In the Widow's Bed

The Frenchman removed his lips, and pushed her knees apart. “Non. Do not rush, mon amour. We ‘ave all night for pleasure.”

Phoebe panted. “No!” She’d been so close.

Her lover wriggled from her clutching hands and turned her to her side, wedging his thigh between hers as he slid in behind. He captured her restless hands. In this position Phoebe couldn’t even clench her thighs together to finish what he’d started.

Frustrated by his dominance, by the withheld release just moments away, Phoebe ground her backside into his lap. The hard ridge of his erection burned her skin, and a warning growl rumbled behind her.

“I never would ‘ave imagined you so impatient.”

Soft kisses caressed the apple of her shoulder, hands smoothed over her thigh as Phoebe struggled to get her breathing under control. She glanced over her shoulder but, given how dark she’d made her own chamber, she couldn’t discern who held her. “Bossy Frenchman.”

Lips pressed to her turned cheek and then another growl rumbled through her lover. The Frenchman dragged Phoebe to her hands and knees then moved in close behind. Something heavy, hot and eager settled into the crease of her bottom. Phoebe eagerly widened her stance and tilted her hips to better receive him.

But as before, her lover wouldn’t rush. Her hips were grasped gently, thumbs kneading her lower back in slow circles, as he rubbed his erection into the crease. Blast it all, this man would torture her forever. She needed more than torture. She needed release. Phoebe shifted her weight to one hand and moved the other between her legs to build her desire once more.

The Frenchman caught on quickly and covered her moving fingers with his own. The dual attention excited her unbearably and she moaned as her lover nudged into her body and then thrust deep.

“Merci! Tu es magnifique!” he whispered against her shoulder.

While she adjusted to his surprising girth, his fingers slipped and slid with hers, working to build her passion higher. When he thrust, then pulled out completely before sinking deep into her body, Phoebe moaned.

Sensations built swiftly while her lover used all his skill to coax her legs wider, to help her accept more of him. The thick length of him invaded her body, battering her senses into submission. Phoebe moaned at the joy of surrender.

A heavy rising tension gripped her as his sure hard thrusts claimed her completely. She opened to him, letting him use her as he saw fit.

Behind her, the Frenchman grunted, his hand clutched her hip tight. “Together we will come, mon amour,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, oh God, yes.”

Phoebe rubbed harder against her nub while behind her, the Frenchman thrust deep then ground their hips together in a tight circle. Phoebe’s body clenched and then shook violently, dragging a loud wail from her lungs at the intensity.

The Frenchman shuddered, and then thrust hard three times as he pumped his seed into her body. His heavy weight fell over her, cocooning her in blistering heat. Phoebe hung her head as she struggled for breath. Never. Not once had her husband affected her senses like this. What she’d thought she wanted, and what she’d gotten, surpassed her every desire.

She’d have to remember to thank Lord Selwood the next time she saw him.

CHAPTER THREE

Jonathan sipped his coffee behind the days’ newssheet while the houseguests clattered and chattered over breakfast. He supposed he was being rude by not conversing with them, but he needed the dry analytical content of the paper to control his raging arousal.

Lady Jocelyn sat across from him, daintily eating her breakfast and sipping her tea. But she had stretched out her leg and was currently running her toe up and down his trouser in a brazen flirtation.

However, what aroused Jonathan was Lady Warminster’s presence across the room, fixing herself a heaped plate of food. He could usually bear the sight of her without reaction, but today her smile tortured him. She looked smugly happy, content and, given the way her lips lifted for no obvious reason, he wondered if she was thinking of last night.

Jonathan tucked his legs under his chair, turned the page, and tried to concentrate on the goings on in parliament that he’d missed during the recent sessions. But the paper couldn’t hold his interest. He lowered a corner as Lady Warminster sank into a chair at his side.

“Lord Selwood, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the day.” She reached for her silver.

Jonathan folded the paper and set it in his lap, waving away the footman eager to take it from him. He might just need it to escape the room without drawing undue attention. “Good morning, my lady.”

The blonde beauty smiled, lips lifting enough to torture. Jonathan glanced away. Was she thinking of last night and her mysterious French lover?

Across the table, Lady Jocelyn winked at him.

Jonathan turned back to Lady Warminster as she cleared her throat.

“I must thank you, Selwood, for your advice last evening. I believe I’ve never had a better night’s rest.”

Jonathan coughed. She hadn’t had a wink of sleep till the early hours of the morning. He’d made damn sure of that. “I’m glad.”