The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“I want you now, Oliver.” It was the truest thing she’d ever said. “I need you. I cannot wait.”

A guttural grown left his lips.

In a sudden frenzy of activity, he’d hiked her skirt up to her waist, dropped his breeches to his ankles and pushed inside.

“Oh, God, … you feel so good.” He grabbed her buttocks and thrust long and deep. “Tell me what you want, Nicole.”

She was already spiralling, already lost in a heady wave of passion. “I … I …” She could hardly form a coherent word. “Claim me, Oliver. Fill me full. Make me yours.”

Good Lord. Her voice was thick with lust.

Another curse and a growl burst from his throat. “I’ll give you everything I have, but you’ll come for me first.”

And then he was kneeling on the floor, her legs draped over his shoulders as his tongue danced wickedly over her sex.

She writhed on the desk, clawed at the surface. Books tumbled to the floor and landed with a thud. The globe fell and rolled off the edge. What need had she to examine the world’s expanding horizons? Her world flicked his tongue one more time and sent her soaring up to the heavens.

And then he was inside her again, easing in and out of her body slowly at first.

“I’ll give you three days at Morton Manor,” he said as he pounded harder. He gritted his teeth as he took what he needed. “Three days and then I want you back here.”

His release came upon him quickly. He withdrew and spilt himself over her bare thigh.

They stilled, their ragged breathing filling the room.

Nicole looked up into sparkling blue eyes still dark with desire. Heavens above, she would miss this man, she thought, as he wiped her leg with his handkerchief. She trusted him implicitly. He had promised her his protection and had not let her down.

One thing was certain.

She would never love another man the way she loved Oliver Darby.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Oliver sat back in the chair in his study and downed a mouthful of brandy.

The room was cold, for he had promised not to light the fire until Nicole returned, though he would have loved nothing more than to see his father’s words go up in smoke. He supposed he could have sat in the drawing room and warmed his hands in front of the flames. But being in the study reminded him of Nicole. The mysterious lady who’d found the secret door to his heart.

So why the hell had he let her leave?

The thought of her alone in that miserable place filled him with dread. It was not for her safety he feared. Jackson had learnt to fight in the back alleys and could handle almost every situation. But she’d spent hours walking the streets in nothing but a flimsy dress.

What if she took ill in the night? What if Gripes hid in a secret passage waiting to pounce? What if—

Hell, he seemed to have lost a grip on reality. Worrying was akin to a debilitating illness. He shook his head. Three days would pass quickly. He glanced at the mantel clock. So why had two hours felt like a damn lifetime?

One swig of brandy was not enough to fill the void in his chest. It would take a bottle to numb these strange feelings inside.

Cravings subsided. One’s obsessions haunted the mind, not the soul.

Neither of those things explained the ache in his chest.

A rap at the door brought Bradbury. “Excuse me, my lord, but we were a little concerned that you’ve not come for dinner. Shall I have a platter brought in instead?”

Good Lord, he’d spent so much time trying to understand these newfound emotions, he’d forgotten to eat. But he wasn’t hungry. Well, not for food at any rate.

“Make me up a small plate.” Bradbury would nag until Oliver ate something.

“There’s pheasant, fowl, turbot and veal.”