She did it again.
“Ye-es,” he hissed.
“You like that?”
“God, yes.”
She worked him, and he lay like a pasha among the pillows, letting her pleasure him. He watched her through slitted eyes, her prim hair still in its bun, her serious expression, and the shockingly raw sight of his bare cock between her hands. And he might’ve let her complete him, but then she leaned closer and with one finger touched the tip of his prick, where the clear liquid had begun to leak. He was strong and had quite a bit of willpower, but he wasn’t made of stone.
He jackknifed up, grabbed her about her middle—ignoring her startled squeak—and twisted to put her facing the headboard of the bed.
“Hold on there,” he ordered in a guttural voice.
Thank God she obeyed without questioning what he was about, because he wasn’t going to last long in any case. She was up on her knees, and he simply flipped her skirts up over her hips. He ran his hands over her sweet arse, reveling in the feel of silky flesh.
“Part your legs for me,” he said, and she widened her stance with a gasp.
He touched her there, between her thighs where she was the softest, the most tender, and he parted the wet folds, revealing the gleaming center. He heard her whimper. That’s what he wanted, his woman, bent over, wet and waiting for him. He took his cock in hand and guided himself to her. Christ! She was so tight, so slick. He felt sudden moisture in his eyes, and he closed them so she wouldn’t see. This was mating, a good and proper fuck, nothing else.
But even as he worked his flesh into hers, he knew that he lied to himself. Everything about her—her scent, her feel, her warm body, and her small panting sounds—meant something more to him. Home. She was home and he’d returned to her.
He pushed the odd thought aside as he shoved the rest of his length into her. He grasped the headboard on either side of her arms and enclosed her within his embrace. She shivered, and somehow that little movement was the final straw. He began thrusting, hard and fast, the feel of her slippery flesh around him, holding him so tightly, sending him completely out of control. She arched her hips, pushing back at him, and he leaned forward, biting her nape to keep her steady. She gave a cry, high and helpless, and then her cunny was flexing about him, milking his cock as she came.
He growled deep in his throat and felt his balls draw up tight as he released himself within her. Even then he didn’t stop but kept humping her as he filled her with his seed. When finally he fell to the side, every bone in his body was liquid. He had only enough presence of mind to clutch her to his chest as she snuggled against him.
And then he fell asleep.
HER BEDROOM WAS nearly black when Beatrice woke. Her stays were poking into her side. She’d fallen asleep fully dressed. She turned her head and saw the glow of the fireplace embers and then felt the shift as Reynaud moved beneath her hand. Carefully, quietly, she rose from the bed. He lay, sprawled nude, on her sheets as if he had every right. She smiled a little sadly. He’d probably say this room and this bed belonged to him, too.
Beatrice shook down her skirts and left the room. No doubt she was quite rumpled, and she wouldn’t like to meet anyone in the hallways, but it must be past midnight by now, and she didn’t think she would. Farther down the hall was Uncle Reggie’s room, the crack beneath the door dark. She felt a pang of regret that they’d parted on such a sour note at dinner. Would he ever come to terms with Reynaud’s reappearance? Would he forgive her for the choices she’d made—and would make in the future?
She’d lived in this house for years, and she had no need of a candle, even in the near total darkness. She felt her way to the main staircase and crept down like a mouse. On the main level, a footman passed in the hall below, making his way toward the kitchen and the servant’s quarters. Beatrice stood still on the stairs, waiting patiently, and then descended silently once he’d disappeared into the depths of the house. She stopped in the dining room to light a candle from the embers in the fireplace, and then she took it to the blue sitting room. Here she set the single candlestick on a small table. She sank into a settee facing the door and curled her feet beneath her on the seat.
The portrait of Reynaud was directly in front of her. Beatrice rested her chin in her hand, looking at him. All those nights, sitting with him, dreaming of what the man behind the laughing eyes was really like. And now she knew. She knew him, had been his lover, and he was nothing like what she’d imagined in her girlish fantasies. He was hard, sometimes cruel, driven to obtain what he wanted; he was maddening and frustrating. He was also intelligent, caring of those he considered his own—like Henry—complex and baffling and an exquisite lover.
He was a passionate man.
Even if that passion wasn’t for her, she admired it.
Beatrice stared into those black eyes, so physically similar and so spiritually apart from the living, breathing man. Marriage to him would not be easy. There was a very good chance that it might turn into a disaster, in fact. But to save Uncle Reggie, she would take that chance.
The sitting room door opened and Reynaud stepped in, unconsciously standing next to his painted image. He wore his breeches and shirt. His gaze found her, and then he turned to see what she’d been looking at. He studied the portrait of himself for a long moment before looking back at her.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded.
He paced toward her, his eyes never leaving her form. When he was directly in front of her, he stopped and held out his hand. “Will you marry me, Beatrice?”
She placed her hand in his. “Yes.”
Chapter Thirteen
Before Longsword and the princess stood a huge black tower—the castle’s keep. Longsword advanced upon the tower warily, the princess behind him, but the tower remained ominously quiet. A single huge wooden door stood on the tower’s facade, its surface scarred and charred as if it had withstood some terrible battle. Longsword pulled open the door, and beside him Princess Serenity gasped.
For inside the tower, her father the king lay bound in chains. Around the king flew three dragons, each larger than the last. And the smallest dragon was twice as big as the one Longsword had killed just the day before….
—from Longsword
The freshly turned earth was already frosted over, hard, frozen, and final. Beatrice bent and placed her handful of Michaelmas daisies on the grave. There wasn’t a stone yet, merely a wooden marker. The words jeremy oates had been crudely scrawled on it.