Page 82 of The Countess Caper

Or larger than life.

She ran her fingers up his thighs, and his hair tickled her skin; his muscles flexed under her palms. She leaned forward and licked along his length, base to tip. When he staggered slightly, his hand ghosting over her head, a groan trapped in his throat, she took the length of him in her mouth without warning and sucked hard. His groan turned to a harsh shout, harsher pants. She sucked again and again, raking her nails gently over him, cradling the rest of him that would not fit in her mouth. His hips stuttered. “Fuck, Tessa.”

And then suddenly he had hauled her to her feet and his mouth seized hers, desperate, starving, just a bit rough. That tiger prowled between them. He dragged her over his length, pressing his cock into her warmth. She rubbed against him, angling for more, moaning. The sound she made undid him. His fingers dug into her hair, into her hip, and his teeth were on her throat; his tongue licked away the sting, deepening it, sending arrows of want between her legs. She throbbed with it. He pushed her onto her back, the messy sheets swallowing them. The hardness of him pressed into her, top to bottom. It wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.

“Tessa?” he growled into her temple.

“Yes?” It was yes; every part of her screamed yes.

“This mattress is atrocious.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. “I know. But we have expectant mothers who deserve soft beds. And not enough coin.” Not until they’d married. But she didn’t want to talk about that, not now.

“So do you. You deserve a soft bed.”

“I can wait.” She didn’t care about soft beds, not now. She squirmed beneath him, gasping at the nudge of his cock between her lips.

He caught her chin, handsome face going hard. “No. You deserve as much as anyone else. More.”

“I want more of you,” she said, frustration licking at her blood. She bit his shoulder.

He huffed a laugh. “Poor devil,” he murmured, moving his fingers along her thigh, grazing her heat. “Is there something you needed?”

She widened her legs, and they both panted.

“Am I neglecting you?” he whispered in her ear. He stroked the crease of her thigh, teasing. Tormenting. The hair of his chest tickled her spine.

“Roarke,” she very nearly begged. “Please.”

He slid two fingers inside her, without mercy, rubbing her inner walls, pulling free, plunging deep again. The sudden sensations stole her words, threatening to steal her breath. He was relentless, chasing her pleasure as it built, rubbing his thumb over her bed, a soft touch, a hard circle. When her back arched, he followed. And when her orgasm finally released, he pulled back just long enough to drive his cock into her, and her wet heat clenched around him. Her moans were strangled. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Finally.”

A second climax went through Tessa, surprising her, soft where the first had been relentless. Long and languid, turning her bones to liquid heat.

Roarke nudged her to her side, slipping his knee between her legs. He gripped her thigh and slid back into her slowly, so slowly. The pressure of his filling her sent sparks through her belly, made her legs tremble. He rubbed her nipple, squeezing her breast, lightly pulling the tip—refusing to let the fire collapse to coals; refusing anything that was not her body. His mouth moved gently under her ear, and his breath stirred the curls there.

It was slow and perfect and desperately intimate. There was no hiding, no running. He was everywhere.

She moved with him, pushing back until he went even deeper, until their breathing turned harsh. “Not yet, not yet,” he said. “Come for me again, one more. One more.”

He circled her bud, small circles, bigger circles, alternating until she couldn’t predict him, until she could only fall into the moment and burn. He caught her, fell with her in slow, deep thrusts until he came with her name on his lips.

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Tessa returned to her room at dawn, something was off.

She didn’t notice at first; she was too hazy with sleep and the pleasant ache in her body reminding her of how she had spent the last few hours. Her lips were slightly swollen from Roarke’s kisses, chafed by his beard, just like her inner thighs. They had snuck down to the kitchen for leftover pudding, which Roarke had eaten from between her breasts. They had paused in the music room and continued to devour each other in Roarke’s bed until she was so weak from pleasure that she fell asleep.

And then woke up starving. She was half surprised that Roarke did not also wake to the rumbling of her belly. She moved slowly, careful not to wake him. There was a basket of apples and pears and nuts in her room. She had adopted Summer’s habit of hiding food in case Rue was in a fit of temper in the kitchens.

But now she was in her room, and it felt cold and dusty, and she missed the heavy weight of Roarke’s arm draped over her. Even the awful acidic-green glow of painted grapes.

But it was more than that.

She frowned, wondering what she was missing.

When she realized what it was, equal parts confusion and dread settled like a stone in her stomach. The doors of the wardrobe across from the bed were open. It didn’t mean much at first glance; the latch was a bit temperamental. And though she was not as neat as she could be, she also knew she had not dumped all of her shoes onto the floor.

Someone had been in her room.