Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(86)

When the last spasms had faded, and she was as limp as a discarded stocking, Poppy found herself cradled in Harry’s arms. They reclined together on the bed, her soft limbs tangled with his harder, longer ones.

She stirred in drowsy surprise as she felt that he was still aroused. He kissed her and sat up, his hand playing in the loose fire of her hair.

Gently he guided her head to his lap. “Make it wet,” he whispered. Her mouth closed carefully over the pulsing head, slid as far down as she could, and lifted. Intrigued, she nuzzled the silken hardness, her tongue flicking out like a cat’s.

Harry turned her so that she was positioned facedown on the mattress. Hoisting her h*ps upward, he covered her from behind, his fingers sliding between her thighs. She felt a leap of excitement, her body responding instantly to his touch.

“Now,” he whispered into her hot ear, “I’m going to be wicked. And you’ll let me do anything, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes . . .”

Harry held her with firm pressure, cupping her as he pulled her against his solid weight. She felt him move her in an insinuating rocking motion, with his aroused flesh poised at the wet cove of her body. He entered her, but just barely, and each time she rocked backward, he let her have a little more. Murmuring his name, she pushed back more strongly, trying to impale herself fully. But he only laughed softly and kept her where he wanted her, maintaining the voluptuous, metrical pitch.

He was utterly in control, appropriating her flesh with dizzying skill, letting her writhe and gasp for long minutes. Dragging the length of her hair to one side, he kissed the back of her neck, his mouth strong and gnawing. Everything he did drove her pleasure higher, and he knew it, gloried in it. Poppy felt the oncoming rush of fulfillment, her senses preparing for the hot tumble of release, and only then did he take her fully, driving hard and deep into her center.

Harry held her until she stopped trembling, her body limp with satisfaction. And then he pressed her to her back and whispered one word into her ear.

“Again.”

It was a long and searing night, filled with unthinkable intimacy. After the third time, they snuggled in the darkness with Poppy’s head on Harry’s shoulder. It was lovely to lie with someone this way, talking about anything and everything, their bodies relaxed in the aftermath of passion.

“You fascinate me in every way,” Harry whispered, his hand playing gently in her hair. “There are mysteries in your soul that will take a lifetime to uncover . . . and I want to know every one of them.”

No one had ever called her mysterious before. While Poppy didn’t think of herself that way, she rather liked it. “I’m not all that mysterious, am I?”

“Of course you are.” Smiling, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into the tender cup of her palm. “You’re a woman.”

Poppy went for a walk with Beatrix the next afternoon, while the rest of the family dispersed on various errands: Win and Amelia went to visit an ailing friend in the village, Leo and Merripen met with a prospective new tenant, and Cam had gone to a horse auction in Southampton.

Harry sat at a desk in the library with a detailed report from Jake Valentine. Relishing the peace and quiet—rare in the Hathaway household—he began to read. However, the sound of a floorboard creaking snagged his attention, and he looked toward the threshold.

Catherine Marks was standing there, book in hand, her cheeks pink. “Forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I meant to return a book, but—”

“Come in,” Harry said at once, rising from his chair. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

“I’ll just be a moment.” She hurried to a bookshelf, replaced the volume, and paused to glance at him. Light from the window gleamed on her spectacles, obscuring her eyes.

“Stay in here if you like,” Harry said, feeling unaccountably awkward.

“No, thank you. It’s a lovely day, and I thought I might walk through the gardens, or—” She stopped and shrugged uncomfortably.

God, how ill at ease they were with each other. Harry contemplated her for a moment, wondering what was troubling her. He had never known what to do with her, this unwanted half sister, what place in his life he could find for her. He had never wanted to care for Catherine, and yet she had always tugged at him, worried him, perplexed him.

“May I walk with you?” he asked huskily.

She blinked in surprise. Her answer was long in coming. “If you wish.”

He went out with her to a small hedged garden, with heavy drifts of white and yellow daffodils all around. Squinting against the abundant sunshine, they walked along a graveled path.

Catherine gave him an unfathomable glance, her eyes like opals in the daylight. “I don’t know you at all, Harry.”

“You probably know me as well as anyone,” Harry said. “Except for Poppy, of course.”

“No, I don’t,” she said earnestly. “The way you’ve been this week . . . I would never have expected it of you. This affection you seem to have developed for Poppy—I find it quite astonishing.”

“It’s not an act,” he said.

“I know. I can see that you’re sincere. It’s just that before the wedding, you said it didn’t matter if Poppy’s heart belonged to Mr. Bayning, as long as—”