Page 79 of The Heart of an Earl

His mouth went ragged, ravenous to her neck, to the bare skin of her shoulders, the line of her clavicle. Hungry. Hungry for all of her. Needing to taste everything she was. Convince him she was here. Alive. Real.

His hand lifted higher under her skirts to the crux of her and he sank his fingers into her folds, drawing a gasp from her lips against his ear, her breath quickening against his skin. She ripped her gloves off behind his neck and weaved her hands down between them, her fingers frantic to the fall front of his trousers and freeing his cock to the cold air. Cold and torture, her fingers on the smooth skin of his shaft.

His restraint so long gone he might never find it again, he yanked the rest of her skirts up and lifted her backside. Her legs locked around his waist, greedy for his body.

He lifted her high, and then she was down on her own volition, sliding onto his cock that was straining and ready for her. A storm of five years of unsated needs culminating in the fierceness of their bodies colliding.

Sweetness and hell wrapped into one. She lifted and he plunged upward, driving into her again and again until a tattered scream was at her lips, begging him, his name curling repeatedly on her tongue.

He held. Held until her scream pitched high, her body tightening around him, writhing with ragged gasps of breath. He drove deep into her one last time, exploding. Every tortuous moment of time without her bottled up and emptying into her.

Yet it wasn’t enough. He clutched her to his body, their breath mingled in a whirlwind of disbelief and lust, their chests battling against each other for every breath.

His fingers dug into her back, not willing to let her go. Not ever. Not ever again.

Her head popped away from his neck. “Blast, what have we done?” Her hands wedged in between them to his chest and she pushed herself away.

His hold on her broke and her body slid off of his, her movements jerking, pushing her skirts down, shock vibrating in her blue-green eyes.

She couldn’t look at him. Her head bowed, shifting back and forth, somewhere between a twitch and denial.

“I’m dreaming—or am I—you’re not dead?” Her words shook, vibrating into the cold air.

He finished buttoning the fall of his trousers and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. “A dead man did not just make you scream like that.”

“No. Des—you’re dead.”

“As are you, Jules.”

An exhale sifted upward from the bottom of his soul. He had to touch her. As much as he needed air from her, he needed to touch her. Keep her solid in front of him. Not a ghost. Not a hope.

He moved forward, his hands clasping onto the sides of her face, his fingers digging into the hair about her temples. “Dammit—tell me you’re here on your own. Tell me you haven’t married.”

“What?” Her bowed head still shook, but then her gaze whipped up to him, her words breathless. “I—I—”

“You what, Jules?”

“You’re not dead—my father told me you died.”

“I’m not dead.” His look pierced her. “Tell me you haven’t married.”

She blinked hard, trying to follow his manic demands. “No—I’m here with my aunt and her friend that lives in the county—I didn’t marry—couldn’t marry anyone.”

“You haven’t moved on?”

Pain so visceral ran across her face he thought she was going to shatter under his hold.

Her lips parted, her words ragged. “I—my heart—was never going to move beyond you, Des. Never.”

His lips met hers in an aching kiss as relief exhaled from his chest. He pulled away, his eyes going to the dark sky above for a long moment, still trying to right in his mind that she was here. Here, her head in his hands.

“He’s wanted me to.”

His look dropped to her. “Your father?”

She nodded. “He’s arranged one abhorrent match after another and each time I’ve refused. He wants me gone forever—to pretend I never existed.”

“Bastard.” His hands dropped from her face to wrap around her, pulling her tight to his body. He couldn’t resist dipping his head to bury his face into her hair, into the scent of her. Honeysuckle.

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