Page 137 of Their Master

Later, after he’d had her a few times, he could behave with more decorum. But right now, he just needed to get inside her.

He pulled her to the edge of the bed, spreading her lower lips before placing himself at her swollen, slick opening. Before he entered her, he met her gaze. “If you have even theslightestdiscomfort, you tell me.”

She nodded.

“No, say it.”

“If I feel even the slightest discomfort, I’ll tell you.”

“Good. Now, beg for my cock.”

“Please, Luke—I need you inside me so badl—”

He entered her with a firm, smooth thrust, the tight heat of her body making him dizzy. “My God you feel good.”

She clenched even tighter and grinned up at him.

“Witch,” he muttered, lifting her hips and then slowly pulling out, aroused almost beyond bearing at the sight of her slick pink folds stretched around him.

The first few thrusts were careful—exploratory—but the expression of bliss on her face emboldened him.

He knew he wouldn’t last, nor would he be able to make her orgasm in this position—at least it was rare in his experience.

“Bring yourself off,” he ordered, smirking when her hand started moving before he’d stopped speaking.

Thank God she was skilled with her fingers because his crisis hit him only a moment later, the two of them climaxing within seconds of each other.

Luke held her tight against his groin while he pumped her full of his spend, her contractions milking him until it was painful.

He pulled out of her with a groan and then moved her up higher on the bed before lowering himself between her thighs and burying his tongue deep in her cunt, the familiar taste of his ejaculate mingling with hers.

Moira was right, Luke thought, today was a perfect day to spend in bed.

Chapter 32

Moira was at the piano when Armand entered.

Luke had given her a surprise gift yesterday, new sheet music from the composer Brahms. It was a challenging piece and had kept her riveted all morning.

“You’ve got a visitor, Miss Moira.” Armand held out a salver and she picked up the card: Charles J. Smith.

She looked up and shook her head. “I’m afraid this must be a mistake. I don’t know a Charles J. Smith.”

The door opened without warning, clipping poor Armand in the shoulder, and Luke barreled into the room.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Luke muttered when he saw Armand clutching his shoulder, his eyes swung toward Moira. “Do you know who that is downstairs?”

She shrugged. “Charles J. Smith.”

“That isMisterCharles.”

“You meanTheCharles?”

“The same.”

“Whatever does he want with me?”

Luke’s normally smooth brow puckered. ‘I don’t know.”

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