A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(27)

“I know what you want—what you need,” his voice, low and hoarse, echoed her earlier words. “But not yet.” He pulled back with a devilish grin.

“Please,” she cried, panting and bereft with unsated need. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all.” She shut her eyes in fervent surrender.

The mattress at her head sank under his weight. He was kneeling beside her. She gazed into his face, questioning. “Trust me, Kitty,” he said and lowered his face to kiss her, deep and hot, her own erotic essence and juices still lingering on his tongue. Head first, he worked his way down her body, lavishing a sweet torment of licking, kissing, sucking, and biting, creating a tumult of sensation, a hungry throb in her belly until it became a wild and white-hot famine.

When she thought she would expire from his sweet torture, his fingers slid into the dewy folds of her vulva, his tongue darting warm and wet and delicious into her hidden place, finding her most sensitive nub. Her blood coursed like liquid fire in her veins as his tongue and fingers worked their magic, circling and suckling her into a dark descent of desire. Her vision blurred. The first tremors began. She clutched his head and bucked against his mouth, reaching blindly for that exquisite release. During this fevered frenzy, he placed her hand around his sex and straddled her. “Take me between those luscious lips now, Kitty. I want to feel your release while I worship you. I want to experience your scream of rapture with my cock in your mouth.”

With this wicked promise, he buried his face in her mound. Kitty drew him into her mouth, enveloping him in her wet heat and slick, sweet friction just as he took her clit between his lips and sucked. In only seconds, she shattered. The vibration of her muffled scream was his undoing. His sac contracted, and he exploded with a shuddering groan.





CHAPTER ELEVEN




“Ned, you must wake up.” The frantic whisper and tickle of silky hair pleasantly penetrated the periphery of Sir Edward Chambers’ drink-induced, sexually sated, and fog-enshrouded consciousness. “Come, Neddie,” the soft voice implored. “You must wake, or there will be the devil to pay.”

He groaned, rolling onto his side to the simultaneous awareness of a pounding head and the soft, warm presence beside him. He groped blindly, defining a shapely feminine backside that tauntingly wriggled against his groin, stirring quite another part of him to a wakeful and throbbing state. He nuzzled her neck while his burgeoning erection sought the warmth betwixt her thighs. “Annalee, my sweet Annalee,” he murmured into her hair.

The warm, welcoming body became cold stone. “Phoebe,” a voice intoned.

Ned’s bleary eyes popped open, his attention immediately riveted to the massive bed, the heavy velvet curtains of rich crimson and gold, and the towering hand-carved posts of mahogany. He jerked upright as if doused with ice water, his gaze settling on the voluptuous, blue-eyed blonde lying amidst the tangle of luxurious linens. “Kitty?”

“No. Phoebe,” she answered. “My name. It’s Phoe-be.”

“Phoebe?” He frowned in puzzlement. His vision darted from his thoroughly tumbled bedfellow to the opulent room. He frantically scrubbed his face and looked wildly about the room, eager to light upon something, anything, to assure himself he wasn’t going mad. The vision of his surroundings sent him scrambling to his knees, entangling him in the bed sheets, and tumbling him to the floor. Lying stunned on the thick Turkish carpet, his confused conscience absorbed the soaring twenty-foot, shadow-boxed ceiling depicting classical heroes.

“Kitty, Phoebe, or whoever-the-devil-you-are,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “This isn’t Carlton House, is it?”

“No,” she answered.

His heart beating apace, Ned willed himself first to breathe and then to modulate a tone verging on panic. “I was with DeVere last night. Where is DeVere?”

“DeVere is locked safely in the linen closet.” She hugged her breasts, her expression suddenly wary. “Don’t you remember anything?”

He vigorously shook his pounding head, only to bring forth a chaotic kaleidoscope of last night’s events, and the impossible truth persisted to push its way to the surface.

His gaze glued to the bed, Ned made a mechanical backward retreat to the center of the room where he had a clearer prospect of its crowning glory. His vision rose to the top of the headboard, to the heraldic shield seated betwixt the carved figures of a lion and a unicorn. His gaze slid with dread to the engraved scroll beneath. Dieu Et Mon Droit. God and my right, the motto of the king. His chest seized. The room began to spin. He looked to Phoebe, the blood draining from his face, his voice emerging as a strangled sound. “May the same God save me...for I’m going to be hung, drawn, and quartered for spending last night rutting in the King of England’s bed!”

Bile churned in his stomach. Ned staggered blindly, clutching for the support of the bedpost. Phoebe leaped into action to meet him, chamber pot in hand, holding back his loose hair while he retched. She retrieved a basin and damp cloth to bathe his face.

Thank you,” he said. He stood and raked a hand through his hair with a groan, meeting her blue gaze straight on and trying with growing discomfiture, to ignore her nakedness.

“’Tis nothing.” She met his stare with an unabashed shrug.

The gesture drew his attention to her full, perfectly shaped, pink-tipped breasts. Ah, those I remember surprisingly well. His stare swept lower, and another vivid memory shocked him with explicit detail. “Dear God in Heaven, what happened last night?”