The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(81)

Another finger found her pearl of flesh and she moaned. It seemed almost decadent that a mere man could bring her such pleasure.

“These,” he still nattered on behind her, “to be placed in layers within a pile until said pile reaches the height of a short man. Lillipin makes no mention of how wide the pile should be, a grave omission in my own, rather learned opinion.”

“Simon.”

“My angel?” He flicked his finger, but not quite hard enough.

She tried to arch into his hand, but he still kept her imprisoned between his legs. She cleared her throat, but her voice still emerged huskily. “I don’t want to talk about roses anymore.”

He tsked behind her, although his own breathing had roughened. “It can be a dull subject, I admit, but you have been a very good pupil. I think you deserve a reward.”

“A reward?” She would’ve smiled if she could’ve. Was that how he saw it? Vain man. She had a sudden flash of tender affection that made her want to turn and kiss him.

But he raised her top leg over both of his. “A reward only given to the best lasses. The ones who listen to their horticultural masters and know their roses well.”

He was at her entrance. He parted her lips with his fingers and shoved a little in. She gasped and would’ve wriggled if he had let her. She’d forgotten how large— He pushed again. From this angle, she could feel every inch, widening, invading her.

“Only the best?” She hardly recognized her own voice; it was so low she seemed to purr.

“Uh, yes.” Her husband panted behind her.

“And am I the best?”

“God, yes.”

“Then, Simon?” she asked. A primitive sort of power filled her.

“Hmm?”

“I deserve more. I want more. I want all of you.” And she did. She wanted both man and mind, his body and his soul, and she was shocked at her own greed.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, and shoved his entire length into her.

She moaned and tried to close her legs. She felt so full of him. He kept her legs splayed open with his own, his clever fingers found that spot on her again, and he started thrusting. So good. She wanted him like this forever, his flesh merged with hers, his attention totally on her. No conflict could trouble them here when they were together. She arched her head back, under his own, and found his mouth. He kissed her deeply as he continued to thrust in and out of her, his flesh rubbing against and invading hers. A wail rose in her throat but he swallowed it. He pinched her gently on that vulnerable peak. And she fell apart, his manhood dragging in and out of her all the while as she gasped and panted.

Suddenly he withdrew. He flipped her to her belly, raised her hips a little, and thrust in again. Dear Lord. She was almost flat on her belly, and she could feel every inch of him. This position felt primitive, and with her recent release, it almost overwhelmed her senses.

“Lucy,” he groaned above her. He slowly drew himself out until only his tip lodged in her opening, wide and hard. And thrust heavily again. “My darling Lucy.” He panted against her ear, and then his teeth scraped her earlobe. “I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t ever leave me.”

Her heart quaked. He was all around her. His weight against her back, his scent invading her senses as his flesh invaded her flesh. This was domination, pure and simple, and she found it unbearably erotic. A wave of pleasure rose again within her. Oh, let this moment continue. Let us be together forever. She was weeping, her physical ecstasy mixed and confused with a terrible feeling of impending loss she could not control.

“Lucy, I . . .” He thrust more roughly. Faster. He levered off her and pounded into her vulnerable body, and she felt his sweat spray her back. “Lucy!”

He grunted and shook, and she felt the warmth spread in her and couldn’t tell it apart—her climax from his seed planted within her.

THE FIRST THING SIMON NOTICED about Sir Rupert’s study was the prints on the walls. Botanical prints.

Behind him, Fletcher’s butler said, “Sir Rupert will see you shortly, my lord.”

He nodded, already advancing on an engraving that depicted a gnarled branch with delicate flowers above and, incongruently, the fruit below. On the bottom of the picture, in archaic script, was the legend, Prunus cerasus. Sour cherry. He looked at the next, framed in gilt: Brassica oleracea. Wild cabbage. The leaves were so ornately curled they might have been exotic bird plumes.

“I’d heard you had an interest in horticulture,” Sir Rupert said from the door.

Simon didn’t move. “I didn’t know you had one as well.” He turned to face his enemy.

Sir Rupert was leaning on a crutch.

Simon hadn’t expected that. Here only five minutes and he’d been surprised twice already. This wasn’t going as planned. But then he hadn’t really known how to plan this, the final confrontation. He thought he’d already finished everything when he’d faced Walker. He hadn’t dreamed there was another to pursue until the dying man confessed as much. He didn’t dare discuss it with Lucy. After this morning’s sweet lovemaking, he didn’t want to upset their fragile truce. Yet he still had to see that she was safe, which meant eliminating the last man. Please, God, soon. If he could do that without Lucy finding out, perhaps they still stood a chance.

“Would you like to see my conservatory?” Sir Rupert cocked his head, eyeing him like an amused parrot.