Unraveling the Earl (10 page)

Dragging his shaft through her folds, he found the entrance
to her body, wet and welcoming. She tilted her hips to receive him, a sigh
falling from her lips. He pushed the head of his cock into her quim, pulling
another choppy breath from her. Capturing her lips, he drove into her and was
immediately surrounded by hot, rippling flesh.

“Christ, don’t start that,” he begged, his balls tightening
painfully and his cock pulsing with the need to spend.

In answer she giggled softly against his lips.

“Damn it,” he growled, withdrawing and driving home once
more.

Caught by the jagged edge of an orgasm that promised to be
glorious, Henry lost what little control he’d managed to retain, thrusting
wildly between her legs.

“You mustn’t…” she gasped.

“I must.” The pleasure was an exquisite agony, release but a
few strokes away.

“…spend inside me.” she finished, her words gaining volume,
her hands coming between them to push against his chest.

Over the roaring in his ears Henry heard the desperation in
her voice and attempted to withdraw from her clasping, clenching cunny, knowing
it was too late.

Georgiana chose that moment to give him a mighty shove that
sent him tumbling backward.

He landed hard on his ass, legs sprawling, hands waving
about in search of purchase, jism shooting into the air, spraying them both.

He groaned in mingled pleasure and pain as his back made
contact with the floor, his cock still pulsing, dowsing his belly.

Struggling to find breath, he looked up at Georgiana perched
on the edge of the settee with her skirts bunched about her waist. Her legs
were open, presenting him with a perfect view of her pink nether lips beneath
fiery red curls. Dragging his gaze up he found her staring at him from wide
eyes.

Her lips twitched and slowly lifted into a grin.

“Do not laugh,” he grunted around a raspy breath.

She paid him no mind whatsoever, erupting into gales of
laughter that swept around the shadowy room, echoing off the walls and bouncing
back at him where he lay on the floor divested of every last shred of his
dignity.

Georgie had only just managed to rein in her mirth when the
rumpled lord scrambled to his feet, tugging his trousers up and reaching into
his breast pocket for a handkerchief.

“By all that’s holy,” he grumbled, shrugging out of this
coat and tossing it over a chair. “What is it about you?”

“Me?” she repeated, one hand coming to rest between her legs
where she felt about trying to determine if the wetness there was born of her
body or his.

“I have never in all my life encountered a woman so
well-suited to the task of shredding my control,” he continued, dabbing at the
evidence of his clumsy completion spotting his linen shirt.

“Perhaps it needs shredding.” Easing one finger through her
folds, Georgie decided he’d not spilled his seed inside her but rather only
spattered her belly and thighs.

The Earl of Hastings falling on his arse, an arc of semen
streaming in his wake, was a sight she would never forget. When she was old and
gray and wandering around Joy on the Mount with dozens of redheaded,
purple-eyed grandchildren rioting around her, she’d remember this day, remember
this man.

Unable to hold back a giggle, Georgiana shifted about to
untangle her skirts and sweep the wrinkled silk down over her legs,

Giving up on his shirt, he whipped the garment over his
head. “Do you find me amusing?”

“I do rather,” she admitted, not at all understanding what
had him a state. So he’d gone flying arse over heels, spritzing them both.
Coupling was a messy business when done right.

With a muttered curse he turned away to pace the perimeter
of the cozy little parlor, past the cold hearth, behind two rocking chairs
bracketing a small table, in front of the windows with their pale blue drapes
parted to allow weak gray light to drift across the floor.

“Dozens of women I’ve had and not a one of them laughed at
me.”

“I wasn’t so much as laughing at you but rather at the
absurdity of your falling to your bum with jism shooting about,” she replied.

“You are a witch,” he said. “A Scots witch with a bag of
tricks sent to bedevil me.”

“A Janet, am I?” she asked with a grin. “Oh, I like that, I
do.”

“Janet?” Henry stopped his pacing long enough to toss a
befuddled look over his shoulder.

“A Scottish witch is a Janet, named after Lady Glamis who
was burnt for witchcraft.”

“She likely figured out how to milk a man’s cock,” he
replied, resuming his march about the room.

“Millie never said anything about a man’s cock when telling
the tale but I suppose anything is possible.”

“Who is Millie? Never mind. And quit changing the topic.”

“Was there a topic?”

“You have ruined me.” He fell into a chair and leaned over
to tug at his left boot.

“I hardly think I’ve ruined you,” she protested, watching
the muscles bunch along his shoulders and arms as he wrestled the tall black
boot from his foot and tossed it to the floor.

“Sawing off my arm,” he murmured.

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, looking up to glare
at her. “I know that feeling all too well. Instead I wake to find you long
gone.”

“I told you—”

“That you’d gotten what you wanted.” Bending over his right
boot, he shook his head, one golden curl falling over his forehead. “But you
didn’t, did you?”

“I did,” she argued. “And then some.”

Grunting he tugged and twisted and pulled until the boot
came off. Holding it in both hands he turned it this way and that as if
inspecting it for damage. Or perhaps he hoped to find answers written in the
dust that covered it. “How you must have laughed as you fled into the night.”

“My lord—”

“Just as you laughed as I labored over you, my control
falling by the wayside.”

“Is that what has you in a tizzy?” she asked in surprise.

“I am not in a tizzy. I have never in my life been in a
tizzy.” Again he was in motion, his long powerful legs striding around the
room, his stocking feet pounding over the wood floors. “You do it
intentionally, don’t you?”

“Do what, my lord?”

“Henry,” he corrected. “All of it. Taking me into your mouth
without my having to beg you for the pleasure. Trading your garments for my
secrets. Diddling your quim and tweaking your berries until I cannot see
straight, let alone control myself.”

“Why on earth would you want to control yourself?” she
asked, ignoring the rest of his words.

“So that I might bring you off!”

Certain he was joking, never mind that he’d all but bellowed
the words, Georgie laughed.

“Funny, is it?” he demanded, advancing across the room until
he stood over her. “I’ll have you know I am famous for my control. Women all
over London whisper of it.”

“They hardly whisper of it,” she replied, her eyes wandering
over his flushed face, his bright eyes, his lips turned down in a scowl. “Why,
I heard of your reputed stamina at the first wedding I attended.”

“Reputed stamina,” he repeated, his voice dark.

“Mrs. Merryweather could speak of nothing else throughout
the entire ceremony. I did not know you then but even so I thought her a ninny
of the worst sort. And now that I know you I really must wonder at her
stupidity.”

“Get up,” Hastings ordered, the words forced out from
between clenched teeth.

“Why would a woman praise a man’s ability to remain unmoved
by her passion?” Georgie continued as he who loomed over her. “Truly, I have
puzzled over it these weeks and still do not understand it.”

“I am about to enlighten you,” he growled, wrapping his
hands around her arms and lifting her to her feet.

“I don’t care to be enlightened,” she protested, fighting
not to grin in the face of his obvious frustration.

“Oh, you’ll care,” he countered. “When I have you screaming
and thrashing about above me as I force one climax after another from you,
you’ll care plenty.”

“My lord—”

“That was my first mistake. Taking you against the wall like
a brute.”

“Lord Hastings—”

“Tossing you on the table was the next.”

“Hastings—”

“You would not have laughed as you rode me to completion.”

Giving up on reaching him with words, Georgie lifted her
hand and placed it over his mouth.

Blinking in surprise, he fell silent.

“Henry,” she whispered.

“Again.” The single word muffled against her fingers was
filled with an odd yearning, one that reached deep within Georgie, softening
her.

“Henry.” Looking into his eyes, she held his gaze. “I would
very much like to lay with you again. No tricks, no fumbling beneath skirts and
trousers, and no hurrying you along for my own selfish purposes.”

“What purposes?” he asked, lifting his lips from her
fingers.

“I ask only two things of you,” she continued, ignoring the
question for the present.

“Anything.”

“You must not spend within my body and you must not worry
about losing your control.”

“I shan’t lose control again,” he vowed.

Smiling, she shook her head. “Promise me you will concern
yourself with the first and not the second.”

Capturing her hand, he pressed it to his lips, his breath
warm against her fingers. “I promise.”

As Henry laced his fingers through hers and led her from the
room, Georgie contemplated her options.

Imagine London’s reigning libertine not recognizing her
release but rather believing she found his efforts amusing simply because she
laughed rather than screamed.

She’d never in her life screamed as she reached the crest.
Nor had she straddled a man for more than a minute or two.

But Hastings clearly needed to prove he was a man in
complete control of his passion and if the position afforded him the
opportunity, she would not deny him.

She would mount him and when she reached her crisis she
would do her best to scream and thrash about so that he recognized the moment
for what it was.

They took the stairs together, both of them silent, their
bodies touching only where their joined hands hung between them. Gone was the
frenzy that had marked their previous encounters. In its place Georgie felt an
almost desperate desire to bring the man beside her both pleasure and peace.

The earl was turning out to be so much more complicated than
she could have imagined. An arrogant rake one moment, a lost little boy the
next. A lauded lover who’d taken dozens of ladies to his bed yet lacked any real
knowledge of women. A man who sought to control his passion when likely what he
truly wanted was to control his partner.

Georgie would have liked to pull back the layers to find the
complex man buried beneath them. She knew he was a good man, charming and kind,
strong of character and loyal to those he loved. What other traits might she
discover if she had the time to devote to the task?

Reaching the upper landing, Henry led her down the hall and
into a chamber decorated in varying shades of blue from the drapes hanging
beside two large windows to the Turkish carpet that covered the floor. The
grate was empty, wood stacked neatly to one side. The furnishings were simple,
a chest of drawers against one wall, a small table and two matching wing-backed
chairs between the windows, and a fluffy mattress suspended between
wrought-iron headboard and footboard.

The room was stuffy and overly warm.

As if reading her mind, Henry strode across the room to open
the windows and a breeze smelling of rain blew in, ruffling the curtains and
lifting her hem.

“Mmm, that’s nice.” Tugging off her gloves and dropping them
to the floor, Georgie lifted her gown nearly to her knees and slowly spun in a
circle, enjoying the draft on her legs and wondering how to begin.

Around and around she twirled, coming to a stop before him,
her skirts swirling around his legs. Dizzy, she reached for him, her hands
grasping his upper arms, his bare skin shockingly hot in counterpoint to the
cool wind that wafted around the room.

As she met his gleaming eyes she realized she needn’t have
worried, Henry knew precisely how to begin.

“None of your tricks,” he warned.

“Cross my heart.” Coming to her toes, she offered him her
lips.

He took them with a gentleness she hadn’t expected, his lips
brushing over hers, lightly, slowly, as if he might memorize their shape, their
texture. Reining in her natural inclination to dive deep, to plunder, to prod
at his control, she met him kiss for kiss, her hands sweeping over his arms to
his shoulders.

His tongue came out to trail along the seam of her lips. On
a sigh she opened to him, inviting him to explore. Stroking lightly, he curled
his tongue around hers, tempting her to join in a slow parry and retreat that
had her trembling. His hands came up to coast along the curve of her hips, the
dip of her waist.

“So sweet,” he whispered into her mouth and she sighed, her
fingers flexing on his shoulders before slipping down to his chest.

Sifting her fingers through the springy curls that
surrounded his dark nipples, she shaped his muscles, gently squeezed, delighted
by the hard flesh that filled her palms.

He clasped her hips, his thumbs coasting over the bones that
jutted, his fingers spread across the small of her back and the swell of her
bottom.

“These,” he croaked, stopping to clear his throat. “These
delicate bones of yours.”

Georgie pressed her lips to his, hummed against his soft
flesh.

His hands on her hips flexed and he slowly pulled her
nearer, until her breasts were pressed to his chest and she felt the hard ridge
of his arousal prodding her belly. Wedging his knee between her legs, he hauled
her astride his thigh, dragged her over hard muscle, back and forward, and
again.

“Yes,” Georgie whispered, bearing down, riding his thigh in
abandon.

Hasting took command of her mouth, driving his tongue deep,
possessing her, ravishing her to the tempo of his hands clenching on her hips,
to the grind of his thigh between her legs.

He swept his hands up her back, his fingers dancing along
her spine. Never breaking stride, never faltering in the tempo of his kiss, in
the rhythmic pressure of his thigh against her mound, he coasted his hands down
to the small of her back where they lingered to tease her, his knuckles
brushing against the swell of her bottom.

It wasn’t until she felt the cool breeze on her shoulders
and shivering down her spine that she realized her clothing was shifting and
falling away.

Breaking the kiss, Georgie leaned back to meet his gaze.
“You’re good.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he replied, his
voice rough, a strained smile barely lifting his lips.

She brought her arms down and stepped back, her gown falling
from her shoulders, taking her chemise, stays and petticoats with it, leaving
her standing before him in stockings and half-boots.

“Such pretty breasts you have,” he murmured, brushing his
knuckles over her nipples. The buds hardened, tightening almost to the point of
pain before he covered them with his warm hands, lifted the small mounds and
dragged his thumbs over the tight peaks. “So sensitive to my touch.”

Pleasure and anticipation built, swirling through her until
she swayed.

“On the bed.” His voice was a low rumble, fraught with
desire and something else, some dark emotion she could not name, one that
called out to her and had her trembling as she spun about and stepped over her
discarded garments.

Georgie walked to the bed and lifted her right leg,
unbearably conscious of his heated gaze on her. Turned away from him in the
shadowy room, she knew she appeared as little more than a pale specter. Even
so, she hurried to remove her boot and roll her stocking down her leg. Tossing
both to the floor, she repeated the procedure on her left leg.