Page 55 of Cold November Rake

They stayed like that for a long moment, joined, still, breathing each other's air.

Then he began to move. Slowly at first, a careful withdrawal followed by a thrust that made Temperance's back arch, her hips lifting to meet his.

His breathing quickened. The rhythm between them turned frantic, greedy, uncontrollable.

Her fingers curled into the mattress, trying to anchor herself against the onslaught of sensation as Sutton drove into her with an unrelenting pace.

He slid his hands down her thighs, his grip firm, and the next thing she knew he had pulled her hips to the edge of the mattress, her knees draped over his arms, open for him.

Then her mind blanked as he plunged into her again, deeper, the new angle sending his cock to some place inside her that made black spots bloom behind her eyelids.

She couldn't keep her voice in; it tumbled out of her, a tangled stream of moans and broken gasps.

His thrusts came faster and faster. He moved one hand to her center, that button of pleasure that demanded attention, pressed a thumb against it and circled it, teasing until her whole awareness narrowed to that tiny point, like lightning gathering, and then it struck, spreading throughout her body, waves of pleasure radiating in its wake.

Sutton's body went rigid, his breath catching on a sound caught between a groan and a sigh as he spilled inside her.

Then he withdrew.

The sensation was physical first—the emptiness, the cool air where his body had been, the ache of muscles that had clenched around him and now had nothing to clench around.

Temperance sat up. The nightgown was bunched around her waist, the sheer silk rumpled and damp with sweat and other evidence of their coupling. She did not adjust it. She perched on the edge of the mattress with her legs still spread apart, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, her lips parted on the breath she had not quite finished exhaling, and she waited.

For a kiss, perhaps. A hand against her cheek. His arms drawn around her, his forehead resting against hers while their breathing slowed.

Her body was still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, her skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alert to the possibility of contact, and that possibility hung in the air between them, tangible as the scent of their joining that had begun to permeate the room.

She did not need words, nor did she expect them, though a few would have been welcome. Even a single one. Her name breathed out with a tinge of tenderness. Anything to tell her that what had passed between them had mattered to him as it had to her, that she had not been alone in it.

Sutton did not say a word. Did not touch her. Did not reassure her.

Instead, he turned away and strode into his dressing chamber.

The door closed behind him. The candles guttered in the draft, and the silence he left was louder than anything he could have said.

Temperance looked down at herself, at the ruined silk and her bare, trembling knees, and heat flooded her face. She tugged the gown down over her thighs with unsteady fingers and blinked back the tears.

Chapter Fourteen

London

4th January 1817

Temperance,

Your notes from Vevey and Domodossola arrived within a week of one another, and a third from Brig, written the night before your crossing, which said nothing at all except that you were cold. I have read them in the order written, and then in the order received, and find they make equal sense either way.

I am told there is no rhyme for countess in German. I mean to keep it that way.

Do write before you move again. I am learning to read your hand at the speed of a coach.

This goes to the Hôtel de l'Europe in Turin, as instructed. I trust you will still be there to read it.

Your husband,

Sutton

P.S. The description of sauerkraut's taste has confounded me. I came to the conclusion I shall enjoy it a great deal.