Page 52 of The Lord Meets His Lady
His body tensed. “Do it,” he growled.
She nestled into him, her lips brushing his earlobe. His breath hitched. She grew bolder; her tongue tasted his neck—mildly salty, warm, and firm.
And she bit gently on the lobe and sucked.
Shuddering, he grabbed her hips.
“And right…here.” She nuzzled under his ear.
Wet hair was cold on her face. Her mouth caressed sun-grained skin, and she planted a slow, sweet kiss where the rebellious curl hung. She leaned away, finding his eyes shut, a pained expression tightening his face.
“Don’t stop.”
They clung to each other, swathed in damp, heavy clothes.
“Lord Bowles.”
He squeezed her hips. “Please.Say my name. Say…Marcus.”
His hoarse voice pulled her heartstrings. She stayed on tiptoe and sought the sensitive spot behind his ear, her lips moving. “Marcus.”
Lord Bowles ground his hips against her. Friction was everywhere. Her chest against his. Their hips and thighs. His whiskered chin tickled her neck, her collarbone. A wool collar rubbed her cheek. He moaned and buried his face against her, holding her tight.
She gave, and he received.
“I’d keep kissing you here,” she murmured between breathy kisses. “And not stop.”
His chest billowed. Maddening sensations swirled inside her. This being against him, the rubbing, felt good despite layers of wool. She had a taste of him—of warm skin, of northern wind and leather and rain, his unique scent. Her mouth opened wider, offering slow kisses near his hair. She licked a delicate line behind his ear, and he groaned.
“Genevieve.”
His hand slid around and palmed one of her bottom cheeks. The tight grip nudged her leg over his, and she straddled his thigh. Through layers of skirts, her mons brushed his hip boot.
She gasped her pleasure, her legs gripping him. The sweet pressure…the heat between her quim’s wet folds. Eyes half-closed, she scattered kisses along his jaw until she came to the corner of his mouth. He opened for her, his breath hot against her cheek.
Her breath came in fits. “And then I’d kiss your mouth.”
“Finally,” he moaned.
Her mouth brushed his, exploring his full lower lip. Kissing Lord Bowles was plumbing the depths of his smile, his charm. One gloved hand massaged her bottom. The other stroked her, shoulder to waist, the way he might calm a horse. Their bodies rubbed, the closeness ragged and imperfect. One openmouthed kiss turned into another.
Power surged within her.
Lord Bowles let her take the lead. From the very first.
And through all those kisses, she rode his thigh. Slowly. Sliding up and down. The friction delighted her. The need a searing want inside her. Demanding strokes quickened on his thigh, pumping, rubbing. New dampness spurted between her legs, and she groaned.
His eyes glowed hot behind gold-tipped lashes. “What strong legs you have.”
“All the better to ride you with,” she said, panting.
He laughed, the wicked sound ringing above her head. “That’s my girl.”
Gone was her gentle-humored woodsman, replaced by a beast who let her ride him in whatever manner she pleased. Her forehead dropped to his shoulder. One hand scrambled awkwardly with her skirts until her hot quim touched cold leather. She gasped against his wool-covered chest.
How did a simple kiss turn into this?
She gripped his redingote. Her mons stroked his boot. Harder. Faster. The enticing bliss wanted to consume her. Building tremors rattled inside her body. In his arms, she wasn’t going to fly away, but the need was frightening.
