had wanted him for so long. That had to be all it was.