The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(72)
She thought about it. “I have no ladies’ maid.”
His mouth twitched. “This is true.”
“I suppose you’ll have to do, then.”
His teeth shone in the near darkness, a predatory smile that made her heart skip. “Yes, I suppose I will.”
The following morning, Simon woke to a soft, feminine body pressed against his side. Maggie. He had to stifle a grin. Roses and a hint of vanilla. He would never tire of that smell. Twice he’d had her last night, and apparently his cock was putting in a bid for another round this morning. Of course, it might have a bit to do with her luscious bottom resting against his hip. How could she be so tempting, even while asleep?
An overwhelming urge to wrap her in his arms, to protect her from the slightest bit of pain, stole through him. Ridiculous considering Maggie was the strongest woman he’d ever met; she needed no champion. But Simon found himself longing for the role nonetheless.
Perhaps it was the disturbing news he’d learned yesterday that brought about these curious and bothersome emotions. The carriage accident had been deliberate. Once the vehicle had been brought to Auvers for repair, Simon had spent the better part of the day going over it with the two drivers, attempting to discern clues as to the culprit. Someone had damaged the axle and Simon would learn who was responsible.
But for now, there were other matters that deserved his careful attention.
Not all women were amenable to amorous encounters in the morning . . . but one never knew unless one tried. He aligned them carefully, Maggie’s back to his chest, his erection nestled between her full, plump buttocks. Then his fingers moved to her breast and set about rousing a nipple. It puckered quickly, almost begging for his touch as he teased it. Soon he ministered to the other, giving it the same treatment. Maggie’s breathing changed, no longer slow and deep but turning shallow. She’s awake.
He bent to kiss and nip the sensitive skin behind her earlobe, something he happened to know she particularly liked. In no hurry, he played with her breasts, molding and caressing them, filling his hands with the soft, womanly shape of her. Creamy skin. Heavenly curves. A mouth to tempt a saint. He could not get enough of her, his erection now so hard it hurt.
Unable to wait, his fingers found the slickness pooling between her legs. She gasped, her hand clutching at his hip to pull him closer. She’s ready. Lust swept through his belly and the need for her became essential, like breathing. He lifted her leg slightly, lined up, and entered her in one smooth thrust. She fit him perfectly. Hot. Tight. He gritted his teeth, stopped to take a moment. No sense in rushing it. He wanted to enjoy this. Then Maggie squirmed and pushed back, bringing him in deeper, and Simon was lost.
It quickly turned into something less playful and more serious. His hips slapped against her delectable backside with each powerful thrust. When he felt his own climax threaten, he worked her tiny bud of pleasure in small circles, rhythmic and fast, until she dug her nails into his arm, moaning. Bloody hell, he loved the way she reacted to him.
Her inner walls clamped down on him, and she gave a cry, her body shuddering. He tried desperately to hold out until she stopped shaking, to let her ride out her orgasm, but it proved impossible. Beginning at the base of his spine, the pressure built and he barely pulled out in time to spill on the sheets.
Fighting for air, he dragged her close. The fire had died down overnight, so he gathered the coverlet and covered them both.
“What a lovely way to say good morning,” she said, raising her arms and stretching back against him.
“Mmm, I thought so. My favorite way, anyhow.”
After a pause, she said, “Wake up with a woman often, do you?”
He heard the edge to her voice. Pushing on her shoulder, he brought her around to face him. “No, Maggie, I do not. There haven’t been that many women in recent years and none who meant anything substantial.” That must have satisfied her because she closed her eyes and snuggled against him. “What about you? Have you never had a man in your bed come morning?”
“Never.”
“Ah.” So she did not care to keep her paramours overnight. Oddly enough, that tidbit pleased him. He liked knowing he was the first to hold her while she slept. His palm stroked the velvety softness of her hip. “They did not realize what they were missing, then.”
She was so still, so quiet, he worried he’d offended her. Then her lids lifted. “There have only ever been three men. One was my husband and you are another.”
A weight settled on Simon’s chest, pressing down on his lungs and making it hard to breathe. Thoughts swirled in his mind, things he’d said, assumptions he’d made. But the truth was right there in her clear, serious green gaze. No, this couldn’t be right. “Three?” he rasped.
She lifted a dainty shoulder. “One would presume more with my nickname, but there have only been three.”
“Myself and Hawkins. So who was the third?”
Her lips compressed and he guessed the question made her uncomfortable. But he needed the answer. “Tell me, Maggie,” he urged gently.
“An artist. You met him at the opera.”
“Ah.” So he’d been correct. The proprietary way the man had touched Maggie hadn’t been Simon’s imagination. He hardly found this reassuring, however. Moving to his back, he folded his hands behind his head and fixed his stare on the ceiling. “No wonder you reacted so strongly when I told you I forgave you. You must have been ready to throttle me. I made terribly unfair assumptions about you.”