Page 80 of This Earl of Mine

Her satisfied sigh was all he’d ever wanted to hear. “Yes. Oh, yes. Please.”

Chapter 43.

It was almost three in the morning, and as physically exhausted as she was, Georgie was too excited to sleep. Benedict held her close in the carriage as they crossed a near-deserted London. She rested her head on his shoulder as they rattled along, her heart singing with happiness. He’d availed himself of the dry clothes the admiral had offered, found some linen to bandage his wound, and now they huddled together under a thick woolen cloak.

When they arrived at the Tricorn, it was to find Mickey the doorman still awake, despite the ungodly hour.

“Alex and Seb made it back all right?” Benedict asked him quietly.

“Aye, sir. And that scamp Jem Barnes is dossing down in the front room. Seb said you might’ve been winged in the arm?” He shot Benedict a concerned glance.

“It’s nothing serious, Mickey. No need to summon the sawbones just yet.”

The manservant gave a relieved grunt. “Right. I’vekept the fire going in the kitchen. I’ll bring you up a pitcher of warm water in a minute.”

Benedict murmured his thanks and ushered Georgie up the stairs. As soon as they entered the apartment, she swung around and adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Let’s clean off that wound, shall we? I don’t want you to catch a fever and die, Wylde. Not now you’ve just started to be sensible. Take off your shirt.”

His smile was thoroughly depraved. “I don’t think I will ever tire of hearing those words come out of your mouth, Mrs. Wylde.”

Without even giving her time to brace herself, he stripped off his shirt and stood there in just a pair of buff breeches and his top boots. Her mouth went dry and her insides knotted. The man really did have the most splendid physique. Mickey’s arrival with a jug of hot water, clean linen bandages, and a bottle of brandy, prevented her from leaping upon her husband and ravishing him on the spot.

“Thought you might need these,” the servant rumbled. “’Night.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

Benedict took a swig from the bottle and handed it to her. “Do your worst, then, woman.”

She moistened a handkerchief liberally with the brandy.

“Easy!” he protested. “That’s France’s best Armagnac you have there.”

She slanted him a prim look. “Imported foreign spirits are illegal in this country, Mr. Wylde.”

He winked. “I may have stumbled across a few barrels of unclaimed contraband while infiltrating that smuggling gang.” He washed the wound, turning the water in the bowl pink, then hissed in through his teeth as she pressed the liquor-soaked pad to his flesh. Georgie winced in sympathy. It must sting like the devil.

He looked down as she tied a clean bandage around the wound. “Kiss me. I need distraction from the pain.”

She was more than happy to oblige. The nearness of him, the scent of all that smooth, bronzed skin was just too tempting.

He tasted of brandy and heat. His tongue slid against hers in a steady, sinuous rhythm she felt in her breasts and her stomach, between her legs. She smoothed her hands over the muscled expanse of his shoulders, loving the feel of him, the power, but pulled back when her fingers ran over the puckered patch of scar tissue just above his clavicle.

“I took a bullet at Salamanca,” he said softly. “French sniper. I was lucky; it came right out the back.” He guided her hand behind him, and she felt a corresponding ridge where the bullet had exited his body. “Didn’t even touch the bone.”

Georgie shuddered, and her stomach pitched weightlessly. The scar was so close to the throbbing pulse of his neck. It could so easily have been fatal. She bent and kissed the damaged skin, and his long body shivered in reaction. His hands went to the tie at the front of her boyish shirt and he pulled on the strings. It opened in a deepV, and she raised her arms to help him as he lifted it over her head and threw it aside.

She understood this time, knew exactly where it would lead. And she welcomed it. She wanted it all—the darkness, the passion, the heat. Him.

Her linen shift was tucked into her breeches and her heart thudded against her ribs as he tugged her forward by the waistband. The back of his hand slipped against her stomach as he undid the buttons at the fall.

“These damn things have been driving me mad all night,” he growled.

She toed off her boots and stockings, removed thebreeches and her shift, and heard him draw in a deep breath when she stood naked in front of him. The look in his eyes made heat curl low in her belly.

He caught her and kissed her, holding nothing back, and she felt as if she’d been burned, scalded by his kiss, his strong body, and his big hands. He opened his mouth against her, tasting the corner of her lips with his tongue and then plunging deep inside. She threaded her hands through his hair and felt his fingers encircle her wrists. He didn’t push her away; instead, he tightened his grip and held her in place, a thrilling, willing bondage.

Georgie quivered all the way to her bones. Lust dragged her down like a whirlpool, an undertow impossible to resist. She didn’t even want to come up for air. She lost herself in him, inhaled his scent, drew him into her lungs, into her heart.

With staggering steps, they made it to the bedroom. She knelt before him as he sat on the edge of the bed and helped him remove his wet boots. He made quick work of his breeches and lay back, gloriously naked, and Georgie couldn’t contain a breathless laugh of triumph.Hers.

She put her knee on the bed and prowled up his body, and for a while he was content to let her explore. She trailed her hand down, over the marvelous bumps and ridges of his chest and abdomen, down to the intriguing line of hair that started at his belly button and speared, like a wicked arrow, straight to his thoroughly aroused shaft.

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