Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(76)

But then she immediately lifted so that only his head teased her folds.

He swore, his upper lip beaded with sweat.

And she laughed low, the sound like no other she’d ever made in her life. She was possessed, here in this dim carriage, traveling between worlds, on a journey without a clear destination. She arched, bringing him inside again, just a little, and then let him slide entirely from her body.

“Damn it, Temperance.” His voice, normally cool and dispassionate, was ragged.

She smiled and leaned forward, rubbing herself against him, using his hard, hot flesh to arouse herself. She bent, tilting her hips, and took his bottom lip between her teeth.

He might’ve sworn then—the words were unintelligible—but his purpose was certainly clear. He grabbed her hips in a firm hand and brought her up, shoving his cock in place with the other hand and bringing her down hard.

Oh, ecstasy! He filled her, stretching her wide in this position. The feeling was exquisite. She arched, clutching at his shoulders, grinding herself against him, but he wanted something different.

He slapped her bottom through her skirts. “Ride me.”

She pouted. “No.” She liked this, this subtle grinding, this wonderful rubbing.

“Ride me, damn it.” He pressed his thumb against her, and for a moment she saw stars.

Then he took it away again.

“Nooo,” she moaned.

“Then ride me. Please.”

She looked down at him, this aristocrat, this lord, begging her to bring him pleasure, and decided she would take pity. She rose up on her knees, his length sliding from her, and then brought herself down again.

He watched her, thumbing her secretly under her skirts as she rode him, jolting hard into him, swiveling, panting, riding him as the carriage bumped through the darkened streets. Each rough jolt, each swaying swerve added to her pace until she was moving on him fast, openmouthed and gasping for air. Galloping toward a finish.

His face was sheened by sweat, his mouth drawn and strained. The muscles of his neck stood out in ropes of tension, and she saw him swallow as he pressed against her.

She wanted to tell him—to cry aloud to him—how very much he meant to her. But then she lost her pace, faltered, and fell against him, her body convulsing uncontrollably. Dimly she was aware that he clutched her hips with both hands now, that he was bucking beneath her, driving his length again and again into her open flesh. She sobbed into his shoulder, waiting, her muscles turned to liquid, her center a furnace. He pumped into her without mercy, and she turned her head to watch him, saw when he tilted his face to the ceiling, his mouth open, his teeth bared in a silent bellow.

His semen flooded her.

He was arched, his hips tilted up, her knees nearly off the seat as he held himself in her, pumping out his essence.

And then he suddenly relaxed.

Her knees bumped down onto the squabs again. His arms came up slowly, as if he were worn out, and crossed behind her back, holding her close. They were still locked together, his softening flesh in her as she laid her head against his shoulder and listened to the sounds of the London night passing by outside.

SHE WAS A warm weight on his lap, holding his cock still within her soft, slick body.

Lazarus closed his eyes, inhaling the perfume of their mating. It was an earthy scent, a humble scent, one he would forever associate with her. He ran his palm down her back, feeling the rough wool of the cloak she still wore. They’d made love in a carriage. A corner of his mouth twitched up at the absurdity. He wasn’t a young lordling given to flights of wagered daring, but she seemed to arouse him no matter what the venue.

She lifted her head and tried to push away from him, but he held her a moment longer. “Hush.”

“We’ll arrive home soon,” she whispered.

She was right, but he was reluctant to let go. To separate from her. But his flesh was weak. She moved again and he felt himself slide from her depths. He sighed and opened his arms.

She scrambled from his lap, almost falling as the carriage tilted around a corner.

“Careful.” He steadied her with a hand, but she soon moved across the carriage and sat on the opposite seat.

She looked away from him.

Ah. Mrs. Dews, that reserved matron, was back. He laid his head wearily on the seat.

“You need to set yourself to rights,” she said, gesturing at his lap without looking. As if the sight offended her.

He glanced down. Well, he certainly wasn’t at his proudest, lying limp and damp against the outside of his breeches.

“Please,” she murmured.

“Have you a kerchief?” he asked politely.

She fished in her sleeve and produced one, holding it out.

He took it, slowly wrapped the bit of linen around his member, and wiped himself off. He handed the handkerchief back. “Thank you.”

Her mouth dropped open, as horrified as if he’d taken a piss in Westminster.

He would’ve laughed, save that the situation was more tragic than amusing. Why must she be so provincial in her attitude toward lovemaking? He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps her husband had been a prude or otherwise inadequate. It came to him that she’d hardly mentioned the man at all, though she professed to have loved him. He opened his mouth to ask her about the dead man, but the carriage shuddered to a halt. He glanced out the window and saw that they’d drawn up at the end of Maiden Lane.