Page 49 of Winter's Waltz
Yes, love, he would have told her had not his mouth been blissfully occupied with wringing as much bliss from her as he could. In lieu of that, he nibbled on her pearl until she came a second time, her body undulating beneath his ministrations, her moan the best compliment he had ever been paid.
Genevieve Winter was not a woman who lowered her walls with ease. Nor was she a woman who entrusted herself to others. The honor she gave him was tremendous, and he intended to repay her in every way he could. He licked down her seam, finding her entrance, and tongued her lightly there, where he would claim her soon enough.
Not soon enough according to his body’s reaction. He was nearly out of his mind with desire. With need. With her. He could never have enough. To the devil with a fortnight and her nonsensical notion of ending this before they had even begun. He wanted more. He had to have more. The pounding of his heart was proof of the effect she had on him, growing louder by the moment.
“Max.”
It took him a moment to realize the sounds were external. Not his heart after all, though that cursed organ was pumping steadily enough.
Rather, the rapid hammering interrupting the silence was the bloody door.
And bloody Peter.
“Gen, we’ve a problem.”
Damnation.
“Max, we must stop,” she whispered, sounding frantic.
He settled back on his heels, releasing her with greatest reluctance. “That man has the devil’s own timing.”
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. She had never been lovelier. She looked thoroughly loved, but he had not loved her nearly well enough this night. There was so much he had to show her. His painfully rigid cock was terrible evidence of that.
“A moment, Peter,” she called loudly so that her voice would carry to the man waiting in the hall. But her eyes were on Max’s, lingering. Her voice was hushed, then, whispering an apology. “I must see what is wrong.”
Yes, she needed to.
He understood.
That did not mean the bitter sting of disappointment did not lance him.
He inclined his head and rose to his feet. “Of course.”
“It can’t wait,” called Peter from the other side of the door.
Max bit back a curse and spun on his heel, collecting his garments in hasty motions.
“I am coming,” she returned to Peter.
Not in the bloody way she ought to have been, Max thought grimly. This was meant to be a night devoted to her. A night of nothing but passion. A night where she forgot about all her duties and was allowed to simply be a woman. He wanted to rail against the injustice of this interruption, against whoever was perpetrating these evils upon her establishment. It was not fair.
They dressed in silence, the only sound between them the mutual, hasty rustling of linen. As he stuffed his arms into the sleeves of his coat, she surprised him by laying a hand on his back.
“You are angry?”
He turned to her. She was dressed and deliciously ruffled. Anyone could take one look at her and see plainly what they had been about. He knew a ridiculous surge of pride at that. But little good it did him, for neither of them had gotten what they wanted this night.
He sighed. “I am angry, yes. But not with you, Gen. With the circumstances.”
“Lady Fortune must come first,” she said, almost apologetically.
Peter pounded on the portal. “Gen? A cracksman’s run off with more. Need you out ‘ere.”
“Damn it,” she bit out, echoing the sentiment in Max’s heart.
But then she started for the door, leaving him behind.
He was nearly fully dressed. “Wait for me. I’ll accompany you.”
She turned back, her expression knotted with worry, uncertainty. “It’s best if I go on my own.”
Without waiting for his response, she pivoted on her heel and slid out the door, careful to keep it tightly to her body, lest Max be seen.
Christ.
He wanted to be at her side, not her hidden shame. And he wanted to protect her, to keep Lady Fortune safe, to understand who was behind these attacks and why. To make certain they stopped.
Instead, he had pleasured her, and she had walked away. He did not like this feeling. Not at all.
