Chapter Seventeen
Payton doubted she had ever attended such a crush. The Duchess of Mondvale’s ball was a smashing success. Payton had arrived on Connie’s doorstep and had promptly burst into tears when her magnetic and too dashing husband, Lucan Wynwood, had opened the front door.
The tears had mortified Payton. She was not the type of female to give in to bouts of crying and vapors, but the man had been unruffled and had drawn her inside and hugged her. She had flung her arms around him, strangely glad to be able to return a comforting embrace.
His beautiful and vibrant duchess had bundled her into a guest chamber where they had spent the night talking. Payton had slid into an exhausted slumber, passing the day and majority of the following afternoon cocooned in sleep.
She roused late in the afternoon to realize she had arrived on the eve of the ball. Connie refused to accept the explanation that Payton was without a gown. They were of a similar build, so Payton had reluctantly agreed to accept one of the most glorious dresses she had ever worn.
The gown was of deep rose silk with an overskirt of silver gauze. A thick band of the rose silk encircled her tiny waist and the off-the-shoulder bodice was made in the same silk covered with silver gauze. The neckline, scalloped hem of the overskirt, and tiny sleeves were embroidered with flowers in delicate seed pearls. Her dark hair was arranged high around a cluster of roses of the palest pink in shades darkening to the pink of her dress. Her dancing slippers matched the dress, and her fan was of silver lace, embroidered with golden threads.
She had not even been at the ball for half an hour when the first whisper reached her ear.
Jilted.
Horse breeder.
Instead of hurting, her lips twitched. Society was too predictable, and it just might be possible she was becoming immune to their vicious tongues. But the greater amusement was wondering how they would react when they discovered her horse breeder was Prince Alexander Dashkova, the Duke of Avondale.
She collected a glass of champagne from a passing footman, hoping for a cool breeze to soothe the heat of the crush. The terrace doors were open, and there had been a definite nip in the air earlier in the day. All that had been stifled under the multitude of guests mingling and laughing in the duke’s grand ballroom.
Payton stood on the sidelines, content no one had asked her to dance. Connie was playing the charming yet reserved hostess, and everyone was lapping it up, pleased to garner her attention if only for a few seconds.
How fickle society was. Months ago all Connie had been to them was the beautiful bastard, and no one had wanted to be her friend.
With a snort Payton lifted the glass to her lips and drank.
“…she is Mr. Marcus Stone’s mistress, and the duchess still calls her friend,” a voice rife with appalled shock said, and with a sigh, Payton glanced toward the unfortunate female. A smile burst on her lips, as she identified Lady Charlotte Ralston, Connie’s dearest friend.
“Are you certain? She converses with my daughter, Lady Ophelia, frequently. I must stop such corrupting influence at once.”
“There is a rumor she has been seen leaving the man’s apartment at his gambling club, Decadence, and her lady’s maid told my lady’s maid Lady Ralston may be with child!”
Payton’s chest ached. She already knew how this gossip would take little or no time to spread and would create a circle of pain and heartache. She pushed through the crowd, toward Charlotte.
“Prince Alexander Konstantinovich Dashkova, His Grace, the Duke of Avondale, and the Countess of Merryweather,” the butler’s voice boomed, announcing Mikhail and—mystifyingly—her aunt.
Oh God.
Payton faltered and lifted her eyes to the grand staircase with the rest of the guests. He was every bit the arrogant and powerful aristocrat, once again dressed in sharp elegant black-and-white evening wear. It was only as he came closer that she realized his waistcoat was silver, almost as if he had known what color her dress would be.
Connie went over and greeted him, and the crowded assembly surged, no doubt eager to arrange introductions and form the connection. Unerringly his gaze found hers, and her breath caught at the possessive way his eyes lingered.
She swallowed as he pulled away from everyone and prowled toward her. Even Connie looked baffled until she saw the direction he headed, then an enchanting smile split her face, and she gave Payton an audacious wink.
Good heavens.
Mikhail was making no effort to disguise the passion he felt for her.
It was shockingly outrageous…and wonderful.
Her heart raced in earnest. It was then she realized how quiet everyone was, and the prickling sensation of being watched by so many eyes rippled over her skin with discomfort, one that melted away the second he stopped in front of her.
“Miss Peppiwell,” he greeted, and bowed over her hand, then he lifted darkening blue eyes to her face.
Memories of his tongue against her, his hands pleasuring, and his overwhelming magnetism had a soft breath shuddering from her. Her heart ached. If only.
“My dear,” her aunt said, from behind him. “Please greet your intended.”
How could she? Did Aunt Florence really believe the court of society’s opinion meant so much to Payton? There were several shocked gasps and rage burned through her. How dare they? She had said no, and her family knew very well she had meant every word.
A sharp frown flashed across Mikhail’s face, and it seemed he had not realized her aunt would try to pressure her publicly.
But had that not been his intention when he arrived with her aunt?
The anger and hurt stabbing Payton’s heart was potent. Why was it so difficult for the people who claimed to love her to respect her right to live life the way she wanted?
She pulled her hand from his, without acknowledging his generosity with a curtsy. Meeting the eyes of her aunt, Payton let the anger burn in her gaze, and Aunt Florence had the grace to blush.
She looked to Mikhail, and the cold determination was unmistakable in his eyes.
Then Payton turned away. She would be flayed for ignoring a prince, but she cared not what he or anyone thought.
She would only be encouraged by the desires in her heart.
Payton cut Mikhail dead, and pure pride swelled in his chest. He threw back his head and laughed, loving her fire, uncaring of the shocked murmurs rippling through the ballroom.
Her steps faltered at his obvious amusement, and she twisted her head and met his gaze with a fierce glare. And he was so damned glad to see it was not one of pain. Ecstasy as if she were kissing him tingled up his spine, when her lips quirked and humor flashed deep in her golden gaze. She had not reacted from a place of hurt or deliberate spitefulness, but from a place of refusing to bow to the dictates of her family and society.
He grabbed a glass from a passing footman and raised it in her direction.
There were several gasps behind him which he ignored.
Dance with me, he mouthed, and her eyes widened, that irresistible smile he loved so much curved into her lips. Then sadness suffused her face. It pained him to see it.
Mikhail’s world shifted when she moved toward him.
A waltz started, and he drew her into his arms. “Thank you.”
“I have selfish reasons,” she said with a somber smile. “I know you dislike scandal, and I would not have you endure one because of my actions. I would prefer us to part amicably than with anger.”
She cared. “Thank you, Payton. You honor me.”
She arched an elegant brow. “I also love dancing, and it has been months since I had the pleasure, aside from our last ball.”
The unspoken words hinted of a society that had made no effort to forgive and accept.
He drew her a bit closer than what was considered appropriate and heat flared in her gaze, then she lowered her lashes, hiding from him. “Then I will dance all night with you.”
Her cheeks flushed becomingly. “Are you saying you are now comfortable with my touch?” She flexed her fingers on his shoulders.
“More so than I have ever been.”
Doubt clouded her gaze. It was not enough for him to say the words. He would have to show her. He tightened his grip and spun her with dizzying swirls, wishing he could wipe the evident heartbreak from her eyes.
Tonight.
He would wait no longer. He must know if he was capable of accepting all she had to offer, and he would act tonight.
Payton released Mikhail’s hands, curtsied, and walked away.
“They have danced six dances now,” a voice filled with shock and what sounded like admiration said.
“It is scandalous, that is what it is!”
“I think she is an original.”
This time the notes of admiration were filled with warmth.
“I would say the Duke of Avondale has clearly declared who will be his duchess.”
This tone was filled with envy.
Payton did not care. She could feel Mikhail’s eyes on her; the swell of the gossip murmurings rose, but she was becoming immune to it all. It was freeing to know how little she cared for their opinion in this moment.
“Payton!” The sharp call of her aunt did not deter her, and pure pleasure wrapped itself around her heart as she ignored the head of her family.
She met the eyes of Connie, and a full-blown smile burst on Payton’s lips when the duchess raised her glass of champagne and gave her a mock bow. Payton winked, and Connie laughed, and the ballroom throng witnessed the byplay.
Payton swept from the ballroom to the foyer, ignoring those who tried to signal her attention. She was one of the first guests to depart, and it took little effort for her carriage to be brought around.
She waited until she was settled inside before releasing the laugh she had been suppressing. This night had been perfect…almost. The freedom to act on her feelings had been so rewarding. When she had returned to his arms, uncaring of the world around for the first time she could ever remember, she had felt the crack in the belief she could never fit in his world.
She had soared in his arms, the desperate realization that while she did not want to be a part of the hypocrisy of high society, the easy condemnation and gossip, the desire to be Mikhail’s wife, his lover, his princess and his duchess, had rattled in her head, a hammer to her resistance. And when she took the plunge, society would be the one that needed to fit into her world. A society where there was kindness to the wallflowers, where it was acceptable to invite the bluestocking to her balls, where the gent who possessed two left feet would still be encouraged to waltz, and, if it was her wish, to ride in Hyde Park astride in trousers. The very title she feared had the power for her to act however she wanted, if she would but have the strength to reach for him.
What about never knowing what it is like to touch him? How could she ever hope to defeat such demons?
There was a lurch, and she slipped a bit forward. A few minutes passed, and she stirred. Mayfair, where her father’s town house was located, was not all that far from Connie’s residence. They should have arrived by now. Payton lifted her head and frowned. Was it her imagination that the horses were moving faster? She banged on the carriage roof, and a few seconds later the portal slid open.
“Why have we increased our—?” What?
Dozens of men on horseback surrounded her carriage, and the countryside they raced past was not familiar in the least. Pulling the watch from her pelisse, she gaped at the time. She had been woolgathering for almost an hour.
Fear slithered along her spine. “Stop the carriage,” she ordered, her mind churning with confusion and determination.
Why would the driver detour without informing her? She gasped when a horse trotted alongside the equipage, and she identified Vladimir. She opened the window. “What are you doing? Please order the driver to stop at once.”
“Will you leave the carriage in the middle of nowhere?”
She glared at him. “What is the meaning of this?”
A slight smile quirked his lips. “I am being allowed to atone for my stupidity.”
“By kidnapping me?” For the most awful precious seconds she had thought it could have been Lord Jensen, and she would have to endure a similar fate as Phillipa had when a man who had been obsessed kidnapped her.
Relief pulsed inside, and then a thought occurred. “Are you planning to do away with me for Princess Tatiana?”
Shock flared wide in Vladimir’s eyes to be quickly replaced by amusement.
“No, Miss Peppiwell. Please be assured you have nothing to fear.”
“I am not sure how things are done in Russia, but kidnapping here is a punishable crime.”
The dratted man’s lips twitched.
“I am taking you to Kent at Prince Alexander’s command.”
Payton spluttered at the man’s gall. She slammed the window shut and tried to settle her thoughts. She rocked with the motion of the carriage with a steady sense of anticipation building inside her. Mikhail was being outrageous and so improper. A smile tugged at her lips. She did not want to even imagine the gossip there would be if this got out.
Payton was infuriated. Mikhail really had the temerity to have the bounder Vladimir kidnap her. Was he aware the depth of scandal it could cause if it were ever discovered?
Now, approximately two hours after she had left the ball in London, that he delivered her to one of the most glorious castles she had ever seen, did not detract from his outrageous action. The outriders had broken away from the carriage once the horses trotted into the driveway. Payton descended the carriage to be received by the servants awaiting her arrival.
She felt mystified. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Claxon, took charge in quick order, and introduced Payton to the line of staff, then ushered her inside before escorting her upstairs to the loveliest of chambers, where an elegant maid modestly curtsied, awaiting her orders.
Her cheeks burned. What must they be thinking? Only a woman of loose morals would be at the prince’s house at such a late hour, unaccompanied, yet they treated her with the utmost respect and kindness.
The chamber was decorated in antique gold and blue, with six soaring windows facing the rolling expanse of the green castle grounds. A Parisian chaise lounge upholstered in golden silk stood in the far corner, and one of the most exquisite writing desks Payton had ever seen sat under the windows. She indulged in a bath to remove the sweat and dust of travel and dressed in a matching blue jacket and skirt trimmed in silver, and a soft peach shirt with ruffled sleeves that had been laid out. Payton did not question how her valise had been delivered along with her to the castle.
It seemed he had planned this with great thoroughness.
She marched to the oak armoire and wrenched the door opened. She had several day dresses, riding habits, and even a few ball gowns organized inside.
Good heavens. Did he not plan to return her home?
She stiffened her shoulders and exited the chamber. The majestic beauty of the castle took Payton’s breath away. She toured the lower rooms, seeking Mikhail in the parlor or drawing room. They were decorated in ornate elegance; if the ceilings had not been so high, the mass of detail might have seemed fussy, but the proportions were splendid, and yet the castle seemed very lived-in and comfortable. The rooms were all decorated with elegant furniture in Italian marble and carved mahogany. The windows were covered with sweeping curtains in brocade velvet with the ducal shield displayed in gold braid on each of the tassel-festooned pelmets. The walls were hung with some of the most exquisite paintings she had ever seen. Payton doubted that even the British Museum held such great works of art. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in silk in muted shades of silver and blue in one room and in crimson and gold in the next.
Payton had never seen such a pleasing interior.
She searched for the library or an office, for she refused to believe he would bring her here and not be present. She came upon a room where a faint light shone beneath the door. She rapped on the door, and when no answer came, she opened it and entered.
It was a library. No—it was a world of fantasy and dreams where walls and walls of books rose in three stories of stunning splendor. It was the most magnificent library Payton had ever seen.
“This is so glorious,” she gasped, unable to credit her eyes.
“This is one of the reasons I brought you here.”
She muffled the squeak and spun sharply.
Good heavens.
Mikhail stood in the doorway, obviously having recently emerged from a bath. He was dressed in formal trousers and jacket, complemented by a blue waistcoat and an expertly tied silken cravat. His black hair was neatly groomed, although slightly damp, without a strand out of place, his blue eyes were cool and distant; he was every inch the aristocrat. Against her own volition she was intrigued by this side of him. This man seemed cold and arrogant…more like a duke or prince than her Mikhail. She was overwhelmingly conscious of how much she had missed him, when only hours before she had been in his arms waltzing.
She loved him utterly.
An unbearable tension wound itself around her heart with the admission.
She buried the flare of pleasure at seeing him and gave him a look of pure disgruntlement. “Did you believe seeing books would make me forgive your deplorable behavior? Disabuse yourself of the notion, Mik—your highness.”
Regret flared in his eyes. “Please do not refer to me as such.”
Her heart softened. “I won’t if that is your wish.”
“I see you have refreshed yourself?”
“Are we to ignore the elephant in the room?”
His lips twitched. “I do not understand your phrase.”
“Very well, are you going to ignore the deplorable behavior I just mentioned?”
He grunted.
“You had me kidnapped.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
“Escorted,” he finally said.
She frowned. “To what end? You and I are—”
“Will you dine with me? Dinner will be served within the next hour.”
Oh. “I am not sure I can wait a full hour for you to tell me why you went through so much to bring me here.”
“Maybe I wanted to show you just a bit of what you would be giving up. You would be mistress of all you survey.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You know I have no interest in your wealth.”
A smile touched his lips.
Then another bout of terrible silence. They stood in the library simply staring at each other. Shadows of torment lingered in his eyes, and he tugged at the cravat at his throat. The nervous gesture made her heart ache.
“I would love to dine with you, Mikhail.”
His eyes were cold, his expression icy. “I thank you.”
So formal…so distant. Was now the time to tell him she loved him and wanted to be his wife? “Mikhail, I—”
“I will see you at seven.”
“Please wait.”
He fisted his hands at his side and then faced her. The powerful emotions in his eyes made her heart flip, but in a good way. “Tell me, please, why did you bring me here?”
“I am not able to let you go.”
Was he saying he loved her?
His eyes never strayed from her face. “I already have all the wealth and connections I could possibly want. I do not need a marriage to provide me with more. I want a marriage with a woman who respects me, trusts me, desires me, and above all, loves me.”
“I do,” she said, walking toward him. “I love you.”
For a heart-wrenching moment he did nothing. There was no reaction from his body or his eyes. And it petrified Payton. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his voice.
Sweet relief crashed through her, but there was a dark edge in his tone, and her heart squeezed in discomfort and slight fear. “You do not seem happy at the realization.”
Without speaking he thumbed the latch on the door and leaned against the wooden frame. His penetrating stare never wavered. “I know I adore you. The utter wonder of meeting you and knowing you have taken a piece of my heart, although I’ve only known you for seven days, has not escaped me. I do not need seven weeks or seven years to know you are the woman for me, Payton. I know it now. I see it in your smiles, your kisses, the passion and joy you find in the simple pleasures of life. What I see I admire, and I can only grow to love and appreciate you more. And it is because I feel such a need for you, I would prefer to release you rather than bind you to a life of pain and unhappiness.”
Fear, cold and dreadful, slithered through her, alarming in its extremity. “I do not fear your world.” She pushed past the lump in her throat. “The doubts are still there, and they may never leave, but I do not care. I want what you want, Mikhail. I want to be your lover, your friend, the woman you turn to when your nights are cold with nightmares, when you want to share a humorous anecdote, the person you turn to when you are angry and simply need to moan, the woman you want to have children with. I would desire this with you, even if you were a simple farmer. I want to marry you, and if I falter in the privileged world in which we will live, then I will make use of the power in the titles you so generously bestow.”
“And if I never allow your touch?”
She flinched subtly, and his eyes sharpened.
“I do not believe it will be so.”
He pushed from the door and slowly shrugged out of his jacket, then his waistcoat and shirt. She remained speechless as he removed his trousers, his unmentionables, and shoes, until he stood gloriously naked. Her breath caught at the sight of him, and her pulse started to hammer.
Payton closed her eyes for precious seconds and then snapped them open. Mikhail was still standing there, his body perfectly chiseled, with an arrogant tilt of his head. But his eyes… Oh, they glowed with fear, determination, lust, and love.
He prowled over to where she stood rooted, all sinewy grace and power.
“I submit myself to your touch,” he said, his voice darker than the shades of midnight and sin.
His meaning rocketed through her. No, her mind screamed even as she lifted a finger and glided it over the hardened flesh of his chest with the lightest of caresses.
What if he allowed her touch and realized he could never want such intimacy with her?
“Touch me,” he invited.
She pressed firmer, and he sucked in a breath on a sharp hiss, and she dropped her hands.
Payton lifted her eyes to his. “You honor me with such trust, Mikhail, but it is not needed. I can see the torment in your gaze, and it would ravage me to cause you more pain. I will marry you, and I will be patient, because I believe in the trust and love you have in me, and we will eventually entwine ourselves around each other and shout from the joy and relief of sliding skin against skin. But it will not be this day…and I am content.”
A shudder passed through him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “I need to know I can bear your touch, even if only for a few minutes. I feel no hope, and I cannot suffer to see the pain in your eyes when I flinch from you. It is dull now, but it will only grow, until you start to hate me, until you will be forced to turn to another for something I can never give you.”
She gasped. “This is what you believe of me?”
“No…I can see the woman you are. I see your strength and honor, and the capability for love and forgiveness. But I would not bind us together with even the possibility that I may never be able to bear your touch.” He crouched with an animalistic grace and swiped his cravat from the parquet floor.
“Bind me…touch me.”
Bind him? The idea was so deliciously shocking and wicked, a pulse of wanton heat throbbed between her folds.
He strolled and sank into the chair by the fire, and he was so beautiful he took Payton’s breath.
The trust he placed in her was enormous; it humbled her and filled her with fierce pride and love. He was doing this for her. Facing the demons of nightmares past because he did not want to see her unhappy.
She would treasure such a trust.
Acting on instincts she began to remove her clothes, strolling over to him and accepting his aid to remove her laces and buttons. Then she, too, was unashamedly naked. A pleased smile curved her lips as his heavy-lidded gaze of appreciation roamed over her body. She purred deep in her throat as the thick length of his erection flexed eagerly.
The broad width of the high winged-back chair made it impossible to bind his hands behind him. Instead, she rent her shift and used the strips to tie each of his hands to the armchair. Payton was very conscious that with each touch, he tensed, and he visibly forced himself to relax.
She leaned in, her breast close to his mouth and whispered, “If you want me to stop…call me Myrtle.” His brow lifted, and she straightened and dipped into a slight curtsy. “Miss Payton Myrtle Peppiwell at your command, my prince.”
His fingers gripped the arm of the chair, a growl bursting free of his mouth. “Touch me,” he urged, blue fire of need sparking in his eyes. “Take me.”
And God help her, she did, desperately wanting to experience the sweet burn of him sliding into her, possessing her body and heart, and knowing he bore her touch…even if it was fleeting.
Mikhail trembled when she pressed the flat of her palm against his chest right above his pounding heart, the first such direct contact in years.
Payton’s touch was fire and ice.
Pain and pleasure.
Dread and exquisite torment.
Myrtle.
From the amusement twisting her lips, no doubt she believed it was an unattractive name. But everything about her captivated Mikhail. He flinched, and she froze. Yet when she removed her palm he felt bereft.
“Use your lips on me.” The command snapped from him almost against his own volition, but he had imagined too many times how the flick of her tongue would feel.
She leaned forward and licked the very place her hand had been resting. Fire streaked through him, and his stomach roiled.
He gritted his teeth, tipping back his head as memories of dozens of hands pinched and whipped his skin, biting and licking, forcing him to feel pleasure from their depravity.
“Look at me.” Her calm soothing voice was a relief, and he snapped his eyes opened, directing his sole attention to Payton.
The hum of memory receded, and all he could see was her.
“Do not look away from me,” she said softly, her eyes devouring him.
The pleasure she took in looking at him sent a thrill shooting through his heart.
“I want to kiss you.”
“Yes,” he growled.
A shy but wanton smile graced her lips. She stroked her fingers through his hair, acclimating him to her touch. “But not on your lips…everywhere but your lips.” She stroked her fingers down over the sharp angles of his jaw, down over his shoulders, tenderly.
With tentative grace, she climbed into his lap. Everything in him shut down, and he braced himself for the revulsion. It never came. All he could feel was the softness of her ass as she wiggled against his thighs, her scent—spiced wine and berries enveloped his nose—and her soft husky voice murmuring soothing nonsense. He was surrounded by Payton, and all he could feel and anticipate was her.
She shifted so she sat on his lap, her legs bracketing his, opening her pink womanly flesh to his eyes.
Christ.
“The first time I heard your voice, without even seeing your face, I wanted to be ridden by you desperately hard.”
She slipped her hands around his neck and leaned in so her wonderful breasts were pressed against his chest.
Mikhail groaned.
“I will happily oblige you,” she drawled. “But first I am going to lick and taste you all over.”
And she did. With soft swipes of her hot tongue across his chest, over his nipples, and down. To then come back up in a torturous journey of slow kisses. He felt as if he were enslaved to the stroke of her tongue, desperately wanting her to go lower and lower until she kissed his length.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
A secret smile tugged at her lips at his praise, and she shimmied from his lap and knelt in front of him.
“Payton, I—”
She enveloped him in fire.
A ragged groan burst from his throat.
God, he’d wanted to feel Payton’s mouth all over his body for the longest time. In the dark corners of his heart, he’d dreamed of having those arrestingly alluring full lips wrapped around him, taking him with the innocent hunger he could see blazing in her golden orbs. But the fantasy was nothing like the reality. She licked and sucked his cock beautifully, and with wicked carnality. It was the most erotic thing Mikhail had ever seen, her lips stretching over his cock, her tongue flicking and curling over its engorged head as she knelt before him.
Rip. The shift tore against his straining arms, and he trembled under the devastating pleasure of her touch. Her mouth stretched over his cock, her cheeks hollowing as she drew on him, her eyes never leaving his. Her lips made him harder than he’d ever been. He thrust slowly and deeply into her mouth, loving the sounds she made—soft purrs of pleasure.
As her mouth loved him, Mikhail felt as if he were going mad from the hunger clawing through his body. His head fell back against the cushions of the chair, and groan slipped from him as she licked from his balls to the tip of his cock. He could wait no longer to be inside her.
“Straddle my lap,” he growled, his voice so guttural with arousal he sounded unintelligible.
She complied, sliding against his thigh, and he hissed at the wetness he felt.
“Lift your breasts and bring them to my mouth.”
She moaned, gripping his length and positioning him against the entrance of her body.
“Payton.” Her name was a plea of raw need.
Rip.
His hands burst free; her eyes widened as he pounced. Gripping her long tresses, he pulled her down to him with sensual intent, drawing her so that she straddled him on the chair, her knees bracketing his hips.
“Mikhail!” She cried his name as he pushed his hand between her legs and sent three fingers delving deep. She was wet, so damn wet. She twisted and arched to him as he trailed his tongue down her neck to her breasts. He lurched from the chair, and in two strides he was lowering her onto the sofa, notching the head of his cock at her entrance. She screamed when he plunged deep inside the clenching depths of her heat.
He kissed her fiercely, capturing her cries, and thrust into her hard with deep measured strokes. He groaned into their kiss as she pushed her hands low and gripped his ass.
Merciful Christ!
She moved in urgent counterpoint to his fierce thrust, giving him everything he demanded and more.
“Let me hear it,” he whispered roughly. “Say the words.”
“I love you.”
He went to his knees, gripped her thighs, and pulled her to the edge of the sofa. She tilted her hips, drawing her feet up until they rested on the sofa’s edge, opening her core to his thrusts. He lost himself in her, in her cries, in her wet heat, and the peace he felt being inside of her almost scared him. The smacking and sounds of their loving drowned him in sensuality, and his cravings deepened. Never had a woman made him this damned hungry. She begged for more, and he obliged. He gripped her hips as he began to hammer into her with quick deep strokes that sent pleasure rippling from his spine to his brain and back down to his balls. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t praise her or encourage her to milk his cock.
He could only feel.
Never had he immersed himself so completely into making love, never had he felt such primitive need, shattering all barriers of caution he’d normally possessed.
She burned him alive.
He speared his fingers through her hair, anchoring her gaze to his. “I love you, Payton.”
She clamped down on his length and bit into his shoulder as she convulsed, hoarse moans ripping from her. She hugged him and wrapped her legs high around the middle of his back, and he cradled her buttocks in his palms as he tilted her hips, shafting deeper and deeper with each stroke. He felt consumed, overwhelmed, and shockingly hungry for more.
She dug her fingernails into his shoulders. “I ache…I burn, but please do not stop,” she gasped, trembling as ecstasy seized her, and she rippled over his cock, bathing him in her pleasure.
Fire raced along his nerve endings as he emptied deep inside her.
And he tumbled into a peace and contentment he had never felt in his life.
He rolled with her, placing her still-quaking body on top of his. Her tremors subsided, and he tightened his arms around her, stroking her hair.
“Will you marry me?”
A sweet chuckle spilled from her. “Oh yes.”
And he was completed.