“God, Sophia. You’re so wet I might lose my mind.”
“Hurry.”
Don’t hurry!
“Harder,” she rasped, needing to feel sore and bruised, needing to remember the feel of him long after they had left this dark room.
He obliged, pounding into her body until their breathless pants rent the air. The creamware rattled on the shelf. The pewter plates clattered, joining the symphony.
“Is this what you want?” he said, his tone low and husky.
“I want you, Finlay.”
It’s all I’ve ever wanted—just you.
Her reply spurred him to drive deeper. Through ground teeth, he growled, “Then have all of me, love. Take every thick inch.”
The force tore a whimper from her throat, but still, she cried, “Harder.”
“I need to withdraw, Sophia.”
No!
It was too soon. Sophia didn’t care that she hadn’t found her release, but she did not wish to be parted, did not wish to be consumed by the same dreaded emptiness.
“There’s no need. I’m barren,” she said, desperate to have some part of him left inside her.
“Or Fitzroy Adair is the son of a groom,” he mocked.
He withdrew suddenly, but she did not feel the spurt of his seed over her buttocks.
“I have a better idea.” He turned her around to face him. “I want to kiss you. I want to have my tongue in your mouth, my fingers inside you when you come.”
Sophia swallowed past a rush of pure lust. “Yes.”
“Touch me, Sophia. Stroke me.”
She reached out, finding his slick shaft. He was so hard, so hot.
His hand delved under her skirts, his fingers slipping between her damp folds. “Yes, Finlay. Don’t stop.” The sudden quickening in her core sent tremors rippling to her toes.
“Is this what you imagined we’d be doing tonight?” he whispered before kissing her neck.
“It’s what I’ve imagined us doing every night.”
He faced her, his mouth inches from hers. “And how does this feel, Sophia?” He stroked her sex, slipped his fingers into her entrance.
Her head fell back, her hand stilling on his erection. “Divine, so divine I’ve lost my rhythm.”
His laugh sounded rich and warm, as if it sprang from the heart, natural, not forced. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.
“Touching you is enough to make me come,” he said, which was evidently why he played her like a maestro, teasing her sex until she ground against his hand and begged for her release.
She pumped his manhood hard and fast, slowing between passionate kisses. And then he moaned into her mouth, spurted his seed over her hand. Her body clenched possessively around his expert fingers and she came apart, too, sagging against him. Spent. Boneless. So utterly in love.
Chapter 12
Three years was a respectable time to mourn one’s wife. That’s what Finlay told himself as he sat in the dimly lit confines of Sloane’s carriage. It was possible to love two women but in different ways. Hannah had married him with no expectations. His inability to make her happy had nothing to do with the fact he loved Sophia. He knew that now. Nothing could have cured her of the mental malaise. Nothing could have saved her from the fever that eventually claimed her life.