Page 74 of The Lady's Last Mistake
He ran his finger down the slope of her pert nose and then across her chin. God, she was gorgeous like this, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, her lips swollen, sweat glistening in the hollow of her collarbone.
“Ask what?”
That rogue hand of hers slipped again toward his hips. He caught it, stilling it. “Next,” she said.
He felt ready to explode just from that one word and the intent behind it.
“This was about your pleasure, not mine,” he said, eventhough he was nearly blind with the single-minded need to be inside her.
Cassie lifted her chin from his shoulder, and a curtain of her hair swung forward to cover one eye. He pushed it aside and tucked it behind her ear.
“I asked you to make love to me, Grant Thornton.” She rolled her wrist free from his grip. But she only touched a finger to his upper lip. She drew it down, tugging his bottom lip. “I’m still waiting.”
His pulse slammed in his neck. “You have no notion of what you do to me. Do you?”
Grant pushed her onto her back, and his mind silenced. All potential consequences muted beneath the sounds of their rough breathing as he nudged her delectable thigh aside and aligned himself with her. He clamped his mouth to hers and thrust forward, muffling her reflexive cry. With painful restraint, Grant went still, aware he might have hurt her.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed and clutched him closer.
He exhaled in a rush and seated himself to the hilt, reveling in the tight clasp of her, of her uneven breathing as he began to rock forward and back. She clutched the sides of his face, her nails likely leaving indentations, but he didn’t care. Grant watched her, the tips of their noses brushing together and apart, as she began to gasp and drown in the pleasure that she’d come here for. That she’d shoved aside all pride, all fear, all doubt, to reach for. She was bloody magnificent.
Cassie’s mewls and moans began to rise as he deepened each thrust, closing in fast on his peak. He’d known he would not last long, and as his body tightened, he stopped breathing. Though it was practically torture, he tore himself free atthe last moment and dropped his forehead to Cassie’s. They each struggled for air as he held her to him, their bodies slick with sweat.
“My God, Cassie—” He collapsed next to her, their legs still entwined. She wrapped her arms around his torso so tightly her heartbeat thudded against his ribs. There was an unnerving trembling in his arms and wrists as he held her to him.
Grant sealed his mouth shut without finishing the thought that had bolted into his mind. A perilous thought that frightened him with its truth. That one night with Cassandra Sinclair would never be enough.
The carriage turnedonto Grosvenor Square, and Cassie’s stomach plummeted. “Oh no,” she murmured as she stared through the window.
Grant followed her gaze, his hands still adjusting his cravat. “What is it?”
“My brother.” Michael’s coach was parked near the front of her residence.
Grant sat back against the burgundy quilted cushion of his carriage. “Damn.”
They’d wasted no time at Lindstrom House, departing even before the early breakfast had concluded. When Cassie had stepped outside her guest room that morning, Grant had been waiting for her at the landing of the stairs. As she approached, her legs suddenly quivering like warmed honey, a wicked grin had tucked into the corner of his mouth. It brought her mind directly back to the early morning hoursspent in his room, in his bed, before returning to her own room before the servants woke. As they descended the stairs together, Cassie had wondered if she should say anything about the night. Or if they should pretend nothing had happened.
Breakfast had been quick and quiet, with just the two of them, and Lawrence and Alfred at the table. Cassie had been ravenous, filling her plate generously at the sideboard. Grant smothered a grin every time she caught him looking at her from across the table, as if he knew why she had such an appetite. The snowy world outside reflected the sunlight and brightened the morning room, turning it warm and stuffy. The marquess had been joining them when Grant and Cassie stood to leave. She was grateful that he’d refused to be drawn in by his father’s complaints that it was far too early to already be leaving.
“If you are worried for the lady’s reputation, there is no need. You can be wed as soon as you have secured the special license,” the marquess had said as the footman was bringing them their outer trappings.
Cassie considered crying off right then, making up some excuse that they had quarreled, and it was over. But both she and Grant had exchanged a tense look and with unspoken agreement, left with their lips sealed.
“Fournier’s not going to be happy,” he now said as his driver brought them around the square.
This she already knew; however, she’d successfully put it from her mind during the carriage ride back into Town. She’d half expected Grant to choose to sit up with his driver so that they would not be enclosed into the interior of the carriage together. But he hadn’t, and they had barely left theOval before their wordless staring match culminated with Grant reaching for her. He’d dragged her straight off her bench and onto his lap. Mind numbing bliss muted all the reasons it was a terrible idea as he’d kissed her with the same fervor he’d shown the night before.
When evidence of his arousal pressed against her, she’d once again devolved into a burning mass of need. Grant had been suffering the same affliction, rising from it only long enough to ask her if she was, again, certain. With her ragged yes, he’d bunched her skirts, and she’d unbuttoned his fall. Their uncoordinated motions were only awkward until he’d been inside her once more, and Cassie had marveled at how perfect and right it felt. And though he’d pulled from her, to avoid spilling his seed, he’d continued to cover her lips and neck with kisses for most of the ride home.
Now, with their hair and clothing repaired, they stepped onto the pavement. The snow from last night’s storm had been swept but a layer of ice crunched beneath their feet as they approached the door. Walking exacerbated the soreness of her inner thighs where she’d straddled Grant, and though it was ridiculous, she had the irrational fear her brother would know.
She braced herself as they entered the foyer and saw Michael storming down the stairs toward them.
“Where the devil have you been?” His eyes landed on Grant. “Thornton, explain yourself. Immediately.”
“Michael, please, calm down,” Cassie said, removing her pelisse with Ruth’s help. Her maid’s eyes were wide with alarm and no doubt some fear for her mistress. Grant shook his head at the footman, signaling that he would keep his greatcoat on. He would not be staying long, then.
“Last night’s snowfall caught us by surprise, Your Grace,” Grant said. “It prevented the entire dinner party at Lindstrom House from returning to their homes. Lady Cassandra was given a room. She is perfectly safe.”
