Page 82 of Where the Heart Leads
She—patently—saw no purpose in any leash. As their passions rose higher, as locked together, arms banding, hands grasping, they rode the moment wildly, far from falling back from him, she only grew more demanding.
Until he simply surrendered, let the leashes fall, and let them both revel in his—and her—unfettered desire.
She gasped; without direction, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his hips, and took him deeper. Urged him deeper still.
Until he felt as if he touched the very sun.
On a smothered scream, she shattered.
And took him with her, her contractions calling on his climax, her powerful, unrestrained release unchaining his, setting it—for what in that glorious instant felt like the first time in his life—totally and utterly free.
In the instant he emptied himself into her, he felt like he’d given her his soul.
Uncounted heartbeats later, he cracked open his eyes and looked down—at her, sprawled beneath him, eyes closed, features passion-blank, except for the glorious smile curving her lips.
He felt his own lips curve in similar sated delight. He withdrew and collapsed beside her, reaching for her to hold her close.
As satiation spread its soft wings about them, he prayed that if he had indeed surrendered his soul, she would agree, at some point soon, to reciprocate and surrender hers.
14
If it hadn’t been for a feline altercation on a nearby wall, it might have fallen to Mostyn to wake them.
Even as, alerted to the encroaching dawn, Barnaby hurried Penelope—who didn’t want to wake up, and wanted even less to leave his bed—to do both, and dress, and let him lead her downstairs, even as he let them both out of the front door and set out to walk her home, some small part of him was disappointed he hadn’t learned how his stultifyingly correct gentleman’s gentleman would have coped.
The chill of predawn penetrated his greatcoat. His brain growing more alert, he decided it was just as well he’d acted on instinct and got Penelope away; he wasn’t at all sure that, had Mostyn encountered her in his bed, his henchman wouldn’t have felt moved to write to his, Barnaby’s, mother.
And that would definitely not do.
Not because his mother might disapprove; what he feared—to his toes—was that she might decide he needed help and descend to offer hers.
Just the thought was enough to make him shudder.
He glanced at Penelope. Her arm linked with his, she was matching his stride—shortened to accommodate hers—but her thoughts were clearly far away. Despite the remarkable vigor of their coupling, she seemed unaffected, untroubled. Indeed, if she’d had her way they would still be in his bed, exploring further.
She’d actually pouted when he’d insisted they had to leave.
Her lips weren’t pouting now. They were relaxed, rosy red, as luscious as ever.
A few paces later, he realized he was staring, fantasizing again. Shaking the salacious images from his head, he faced forward, and focused his thoughts on where they now were, where he wished them to be, and how to get from one point to the other.
Which, as it happened, was also the route to converting his salacious fantasies to realities.
Concentrating wasn’t all that hard.
They’d decided against bothering trying to find a hackney; at this hour, it was likely to be just as fast to walk to Mount Street. In the small hours between the end of one day and the start of the next, there were few people on the streets of Mayfair, either on foot or in carriages.
The night was dark, moonless, at least beneath the November clouds. Although all was quiet, the silence wasn’t absolute; the sleeping rumble of the huge city at night, a blanket of distant, muffled sounds, enveloped them.
They were both used to such city silence; unperturbed, they walked along, wreathed in the drifting fog, both busy with their thoughts.
He had little idea what she might be pondering, or even if she was truly thinking at all. Regardless, he’d been left in no doubt of her response to the night’s developments, which was, in its way, comforting. He didn’t have to wonder if she’d enjoyed it, or if she would be interested in continuing their liaison; she’d already made her views on those matters absolutely clear.
Thinking back…he recalled where they’d been before she’d appeared on his doorstep. Or at least wherehe’dthought they’d been. He’d thought the next move in their game was his. She, clearly, had been following different rules.
Indeed, now he came to think of it, he didn’t know—had no idea—what had prompted her to call on him, let alone in such an eccentric fashion, cosh in hand.
He glanced at her, eyes narrowing as he pieced together what he knew: that she must have come in her brother’s town carriage—the plain black carriage that had pulled away just before she’d rushed at him—and instructed the coachman to leave her on the street, Jermyn Street at close to midnight. And the coachman had obeyed.
