The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(73)

“Yes, you did. And I did consider throttling you. Many times.” The silky glide of her hand swept up his belly and along his rib cage. “But I am glad I did not.” Her fingernail flicked at his nipple, and he drew in a sharp breath.

“Stop,” he told her. “We need to discuss this.”

“No,” she returned. “We most definitely do not need to talk.” She lifted up to place her mouth, lush and warm, over one of his nipples, laving it with her tongue and gently scraping it with her teeth. Pleasure streaked down his spine.

“Maggie,” he groaned. She was attempting to distract him from the conversation. He started to unfold his arms, to reach for her, but her hands stopped him.

“Stay there. Let me have my wicked way with you.”

His pulse picked up. “As I just had my wicked way with you mere moments ago, I doubt I can be roused so soon after.”

Her mouth began to travel over his ribs and down to his stomach, pressing deliciously soft kisses that had him shivering in anticipation. “Is that so?” she murmured before shifting to settle between his legs.

His cock twitched as her warm breath gusted over the sensitive flesh. Memories of the way her mouth had taken him deep last night resurfaced. The slick, moist suction, her determination in keeping the perfect rhythm . . . That she, a proper lady, deigned to pleasure him with her mouth, seemed to like it even, had him nearly weeping in gratitude. He felt himself begin to swell.

“Hmmm,” she said and licked her lips, her eyes flicking from his burgeoning erection up to meet his gaze. “And you doubted yourself.”

His lids fluttered shut as she suckled on him, drawing his semi-erect shaft over her tongue. Heaven. Absolute heaven. “A man does require some recovery time,” he mumbled. Then her nails gently raked the thin skin covering his bollocks and he bucked. Blood rushed to his cock at the exquisite torture. “But I never should have doubted you, apparently.”





Several days later, Simon strode into the crowded dining room of his hotel, unsurprised to find most of the tables were occupied. H?tel Meurice served both English and French fare, which made it a favorite with British travelers eager for a taste of home. His guests, he noticed, had already arrived. Excellent. The sooner this meal concluded, the sooner he could hie himself to Maggie’s house.

Heat spread through his loins. The past sennight had been one of the best of his life. Each evening since returning from Auvers, he and Maggie had enjoyed dinner together and then retired to her chambers. He departed in the mornings before the household awoke, though she swore it unnecessary. However, he wanted to spare her any further gossip, at least until they could be married. Not that he’d asked her yet, but that was a mere formality. She cared for him, and under no circumstances would he let her go—not after he’d found her after all these years.

Markham brightened when he saw Simon approach. “Winchester! Excellent timing. We’ve just ordered a bottle of claret.”

“Markham has ordered claret,” Quint corrected. “I have ordered tea.”

“Of course. And thank you for the clarification.” Simon lowered into the empty chair. “Glad you joined us, Quint.”

“I suspect this may be my only opportunity to see you.”

“Why’s that?” Markham asked. “I thought you both were staying in this hotel.”

“One of us is,” Quint said under his breath.

“Oh, ho. Did Winchester find a bit of sport here in Paris? Tell me”—Markham leaned closer—“are the Frenchwomen as forward as I’ve heard?”

Simon thought of Maggie, who’d practically coined the word forward, and could barely prevent a grin. Though it was not lost on him how Markham had hoped to tumble Maggie himself, and the notion erased any mirth from the conversation. “I’d hardly be a gentleman if I talked after the fact,” he said as a member of the staff poured glasses of claret.

They ordered and discussed nothing of import until the food arrived. Based on experience, Simon knew serious discussions were best carried out with full bellies and quenched thirst. So they listened to Markham rattle off a litany of detail regarding how he’d spent his time in Paris. Quint asked polite questions while Simon tried to keep his mind from wandering. Not so easy considering he’d introduced Maggie to a new position for lovemaking, one she’d now declared a favorite. The memory was so vivid, so enticing, he was grateful to be covered by the table.

“Do rejoin us, Winchester,” Quint said as their meals were delivered.

“My apologies,” Simon told both men. He really must stop recalling the picture of Maggie’s delectable backside as he pushed—

“Must be that bit ’o French fluff you’re thinking on,” Markham said. “Though I am surprised. Half of Paris speculated you were tumbling the Harlot.”

Simon carefully placed his knife and fork on the edges of his plate and leaned forward. “Markham, if you speak of the lady in such a disrespectful manner again, you and I shall be meeting on a French field at dawn.” He ignored Quint’s heavy sigh from the opposite side of the table, continuing to focus his attention on Markham.

Markham blinked, his fleshy jowls quivering. “Damn me. It is Lady Hawkins, ain’t it? The rumors are true.”

Simon resumed eating. “My romantic endeavors are hardly anyone’s concern.”