The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“Come inside,” he said over his shoulder as he stepped into the most appalling excuse for a shelter he could imagine. Half the roof was gone. Three beams held up the other half of the room. There were still wooden floors, of a sort, mostly rotted, undoubtedly dangerous.

But bless the munificent Lord—there was one dry corner. They were laughing as they eased down very slowly and carefully onto the wooden floorboards and leaned back against the wall. It creaked loudly, then stilled.

They grew quiet. The rain pounding on the roof over their heads sounded like hails of bullets. As for the roof-less part of the single room, the rain came down in a thick gray sheet.

He looked at her mouth. “Come here, I want you right this minute.”

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Helen said, not moving an inch. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We are partners in this exciting venture. In my experience, the minute a man is tired of a woman or vice versa, the last thing they want to do is spend more time together.”

He raised a dark brow. It made him look utterly insolent and arrogant. He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. “Just tell me about all this experience of yours.”

“Men aren’t always reasonable or logical.”

“Neither are women.”

“My point exactly. Let’s not muddy things up with physical sorts of things.”

“What is your experience, Helen? I know you are the prominent mistress of discipline in Court Hammering. I know that the men who work for you tremble in delicious fear of your discipline threats. I know I can see you pulling off my left boot, your bottom thrust toward me. And the smile on your face as you’re looking over your shoulder at me is decidedly wicked, filled with knowledge of pleasure and how to dole it out.”

She stared straight ahead at the pouring gray sheet of rain not six feet away. The rain splashed to within two feet of where they sat. It was chilly. She was wet clear through, and all she wanted was to have him bite her neck again, perhaps even take a nip or two of her flank. She turned to say something, but the words never made it out of her mouth. He was on her, pressing her onto her back. Thank God there were no leaks in the ceiling over them.

She was not the least bit cold, not now, not with his hands on her upper arms, caressing her shoulders, her neck while his mouth was heavy on hers, drawing her into him and his urgency, into his wild need for her, and she made a decision she knew had already been made in her own mind the first time she saw him. She gave him her mouth, gave all of herself to him, pushing and bringing him tightly against her, her hands frantic on his back, coming between them to the buttons of his riding breeches.

The heat of him amazed her, drew her even deeper, so quickly now, arching up when his hands were on her breasts, and then on the buttons of her riding jacket.

“Helen, now,” he said into her mouth, his breath hot and wild. “I can’t believe this.” He was panting as he reared up over her, stared down at her for just a fraction of a moment before he jerked up her riding skirt and her petticoats. When she was naked to the waist, he sat on his heels and stared down at her. Slowly, with her watching him, he stretched out his hand, let it hover a long moment over her belly, then ever so slowly let his palm lie flat against her soft flesh.

He was looking at his hand resting on her belly and she knew he was looking at his fingers as they slowly moved downward, so slowly, savoring every bit of her until at last, he was cupping her.

She arched upward and grabbed his shoulders to bring him down on her.

“No, Helen, not yet. Good Lord, not yet. Once I kiss your mouth again I won’t be any good to you at all. I’ll spill my seed and then you will believe me the greatest clod in England.”

“Spenser.”

She whispered his name on a soft sigh as he slid a finger inside her. He nearly lost himself right then, right there. His breathing quickened, his heart was pounding out of his chest and he knew it was all over for him. She was so very hot and soft and she wanted him. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, and she was staring up at him like he was the only man in the entire world and the only man she wanted.

“Helen,” he said again, jerked down his breeches, lifted her hips, and came into her, deep and hard.

She screamed at the pain of it, then screamed again at the pleasure of it. He was on top of her now, his mouth on hers again, and his tongue was touching her lower lip, then easing into her mouth, and she accepted him and kissed him until she thought she would die with the power of the feelings that were so deep inside her. He was moving now inside her, so deep, so much pressure, filling her, and it was delicious and she wanted him there forever.

But it wasn’t to be. He knew he was almost gone. He hadn’t given her a woman’s pleasure. He tried, he truly did, to draw out of her, to put his mouth and his fingers on her, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he simply lost every shred of control. He threw back his head and yelled to the pounding rain.

He was flat on top of her, his face in her wet hair beside her head. He had been stomped into oblivion by the greatest pleasure he had ever experienced in his adult life. He had been stripped of all control. He had soared to the heavens by himself—in short, he had been a bore.

“I’m sorry,” he said, coming up on his elbows. “I’m very sorry, Helen. You are so bloody beautiful.” He couldn’t help himself and leaned down to kiss her again and found that he was again hard inside her.

“I am thirty-three years old,” he said between kisses. “I want you again immediately. You’re a witch. You’re incredible.” And he pulled out of her, throbbing and hard but not as hard as his heart was pounding. He was panting as he kissed her, his fingers finding her to begin a rhythm he did so very well, but the simple touch of her flesh beneath his fingers, the softness, the heat of her, but no, it was something more than that, and it flooded through him and he wanted desperately to see her pleasure. He kissed her and loved her until he felt the tension near to overflowing in her, and he lifted his head to look at her face when she arched against his fingers, her eyes frantic and vague, and she screamed as her own pleasure flooded through her, his fingers the focus of everything that was swamping her. She screamed again, this time into his mouth.

He kissed her more deeply, not at first aware that she was struggling to get away from him. When it finally got through to him, he blinked in confusion, his mouth open, but she screamed again. “Oh, my God!”

She wrapped her arms tightly around his back and pres

sed him hard against her. She rolled with him on the rotted floor. He heard the crashing of beams and ceiling not six inches behind him, exactly where they had been lying. It was a horrendously loud noise, so close it chilled him to the bone.

Then the silence of the thick rain enclosed them once again.

They were lying facing each other, still pressed very close. “The ceiling,” he said. “My God, the ceiling crashed in.”