The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(56)

Jared gave a parting tug at her right nipple with his lips and looked into her half-closed eyes. ‘It has been a long time.’ It was more a statement than a question.

‘Yes,’ Guin agreed, even as those long, clever fingers slid between her thighs, slipped between folds already wet for him. Her body already knew what pleasure he could give it and she pushed against his palm as one, then two fingers eased inside and she writhed against him, wanting it all.

Jared’s weight shifted over her, his lean hips between her thighs, his hair brushing her shoulders, the different texture of the dark curls on his chest setting up another exquisite friction against her sensitised nipples. They moved together instinctively, finding that perfect angle for penetration, his long, strong thrust matching the lift of her hips to take him, all of him.

Guin gasped, burying the sound against his shoulder. It was a long time and, although he was gentler, he was also larger than Francis had been. Jared held still as though he had felt that moment of shock, of resistance, then as she arched up against him, he withdrew slowly, almost completely, then drove in again. Slow and fast, slow and fast, until Guin was panting with need, shaking as the tension built and built, gasping out words that were more sounds than sense until Jared shifted the angle of his thrusts, his breathing suddenly irregular as he seemed to swell and grow inside her.

‘Now, Guinevere.’

An order, a plea… perhaps both, as she abruptly lost the ability to think at all and clung to him, sobbing as he moved sharply, pulling away, gasping out his own ecstasy against her mouth as he convulsed, spilling hot against her belly.



I ought to move. Under him was soft, hot woman, a tangle of hair in his mouth – both his and hers – the sensation of stickiness between their bodies, the scent of their coupling and sweat mingling with the drift of mown grass and roses through the window. Nothing dainty about good sex, Jared thought, utterly relaxed and contented.

He really should move. He could not recall the last time he had simply abandoned himself to the moment after lovemaking. It was far too dangerous an indulgence: a man was never more vulnerable than when he was naked, happy, boneless with pleasure.

Guinevere was awake, he could tell by her breathing, by the almost imperceptible drift of her fingers in his hair. She seemed to like the length of it. In fact she had seemed to enjoy the entire experience. Jared allowed himself a moment of masculine satisfaction about that, then turned his head so he could look at her. ‘Am I squashing you?’

‘I like it.’

Which meant he was. Reluctantly, provoking a grumble from Guinevere, Jared rolled onto his back, then summoned up the tatters of his self-control and got off the bed to investigate the dressing room.

When he got back with the water pitcher and a towel Guinevere was still sprawled across the rumpled sheets. She smiled drowsily at him and pulled herself into sitting position against the pillows. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is cold,’ he warned, dipping in the wash cloth and handing it to her.

‘Not for the water,’ she said, blushing a little as she took the cloth from him.

‘Thank you.’ He put aside the pitcher and got to his feet, began to search out his scattered clothing.

‘Where are you doing?’

‘Getting dressed.’ He pulled on his breeches and reached for his boots. ‘Then going down to the library to be found innocently studying the available reference books.’

‘Everyone knows where we are.’ Guinevere plumped up the pillows and curled against them, pulling a sheet over her in a manner that left far too many tantalising glimpses of body for a man attempting to do the right thing. ‘Come back to bed.’

Where had the shy, blushing widow gone? She had been enchanting, if fragile, but this woman was provocative and just a little demanding, which was piquant. ‘Your reputation is something else I should be guarding.’ And I am now worrying about shutting the stable door after the horse has well and truly bolted.

‘Please.’ There was that faint pink beneath the pale skin again, that hint of uncertainty. ‘Only to talk.’

Jared dropped his boots and went back to the bed, keeping his breeches on as a reminder to himself that this was just to talk. When he settled back against the pillows next to her Guinevere turned and burrowed down, her head on his shoulder, her arm over his chest. She made a contented little humming noise that stirred the hairs on his chest, made his nipples tighten. She noticed, sat up a little and reached out to touch.

‘Were you trained by the Spanish inquisition?’ Jared enquired, slapping his free hand over his chest like an outraged virgin before she enticed him into making love to her all over again.

Guinevere chuckled, but did not try and dislodge his hand. ‘I have been thinking.’

‘Yes?’ he said. Warily.

‘We should go and visit the Quentens, whatever we find in the Landed Gentry, not write to them. One can tell so much more by talking to people face to face.’

Jared could have sworn he controlled his reaction, but they were skin to skin, she could not avoid noticing any slight movement, any acceleration of his heart rate.

‘What is wrong?’ She sat up, the sheet pooling around her like water around a mermaid on her rock. ‘Why do you not want to go?’

‘I said nothing.’

‘I know you didn’t. You went very still and you do that when something is wrong.’