Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(46)



He was the man who had rescued her from ruin, and she would never forget that.

“Yes,” she told him, for in truth, she wanted him still. The pulsing pain had abated. She moved beneath him tentatively, drawing him deeper, and though some lingering discomfort remained, her need for him revisited her in a great flood of sensation. “Yes, Sebastian.”

He kissed her, long and lingering, plundering her mouth as he moved. Tentatively, slowly. His fingers dipped between them, finding the nub at the center of her folds again. The burning gave way to small licks of pleasure that began at her core and radiated throughout her body. Her inner muscles adjusted, her body naturally becoming accustomed to his. He stretched and filled and claimed.

And she liked the feeling of him, potent, male, demanding. His mouth took, his kisses bruising and carnal, wild with need, open, hungry, and unashamed. He bit her lip, thrust his tongue against hers. His body gave, those wicked fingers on her knowing where to touch, how much pressure, when to increase his pace and when to slow to a torturous rhythm that left her gasping into his mouth and arching against him.

He tore his lips away, as breathless as she. “Daisy, sweet Christ, you’re going to be the death of me.” He kissed her neck again, tongued the hollow behind her ear. “Spend again for me, buttercup. Make it worth everything.”

There was an undercurrent in his words, a hint of accusation, a whole lot of fire. She didn’t know what he meant, and further examination would need to wait, for he was moving again, faster and deeper. It consumed her. He consumed her. She angled her hips against him, allowing her thighs to fall open more, bringing him even deeper. Nothing had ever been more right. He was everything, and she was everything, and the world was exploding with color and light and sound and smell, and oh dear Lord…

“Again, buttercup.” There was his voice, low and demanding, his tongue resuming its exploration of her skin as though she were a delicacy laid before him. Behind her ear, down her throat, probing against her pulse, the curve of her breast, teasing a nipple. He caught the stiff peak in his teeth, nipping, his fingers working faster over her pearl, his manhood sliding in and out with delicious friction.

She gasped. Moaned something. Perhaps it was his name. She didn’t know. Didn’t care. Her breath came faster, heart galloping, entire body aflame, and she was hyperaware of every connection between his body and hers. Ready to come undone.

Bliss crashed over her, sudden and overwhelming, like the sea in the grip of a hurricane. It was fierce, magnificent. Nature at her most violent and passionate. Daisy shook, crying out, gripping his broad shoulders, sinking her nails into him, straining upward, seeking more as pleasure burst within her.

He gave her what she wanted, sliding home deep and quick, moving in long, pleasurable thrusts that had her tightening around him even more. And then, his large body went utterly stiff as he drove himself into her again, a curse slipping from his lips before his mouth came down on hers once more. A new sensation, hot and wet, blossomed inside her.

He rocked into her a few more times, prolonging the moment and the pleasure both, before breaking the kiss to stare down at her. “Damn it.”

And then he withdrew from her body, rolled away, and left the bed.

“Sebastian,” she protested, feeling the loss of his touch—the loss of him—like an ache.

He stalked away from her, his dressing gown billowing behind him like a dark, angry cloud. She realized belatedly that neither of them had entirely removed their robes. As he opened the door joining their chambers, she flipped the ends of hers back over her, covering her nudity.

How foolish, an attempt to preserve her modesty after sharing her entire body with him. After he had known her and pleasured her so intimately. But as she watched him leave, she was acutely aware that, husband or no, he remained very much a stranger to her, and she was beginning to fear that it wasn’t just her body he had claimed.

The thought left her more chilled than the cool night air and the London damp combined. Indeed, it chilled her straight to the marrow.





hat in the bloody hell had he just done?

Sebastian breezed into his private bathing chamber. The gaslights remained lit, for he’d intended to perform his nightly ablutions before going to sleep. But instead, he’d gone in search of the one woman in the goddamn world that he should stay farthest from. The woman he couldn’t seem to stop touching, kissing, wanting, and lusting over.

The woman he had just bedded.

Had he actually believed he could withstand the temptation of being in Daisy’s bedchamber again without taking her? More fool, he, for all it had taken was the wet heat of her cunny and the sweetness of her lips to make him risk everything he sought to preserve. His loyalty, his oath, his country, his honor.

“Fuck,” he cursed once with feeling, and then thrice more for good measure. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” This latest manifestation of counting he blamed upon her as well.

She had infected him like a disease. Burrowed beneath his skin like a tick. Had somehow managed to do what no other woman before her ever had. And in one night of allowing his prick to rule his head, he’d just done what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do.

He washed her blood from his cock, and he had never performed another task that made him feel lower. There it was, the evidence of their union. How the hell would he annul their marriage now, after he had so selfishly and stupidly taken her innocence? Oh, he had no doubt that Carlisle would still pull the proper strings to accomplish such a feat, but could Sebastian, in good conscience, do it?

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