Page 39 of Winter's Waltz
She wanted this man. She wanted him, and she was going to have him. And she was going to give as much of herself as she dared in return.
“Yes,” she repeated. “I will be your lover.”
* * *
His palms were filledwith the luscious weight of Genevieve Winter’s breasts. His mouth still burned with the responsive gloriousness of her kiss. She was astride him, on his lap, his cock a scant few layers of fabric from burrowing deep inside the paradise of her cunny.
A wiser man would have accepted her words, tossed her over his shoulder, and hauled her immediately to her bed. But Max had never been particularly good at making wise decisions, as evidenced by the number of times he had played beyond his depths at the green baize and lost everything he had, and then some.
“Lover?” he asked, not liking the word. Wanting to be more to her than someone who shared her body and her bed. Uncertain of what it was hedidwant to be.
Drunk with desire for her.
“I’ll not be your mistress, Max. I’m not the sort.” She frowned.
He longed to kiss away the furrow of her brow. “What will you be, then?”
“I will be the woman who shares her bed with you until I become the woman who does not.”
Somehow, having his hands on her breasts during this discussion felt wrong. He slid his touch lower, settling on her waist. “You are putting an end to us before we have even begun. I do not like it.”
“What would you have me say?” She shook her head. “You remain here for another fortnight only. After that, you will return to Mayfair and your balls and your father the duke. You will find yourself a lovely wife and marry and have half a dozen beautiful children and live a perfect life.”
He swallowed down a knot of resentment. She was not wrong about the time they had remaining. Nor was she incorrect in supposing his life was meant to be just as she described. One of balls, propriety, courting a suitable lady, wedding her and securing the line with an heir of his own.
But it was not what he wanted. It had never been what he wanted. And the prospect was as unappealing as the notion he would leave Gen in a fortnight’s time.
“I could stay longer,” he suggested.
“No you can’t, Marquess.” Her tone was wistful but firm. “This isn’t your world.”
“It could be.”
“I’ll give you a fortnight, Max,” she said softly. “It is more than I have ever given another, save one.”
His jealousy was fierce and instant. “Who?”
She shook her head. “It does not matter.Hedoes not matter.”
“Did you give yourself to him?” he asked, hating himself for the question, but needing to know.
The manner in which they continued depended upon it. He could either be a tender lover, acquainting her with the newness of lovemaking, or he would be as bold and brash as the intensity of his desire longed for.
She stiffened in his arms, likely misunderstanding the reason for his query. “That is none of your concern.”
“Gen.” He squeezed her waist gently. “I do not care if you did. I merely need to know whether or not I will be bedding a virgin when the time comes, to save you some pain.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her gaze flitted over his shoulder. “Oh. I…yes. You will be bedding a virgin.”
If possible, her face went even more scarlet.
Christ, she was beautiful. Her discomfiture was enchanting. He would not have believed she had it in her to be embarrassed. It imbued her with a vulnerability which had been heretofore absent.
“I will take care with you,” he said softly, heart thudding at the knowledge of how completely she was entrusting herself to him. “I promise, Gen.”
She nodded, catching her lower lip in her teeth. “I know you will. That is why I chose you.”
That is why I chose you.
