Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(57)

He looked down and the sight nearly undid him. She stared up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, her midnight hair pooling over his thighs as her hand worked its wonder on him.

It was too much.

He groaned and reached for her arms, determined to pull her up on top of him . . . to end the agony with one deep thrust inside her. He was blind to anything else. Only hot need pumped through him.

She made a sound of protest and dodged him. He propped himself up on his elbows and growled her name, “Cleo . . . I need you.”

On her knees, she kept herself out of his reach. Shaking her head at him, she warned in a sultry voice, “We’ll do this my way or not at all.”

He studied her, wishing he could refuse her terms, but knowing he was totally at her mercy. He could refuse her nothing.

He dropped his hands at his sides on the bed, palms up. His heart seized as he watched her, stunned when she reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head in one liquid-smooth move.

Even in the gloom he could detect the faint stain of color on her cheeks—the only telltale sign that she felt any embarrassment to be stark naked on her knees before him.

Serrated breaths fired from his lips as he watched her lower down to both hands on the bed. She crawled toward him, her hair a dark curtain on either side of her face as she positioned herself above him. She watched him from beneath dark lashes, and the look was wholly seductive, a temptress incarnate as she bowed her head over him.

Still watching him, her eyes never leaving his, she tasted him. Sensation shot through him. He hissed a stinging breath.

His gaze fastened on the sight of that tongue as it descended for another taste. He couldn’t stop himself. He lifted one hand and ran it through her hair. The need to touch her, feel her, overwhelmed him. His fingers sifted through the dark strands. Her mouth grew more assertive, her tongue more thorough, more sure. He moaned, his hips lifting up as she took all of him in her mouth.

“Cleo,” he gasped, choking out, “stop!”

He clasped her shoulders and tried to lift her away.

With her hands braced on each side of his waist, she looked up at him with a thoroughly satisfied grin. “You want me to stop?” she asked in a throaty voice he’d never heard from her.

She trailed a fingertip down the center of his chest. “You see, I’ve been considering what you said about there being other ways we can satisfy each other . . . without consummation. You gave me a sample of that the other night.” Her finger stopped on the hard tip of him. “Now it’s my turn.” Her eyes looked liquid dark staring up at him. “Let me pleasure you, Logan.”

His head dropped back in defeat as she lowered her lips to him again and he let her have her way with him. “As long as you understand, fair is fair. It will be my turn next to pleasure you.”

She came up, her hair falling in a seductive inky-dark curtain against his stomach. Her voice purred in a rumble that vibrated along his nerve endings. “Oh, I’m counting on that.”





Chapter Twenty-four

Cleo raised the teacup to her lips and took a savoring sip of the warm brew, letting the flavor of bergamot flood her mouth and revive her. Considering how very little she’d slept, she could use a little revitalizing.

“Don’t you look satiated,” Marguerite murmured for Cleo’s ears alone.

Heat crawled up her cheeks as last night replayed in her mind. A quick darting glance around the table revealed that no one else seemed aware of the illicit nature of her thoughts. Her father chatted amiably with Annalise and Logan’s sister Abigail.

Logan and his brothers had left at dawn to call upon surrounding farmers and crofters. Ash had opted to join them, too. Cleo couldn’t help feeling impatient and itchy at Logan’s absence. Especially after last night. She doubted the feeling would go away until she saw him again.

Marguerite watched her expectantly, and she realized she hadn’t answered her yet. She set her teacup back down with a soft click. “I slept well, thank you.”

Marguerite smiled knowingly. “I didn’t say you looked rested. On the contrary. You look rather weary.”

Cleo fidgeted with her napkin.

Marguerite continued, “I take it you took my advice.”

Cleo’s cheeks burned hotter.

Marguerite chuckled. “You needn’t say anything. The bright red of your face is answer enough.” She leaned in closer, her words hushed. “I must confess my curiosity, however. Did your plan work?”

“My plan?”

“To keep a certain . . . distance?”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat lightly, understanding her meaning. She wanted to know if the marriage had been consummated. “Y-yes. It worked.”

“Oh.” Marguerite looked almost disappointed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just imagined that . . .”

“Yes?” Cleo prodded.

Marguerite hesitated, taking a sip of her tea before she explained, “Once intimacy begins and is enjoyed . . . well, it’s almost impossible to resist following through.”

Cleo stared at her unblinkingly for a long moment, letting that information sink in. It made perfect sense actually. It explained the longing, the itchy impatience thrumming through her. Her desperate need to see him again, touch him . . . and that ache deep in the core of her that begged for satisfaction.