Page 64 of Winter's Waltz
The desire inside her was rising to a crescendo once more. As she moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust, he flicked his thumb over her pearl. Again and again. Deeper. Harder. With one more stroke, he broke the kiss and drew hard on one of her nipples. She came apart.
Waves of bliss crashed over her. She shuddered and convulsed around him, and this time was more glorious than before, because he was inside her. A part of her. She clutched him to her, riding out the sensations until he suddenly withdrew. Grasping himself in his hand, he spent into the bedclothes at her side and then collapsed to the bed.
His arm slid around her waist, pulling her toward him. She went, nestling against the warm strength of his broad chest.
Savoring her marquess while she still could.
* * *
Gen woke late.So late, the sun was long risen over the East End. At least, that was what the weak light filtering in through the window dressing suggested. A masculine arm was thrown about her waist, a wicked lord’s mouth was on her bare shoulder, and his hastily stiffening manhood was nestled against her bottom. Arthur, who had been fetched at some point in the evening following their second bout of lovemaking, was snoring blissfully at their feet.
For a moment, she allowed herself to lie perfectly still and revel in the wondrousness of the moment, the beautiful simplicity of it all. The head of the man she loved at her back, the innocent warmth of the companion she also loved at the end of the bed, the protective manner Max was curled about her, symbolic of the way he had been protecting and helping her from the moment he had first arrived at Lady Fortune.
Her chest felt full, her heart too big for its place in her breast.
There was something burning in her eyes.
She blinked as the room swam together, a mix of colors and light, shadows and indistinct shapes. She blinked some more, dismayed to find wetness on her cheeks, trickling down. Surely not…
Tears?
No.
She could count on one hand the number of times she had wept since the day her mother had sliced through her side with that merciless blade. The pain of her recovery afterward—the stitches, the infection she had barely survived—had not been enough to elicit such a response. One—that was the precise number, when she had stood in the burned remnants of Lady Fortune’s kitchens. And yet, waking in her own bed with one man and one dog made her turn on the waterworks for the second time?
She sniffled, for her nose had now also begun to run. Gen had no wish to wake either man or beast. And she also had no desire to alert either to her maddening upset. Another moment or two, some deep breaths, a chance to shake off the chains of sleep which had likely addled her wits, and she would be fine.
But her deep breaths where shuddering. And more tears followed. Silent, stupid, weak tears. Slipping down her cheeks before she scrubbed them to oblivion with the back of her hand.
Because this morning would be their farewell.
After their charmed night together, there could not be another. He would return to Mayfair. She would stay here. He would one day marry. She would remain unwed. But this was the life she had chosen, she reminded herself. And she would have Arthur for comfort, her gaming hell to keep her busy.
It won’t be enough.
The stark realization brought with it a fresh wave of tears, which could not be stifled no matter how hard she tried.
“Darling.” He stirred, his hand gliding up and down her abdomen in a sensual caress that sent heat careening to all the places he had so thoroughly loved last night. “Why are you weeping? Are you in pain? I knew we should not have made love a second time—”
She turned to him and kissed him to shut him up. His instant response rewarded her. Their lips moved together, savoring, this meeting of mouths long and slow and lingering.
When she was satisfied she had distracted him from her humiliating tears, she broke the kiss. He cupped her face, his stare thorough, seeing far too much, she thought, in the early morning light.
“Your eyes are glistening, empress.”
Empress. How she would miss being called that, as if she were someone important. As if she were someone special and elegant, a fine lady. As if she werehis.
She blinked furiously at a fresh rush of tears. “I do not weep.”
“You can be soft with me, you know.” He kissed her cheek, her ear. “I like your softness.”
And he showed her by caressing her breasts, her waist, her hips.
“You’re charming me again, Marquess.”
His lips found her throat. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” She was breathless now, and she was the one who was being diverted.
