Page 70 of The Countess Caper

Always Roarke.

He didn’t speak, only crossed the distance between them. She didn’t have time to turn around. He was just there behind her, pressing into her, mouth on her neck until she arched back, feeling too much. He was hard against her, grinding against the softness of her bottom. Heat bolted down to her quim, throbbing wickedly. She nearly sobbed, and he’d barely touched her.

She was frantic to get her out of her gown, and he was already lifting it up, already running his strong, warm hand up her thighs. His fingers dipped into her, and she was wet, waiting. He growled his pleasure, just a little. Just enough.

“What will make you stay, Tessa?” he said, sliding another finger inside her, pumping into her until she didn’t know how long her legs would hold out. “How many times do I have to make you come? Shall we find out?”

She angled toward him, offered like a gift. Desperate. Chasing that friction, that feeling of being filled. “Roarke.”

“What is it, little devil? What do you want?” The lash of his command made her moan. “Say it.”

“You.” She was very much afraid she was babbling. She just wanted him inside her, all the way inside her. Now. “More.”

He took her hands and curled her fingers around the pergola over the bench to steady her. She still wore her long gloves. “You’re going to remember me the next time you run away.”

As if she had ever forgotten him. Could ever forget him. That was the problem, wasn’t it?

But not tonight. Not right now, when the sky cracked, and the torchlight flickered, and everything felt like a wild dream. When the rain fell, it did not stop them. She did not think anything could have stopped them. And the storm felt right, drops running down her cheeks, down his neck, which she would have followed with her tongue if she could have reached them. The orgasm crashed through her, and she bit into her own arm to strangle the shout.

“Go ahead and scream, little devil,” Roarke urged her darkly as the storm lashed all around them, the rain filled every pocket of sound. The lights of the house felt a thousand leagues away. Were the windows open? Would they hear her?

“Go on,” he dared her again. “They’ll never know. And if they should, all they will know is that you’re mine.”

His arm banded around her, hauling her closer, pinning her back to his chest. Rain ran into her mouth.

“You can give me another,” he commanded. “As many as you can until your legs give out.” When they threatened to do just that, his fingers circled her throat, keeping her in place.

He entered her, filling her up with a slow, deep stroke that curled her toes.

Again and again.

His grip on her hips was hard, even as the kisses he dragged across her spine were soft. The combination made her wild. She pushed back against him on every thrust, lifted onto her toes. He pressed his fingers through her slick folds, circling her bud relentlessly until she shivered and quaked and whimpered.

The orgasm tore through her, and he chased it as well, thrusting until he came with a hoarse shout and she came again, caught.

He bit her earlobe, voice feral. “Again.”

She found she could not meet Roarke’s eyes at breakfast.

How did one politely acknowledge a person who had feasted on parts of you that still ached for them?

Still, she knew the exact moment he entered her breakfast room, pausing behind her.

The guests had refused to meet her gaze, though for vastly different reasons than hers. They raised their eyebrows, sipped their tea from delicate cups painted with violets, murmured. Always the murmuring.

And then Roarke was there filling the space behind her, and they straightened in their chairs despite themselves. Knives met plates; cups met saucers. She felt him looming behind her, warm and distracting. She sneaked a glance, suddenly feeling shy. And he knew it, given the quiet, amused way he glanced back. And then back to glowering at the glittering guests nursing their sore heads, still swimming with champagne. Their murmurs changed. “Good morning, Lord Dartmoor.”

“Lady Dartmoor.”

He made them nervous.

A better person might have tried to ease the tension. Tessa just grinned.

“Drink your tea, devil,” Roarke said quietly, pulling out her chair before one of the footmen could leap forward.

Someone sighed. Miss Sanditon or Lord Hastings. Not everyone feared him. Tessa applauded their taste, even as she feared for her own heart.

It was too early for that nonsense.