Page 91 of The Forsaken

An ache built in that secret place between Andromena’s legs.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Showing you paradise.”

She was about to say paradise was with him, and then decided there were many different levels of paradise with him.

The one where he vexed her into a smile.

The next when he turned serious about things he loved—like her, and art, and sailing.

And then, Edgar scooped her buttocks up, dragged her closer to his mouth, buried his tongue inside her, and showed her the latest, greatest level of paradise.

Andromena screamed his name.

Or she thought she did. Thrashing her head back and forth on the feather mattress, she held Edgar’s head and drove her hips up.

“Edgar,” she panted. “I stink.” Shamefully, that didn’t stop her from moving against his mouth.

“You smell like musk, sweat, and sex,” he rasped between his ministrations. “I love it.”

She swooned. And then, she surrendered completely. Andromena stroked her fingers through his glorious, dark, tresses. She lifted into Edgar—and sank away when it became too much. Over and over, she went on this way.

He stroked, tasted, and consumed that most special place with the same wild ferocity he made love to her mouth.

“Y-You are very good at this,” she praised him, because he really did deserve praise.

He moved with the skill of a master, yet he still met her praise with the eager excitement of a student. He only worked harder for her.

He needn’t, she tried to tell him. Her body could not bear much more.

Light flared bright behind her eyes. Everything in her narrowed to him—to the heat of him, to this, to them.

To forever.

Screaming his name, she found paradise.

Chapter 17

After Kerr coaxed two more expressions of love from Andromena’s responsive body, sleep claimed her. He did not ask for release, nor did he demand or expect it. He was hard as hell and wanted it badly, but the minute she let out her first soft snore, he couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

With everything that had come to pass this day: their clash at the Aragon ball, her solitary flight from London in the middle of the night, and the moment she’d nearly shot him, the last thing she needed was him, stinking of horse and sweat, making love to her.

For the first time in his debauched life, Kerr didn’t put his pleasure first. Her pleasure—learning her body, discovering what she yearned for, and coaxing her to voice it—was all that drove him.

No. When he made love to her for the first time, it would be as his wife, Lady Andromena Hollis, Viscountess Kerr.

His days as a scoundrel went up in flame at the thought of having her bound to him: in name, body, and in every way, there was for a man and woman to join. That idea sent even more blood rushing to his cock. Breathing heavily, Kerr squeezed his eyes shut. He stroked himself, thinking of her and the sounds she made at the moment she reached her peak.

I love you, Edgar…

The memory of her utterance pushed him over the edge. With a sharp breath, he found his release over the side of the bed. With a wry shake of his head, he looked around. Snatching a small folded kerchief from the nightstand, he wiped himself clean before tossing the rag aside.

Fisted himself to completion like some green lad was a first for him.

That was the power of love, after all. It turned proud men weak and kings into beggars. But he did not feel either weak nor meek; he felt greater than he ever had, filled with a sharp clarity because of her.

While Andromena rested, Kerr returned to her side, and, with his head propped on his hand, he watched her for hours.