Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(60)

He wasn’t going to bring Vanreid into his home or within striking distance of Daisy. Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day. On this—the safety of his wife—he wouldn’t hesitate to defy Carlisle. He wouldn’t risk her. She was too precious to him.

And when this mission was over, he was going to retire from the League. If Daisy forgave him after he told her as much of the truth as he was able, they would go to Thornsby Hall and raise half a dozen children.

Children with Daisy.

Something warm settled in his gut. The thought of planting his seed in her, watching her grow with his babe, took his breath and made his cock even harder than it already was by being seated across from her, in her charmed presence.

“Sebastian?” her voice was hesitant, questioning. “Won’t you say something? I fear I’ve shocked you with my confession.”

He shot from his chair so quickly that it thudded backward, tipped on its side on the carpet behind him. He didn’t give a damn. “You could never shock me, buttercup,” he assured her as he stalked around the table.

Being in the same space as her without having her in his arms was suddenly insupportable. He had to have her. Right. Bloody. Now. Everything else could be dealt with another day—the League, her father, his mission, the lies between them. But here, in this moment, he was going to give her the only honesty he could. It wasn’t what she deserved, but it was all he had.

Her eyes went wide as he hauled her from her chair before making a thorough swipe of the table behind her with his arm. China, silver, and the fourth course all went crashing to the center of the table. He didn’t give a damn if every last monogrammed plate was smashed to bits. Didn’t care if the mutton went to waste. His hands went to her waist, spanning it easily.

She ought to eat more, he thought absently as he lifted her up and deposited her on the table at her back. Her hands went to his shoulders, and she still hadn’t said a word, her shock rendering her speechless.

When her derriere settled on the table linen and he caught her billowing skirts in his fists, she found her tongue at last. “Sebastian! What are you doing? We haven’t even finished dinner or had dessert. Cook has prepared cocoa biscuits and strawberries.”

She was breathless, flushed, and she smelled better than anything ever had. He wanted to inhale her, trap her bergamot and vanilla and ambergris in his lungs so that whenever he wasn’t in her presence he could still breathe her.

His gaze fell to her mouth. “You don’t like strawberries.”

“You do.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “How did you know I don’t like strawberries?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he rucked her skirts up to her waist, pooling their voluminous layers on the table. And that was when he made the most astonishing, delicious revelation. His duchess wasn’t wearing any drawers. Nothing but silk stockings and garters and well-curved legs.

And the most tempting cunny he’d ever seen.

She was his.

“To hell with the cocoa biscuits and strawberries, love.” He sank to his knees in appreciation, his hands on her hips, gliding over warm silk until they reached warmer flesh. “All I want is you.”

“Sebastian.” She sounded equal parts scandalized and breathless. “You mustn’t. We’re in the midst of dinner. The servants… ”

Mine, he thought as he kissed the tempting skin above her garters. First her left leg, then the right. “No one will disturb us.” He had made it clear to his staff after their first dinner. There would be no discreet knock, no hesitant interruption.

He had all the time in the world to savor her. And savor her he would. Sweet Christ, but her thighs were glorious. There was something delectably carnal about all that ivory: garters, silk, skin, and the way she attempted to press her legs together to preserve her modesty. Mine. There it was again, unbidden, the claim he staked upon her.

He’d meant what he said to Griffin. He was firm in his decision. This woman, who was soft and kind and beautiful, who made him laugh as much as she made him lust, she belonged to him now, just as he belonged to her. There would be no annulment.

“Sebastian.” Her hands flitted to his shoulders first, then to his hair. But instead of pushing him away, her fingers tunneled a path to his scalp. “This is wicked.”

“Mmm.” He hummed his satisfaction as he kissed higher, caressing her thighs with slow, languorous strokes as he urged her to open to him. “I want to taste you, love.” Another kiss, then another, and she allowed him to nudge her legs apart.

A noise emerged from her throat as well, half moan, half mewl, and he’d never heard a sweeter sound than Daisy losing the tight grip she attempted to keep on her control. Slowly, he spread her legs, inch by torturous inch. He kissed each inner thigh. Mine. Nipped her with his teeth, making her jerk as her fingers tensed in his hair. Mine. Licked the soft skin to soothe it. Mine. Higher he went, his mouth dragging over her, worshipping, loving.

And then she was open to him completely, and he slid his hands to cup her bare bottom and drag her closer. He was like a man lost on a desert plain who had just stumbled across a babbling stream, sinking to his knees to cup that life source and bring it into his body with a desperation borne of pure necessity. He ran his tongue over her seam, once, twice, again and again. Teasing. Tasting. She moved beneath him, moaning, twisting, her legs clamping down on his head.