Passion for the Game (Georgian 2)

Her mouth covered his, her lips wet and soft against the firm line of his. Christopher groaned and thrashed more, twisting.

“I want this to last,” she breathed, never wanted to stop, never wanting to lose the feeling of him stroking inside her, plunging deep and hard.

“Take it,” he urged, the crests of his cheekbones flagged with high color. “Take me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

Her eyes slid closed as she pumped faster and stronger, plunging her cunt up and down his thick cock.

Christopher’s powerful body arched, his neck corded with strain, his hands steadied her as she fucked him frantically, his golden head tossing from side to side as she rode him to the finish.

“Maria,” he moaned. “Maria.”

Bending at the waist, she took his mouth again, kissing him ravenously, her eyes stinging with the fervor with which he kissed her back. Her skin was so hot, feverish, covered in a fine film of perspiration. She ached to climax, to hear his cries, to feel him explode inside her.

Settling her hands on his chest for leverage, Maria lifted and fell in measured rhythm, feeling his great size stretching her, forcing her slick tissues to part and accept him. Her passion rose, her climax primed from his mouth and his blatant expertise. She was so wet with pleasure and desire that soft sucking noises filled the air.

Christopher moved with her in perfect timing, his hips rising to meet her every descent, falling on every ascent.

“Yes…Maria…dear God…yes!”

He thrust upward hard, his pelvic bone hitting her swollen clitoris, and she cried out in orgasm, unable to stop it, her body quaking around his wildly pumping cock.

He growled his triumph, and the sound flowed through her, making her come harder, her cunt spasming desperately as he joined her, spurting his seed deep inside her in hot, hard bursts.

She fell over him in a tangle of sated limbs, whimpering as he held her hips slightly aloft and continued to stroke his cock inside her until he was emptied.

Finally, gasping, he released her waist to clutch her tightly to his sweat-slick chest.

Maria pressed her fist to her mouth and stifled the sob that fought to leave her. She feared her feelings had already progressed too far. She wanted to remain like this forever, warm and safe in Christopher’s embrace. But how much of this was real? How much of this was simply an effort to achieve his goal? Was Christopher truly the haven he presented himself as? Or was he the means of her destruction?

There were too many questions and no definitive answers. With Amelia’s life in the balance, Maria could not take the risk.

And so she waited until his breathing was deep and even beneath her cheek, betraying his slumber. Then she extricated herself from his embrace and left the bed.

“Farewell,” she whispered, her gaze raking the naked, magnificent length of his frame before she turned her back to him and made her egress. The bedchamber door shut behind her with a soft click of the latch.

Stepping into her ruined gown in the sitting room with shaking legs, she collected her blade and donned Christopher’s coat, refusing to breathe through her nose for fear of smelling him. She would cry if she did, and there was still some distance to be crossed.

She remembered nothing of her journey down the stairs and out the front door. Was she watched? Had she garnered an audience? Did Christopher’s lackeys witness her dishabille? She did not know, and she did not care. She knew only that she maintained her pride.

Until she was safely ensconced in her carriage. Then she allowed her tears to fall.

The silence of the night was broken by the approaching clatter of horses’ hooves and the rhythmic sound of carriage wheels across cobblestones. Mist hung low to the ground, chilling the feet and legs of the man who hunched his shoulders and held his threadbare jacket close to his neck for warmth.

As the equipage rolled to a stop, the man stepped forward and peered inside. The interior of the unmarked coach was darker than the outside, effectively hiding the occupants.

“Two daughters,” he whispered. “St. John’s coves found the one. Young gel in Lincolnshire.”

“I require the direction.”

“When I works wiv a flash, I get paid.”

The barrel of a pistol appeared.

“Right, then.” He dug in his pocket and withdrew a grimy, folded sheet, which he held out. “If you read it, I’ll tell yer if ’e got the way of it.”

A moment later, he nodded. “That’s it. Bobby is a peevy cull.”

A bag of coin was thrust out and grabbed with similar swiftness. “God love yer!” he mumbled with a tip of his hat, then he melded into the shadows and was gone.

The coachman urged the carriage on.

In the darkness of the interior, Eddington settled pensively into the squabs. “Bring me that girl before St. John takes her.”

“Yes, my lord. I will see to it.”

Chapter 15

Amelia peeked around the corner of the house, her lower lip worried between her teeth. She searched for Colin in the stable yard, then heaved a sigh of relief when she found the area empty. Male voices drifted on the wind, laughter and singing spilling out from the stables. From this she knew Colin was hard at work with his uncle, which meant that she could safely leave the manse and head into the woods.

She was becoming quite good at subterfuge, she thought as she moved deftly through the trees, hiding from the occasional guard in her journey toward the fence. A fortnight had passed since that fateful afternoon when she had caught Colin behind the shop with that girl. Amelia had avoided him since, refusing to speak with him when he asked the cook to fetch her.

Perhaps it was foolish to hope that she would never see him again, given how closely their lives were entwined. If so, she was a fool. There was not an hour of the day that passed without her thinking of him, but she managed the pain of her grief as long as he stayed away from her. She saw no reason for them to meet, to talk, to acknowledge one another. She only traveled by carriage when moving to a new home, and even then, she could associate exclusively with Pietro, the coachman.

Espying the waited-for opening, Amelia hopped deftly over the fence and ran to the stream, where she found Ware coatless and wigless with his shirtsleeves pushed up. The young earl had caught some color to his skin these last weeks, setting aside his life of bookwork in favor of hard outdoor play. With his dark brown locks tied in a queue and his cornflower-colored eyes smiling, he was quite handsome, his aquiline features boasting centuries of pure blue blood.

He did not set her heart to racing or make her ache in unfamiliar places as Colin did, but Ware was charming and polite and attractive. She supposed that was a sufficient combination of qualities to make him the recipient of her first kiss. Miss Pool told her to wait until the right young man came along, but Colin already had, and had turned to another instead.

“Good afternoon, Miss Benbridge,” the earl greeted with a perfect bow.

“My lord,” she replied, lifting the sides of her rose-hued gown before curtsying.

“I have a treat for you today.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widened in anticipation. She loved gifts and surprises because she rarely received them. Her father simply could not be bothered to consider such things as birthdays or other gift-giving occasions.

Ware’s smile was indulgent. “Yes, princess.” He offered his arm to her. “Come with me.”

Amelia set her fingers lightly atop his forearm, enjoying the opportunity to practice her social graces with someone. The earl was kind and patient, pointing out any errors and correcting her. It gave her a higher polish and a deeper confidence. She no longer felt like a girl pretending to be a lady. Instead she felt like a lady who chose to enjoy her youth.

Together they left their meeting place by the stream and wended their way along the shore until they reached a larger clearing. There Amelia was delighted to find a blanket stretched out on the ground, the corner of which was held down by a basket filled with delicious-smelling tarts and various cuts of meat and cheeses.