Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(88)

And then he kissed her. This she had not expected, and she thought she might die from the pleasure. When he parted her, she had held her breath, preparing herself for his intimate invasion. But instead he worshipped her with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until she was a writhing, panting, incoherent bundle of need.

“Please, Marcus,” she begged, and she wished she knew exactly what she was begging for. But whatever it was, she knew he could give it to her. He would know how to quench the exquisite ache within her. He could send her to heaven, and he could bring her back down to earth so she could spend a lifetime in his arms.

He pulled away from her for a moment, and she nearly cried from the loss of his touch. He was practically tearing off his breeches, and when he returned, they were matched up lengthwise, his face near hers, his hand in hers, and his hips settling urgently between her legs.

Her lips parted as she tried to breathe evenly. When she looked at him, his eyes were on her face, and all he said was, “Take me.”

The tip of him pressed against her, then opened her, and she understood. It was so difficult, because all she wanted was to clench every muscle in her body, but somehow she made herself relax enough so that with each stroke, he entered her more deeply, until with a gasp of surprise she realized that he was fully sheathed within her.

He shuddered with pleasure, and he began to move in a new rhythm, sliding back and forth within her. She started saying things, she didn’t know what. Maybe she was begging him, or pleading, or trying to make some sort of deal so that he would see this through, and bring her with him, and make it end, and make it never stop, and—

Something happened.

Every speck of her being pulled together into a tight little ball and then shot apart, like one of those firecrackers she’d seen set off over Vauxhall. Marcus, too, cried out and surged forward one last time, spilling himself within her, before collapsing completely.

For several minutes, Honoria could do nothing but lie there, marveling in the warmth of his body next to hers. Marcus had pulled a soft blanket over them, and together they had made their own little heaven. His hand was on hers, their fingers entwined, and she could not imagine a more peaceful, lovely moment.

It would be hers. This. For the rest of her life. He had not mentioned marriage, but this didn’t concern her. This was Marcus. He would never abandon a woman after a moment like this. And he was probably just waiting for the right way to propose. He liked to do things properly, her Marcus.

Her Marcus.

She liked the way that sounded.

Of course, she thought with a gleam in her eye, he had not been the least bit proper this evening. So maybe . . .

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she lied. “Why do you ask?”

He shifted position so that he could lean on his elbow and look down upon her. “You have a terrifying look on your face.”

“Terrifying?”

“Devious,” he amended.

“I’m not sure which I prefer.”

He chuckled, a low, hearty rumble that echoed from his body to hers. Then his face sobered. “We will have to be getting back.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “We will be missed.”

“I won’t, but you will.”

“I can always tell my mother that I took ill. I’ll say I caught whatever it was that afflicted Sarah. Which is to say, nothing, but nobody knows that but Sarah.” She pressed her mouth together in a peevish line. “And me. And Iris. And probably Miss Wynter, too. Still.”

He laughed again, then leaned down and kissed her lightly on the nose. “If I could, I would stay here forever.”

She smiled as the warmth of his words slid through her like a kiss. “I was just thinking that this is just like heaven.”

He was silent for a moment, and then, so softly she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly, he whispered, “Heaven couldn’t possibly compare.”





Chapter Twenty-two



Luckily for Honoria, her hair had not been dressed in an elaborate style. What with the extra rehearsals that afternoon, there hadn’t been time for it. So it was not difficult for her to replicate the coiffure.

Marcus’s cravat was another story. No matter what they did, they could not restore its crisp, intricate knot.

“You will never be able to let your valet go,” Honoria told him after her third attempt at it. “In fact, you might need to increase his wages.”

“I already told Lady Danbury he stabbed me,” Marcus murmured.

Honoria covered her mouth. “I am trying not to smile,” she said, “because it’s not funny.”

“And yet it is.”

She held out as long as she could. “It is.”

He grinned down at her, and he looked so happy, so carefree. It made Honoria’s heart sing. How strange and yet how splendid that her happiness could be so dependent on the happiness of another.

“Let me try,” he said, and he took the ends and positioned himself in front of her mirror.

She watched him for about two seconds before declaring, “You’re going to have to go home.”

His eyes did not leave the reflection of his neckcloth in the mirror. “I haven’t even got past the first knot.”

“And you’re not going to.”