Page 62 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
He grinned. “It is far from over, sweetheart.”
Before she could nod or respond, he slid a hand beneath her bottom, lifting her slightly, burying himself more fully inside her. He was thick and heavy, and she’d not thought she could take any more of him, but somehow her body accommodated his size. Then, slowly, he began to rock against her, pulling himself out, pushing himself back in, a little deeper, a little more insistent, a little faster.
The discomfort gave way to pleasure, jumping in leaps and bounds, and she was reminded of water playing over rocks in a nearby brook at the estate. The water splashed higher as the rocks got larger.
Her body tightened. She wrapped her arms around him, then moved her hands down to hold on to his firm buttocks. She eagerly met his thrusts as he pounded into her.
She lifted her gaze to find his eyes concentrating on her. His jaw was clenched, his breathing labored. There was a feral look to his features, a ferocity to the deep growls that rumbled through his throat. She thought she’d never seen anything as magnificent.
Watching him heightened her own pleasure until it became almost unbearable. She wanted to close her eyes, but he was so magnificent. And she suddenly knew what was driving him, why he was so focused on her face: He wanted to witness pleasure taking her over completely.
Then her body exploded, a thousand fireworks in every color, sparking throughout, dancing through her veins, tingling her flesh. She felt her body pulsing around him as he cried out, his thrusts going deeper, deeper—
Until he threw his head back, the tremors shaking them both. He collapsed on top of her, rose on his elbows to keep some of his weight off her. She wound her arms and legs around him, holding him near. Tiny rivulets of pleasure continued to journey through her, and she wondered how it was possible to still be conscious after what she’d just experienced.
His hands closed around her head as he held her in place and pressed his forehead to hers. “All I wanted to do was stop the damned dog from whining so I could get some sleep.”
Laughing, she hit his shoulder. “Instead, you nearly woke him up.”
When he lifted his head, he was smiling, the most glorious smile she thought she’d ever seen. “I never did find your ticklish spot.”
“Perhaps you need to go exploring again.”
“Perhaps so. But first, some sleep.”
Rolling off her, he grabbed the sheet, flicked it over both of them, and tucked her up against his side. Before she even blinked, he was gently snoring near her ear.
Claire awoke to find herself alone in the bed. She couldn’t stem the tide of disappointment that slammed into her. She’d hoped that tonight their marriage had crossed a threshold, that they could truly embrace their roles as husband and wife.
Sitting up in bed, she realized she wasn’t alone in the room. Westcliffe was sitting on the small sofa before the fireplace. He appeared to be staring into the empty hearth. Surely lying in bed, staring at his wife would have been more pleasing.
As her nightgown was on the floor near the sitting area, she grabbed her wrap from the foot of the bed and slipped it on. As quietly as possible she glided over to the sitting area. He was wearing his trousers but no shirt. His elbows were digging into his thighs, his chin resting on his balled fists. His gaze was indeed on the cold, empty hearth.
“Was it so awful?” she asked softly.
Glancing up at her, he released a dark laugh. “No. But you do realize it changes everything. There can be no divorce now. You were a virgin.”
She knelt in front of him. “Did you think I wasn’t? I told you nothing happened.”
He shook his head. “I wanted to believe you, Claire—”
“But you didn’t trust me.” Yet he had taken her. “Do you still want an end to this marriage?”
Instead of answering her, he tugged on the strands that always fell over her scarred brow. “Why do these always seem out of step with the others?”
“Probably because I trained them to be so. I was always tugging them over my brow, trying to hide my scar.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought it was hideous and made me ugly.”
His finger slid down to her cheek. “Nothing could make you ugly.”
“Why didn’t you whisper such sweet words before we married?”
“I was too busy seeking out women who would make me feel I was worthy of love. It was always obvious my mother loved Stephen the most, and Ainsley is an irritating paragon of virtue. And a duke. Everyone loves a duke. He is powerful and has influence simply by his position.”
“So do you.”
