He loved…
Well, bleeding hell and all the saints, he loved her.
Impossible, improbable, a state he had never reckoned he would find himself in—he, Rafe Sutton, dedicated rogue and pursuer of petticoats. It made no sense, and it was terrifying, and yet, it simply was.
Ah, what a time to make this bleeding revelation. Strangely, it did nothing to quell his ardor. If anything, the knowledge made him harder. Made his ability to suppress the crashing wave of his release impossible. His right hand released his hold on her rump and traveled the familiar path to his cock. No time to remove it from his trousers and smalls. Instead, he pressed his palm beneath the thick ridge, jerking upward in a rude approximation of screwing. Not nearly as good as his hand on his bare cock and nowhere near the heaven it would be to sink deep inside Persephone’s sweet cunny, but it would have to suffice.
He raked his teeth over her pearl as she moaned and thrusted, as his hand passed over his cock, desperate for relief and hungry enough that not even two layers of fabric could hinder the sensation. Then he sucked. He sucked hard on that greedy nub, until with his left hand, he shifted her so that once more his tongue dipped into her, and he sucked her lips and cunny, drinking her dew as if it were manna from heaven sent. Her sounds above him told him she was about to reach another release.
She was begging.
And he was lost.
He gave her everything he had, licking, sucking, using his teeth and tongue and lips. His jaw ached, and still he ate her until she came undone with a muffled scream. She shuddered and quivered and collapsed against the headboard with such abandon, the dull thud of her head striking the wood rang through the room. One hard press of his hand to his cock, and he exploded too, coming so violently, there was a moment of physical pain arcing across his chest, potent and powerful and oddly enjoyable, this sign that he had just come harder than he ever had before.
As the waves of bliss washed over him, he held her there, gentling his mouth on her, absorbing the throbs and spasms of her, understanding he would never know another night like this.
* * *
Persephone was jarred awake by a knocking on her door.
Blinking, she rolled over, feeling terribly lazy and wonderfully delicious, body humming with awareness in delightful new places, and…
Awareness and lucidity returned in a jolt. Her eyes cast wildly around the chamber, which was lit by the risen sun beyond the curtains.
Dear heavens!
This was not her room.
She was in a guest room.
Rafe’s room, to be specific.
And he was at her side, sleeping soundly, looking like a sinful angel in repose, still dressed in his shirt, the bedclothes tangled about his waist. While she was—a quick glance beneath the counterpane confirmed her fears—naked save for the stockings and garters she had never removed.
She had slept here.
And now, someone was knocking on Rafe’s door.
“Damn it, Rafe, wake up,” called the irate voice on the other side of the portal.
She gasped, recognizing that voice too well. At her side Rafe stirred, coming to with a start. He blinked, looking unfairly handsome for such a dire situation. His brow furrowed for a moment as his gaze met hers, and then a slow grin spread on his sensual lips, as if he were recalling what had passed between them the night before.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Rafe, you bloody arse!” In the hall, Mr. Sutton was growing angrier.
The moment was effectively severed.
“Jasper!” Rafe shot up, alarm in his expression. “What the devil?”
Persephone was certain he was going to demand to know whether or not she was within the room. She braced herself, tensing, a rush of shame hitting her with such sudden ferocity, her eyes burned.
Why had she allowed herself to remain for a few minutes in the wake of their explosive passion the night before? Why had she fallen asleep instead of returning to her own room? Now, she would be discovered, and despite the East End origins of Jasper Sutton, she knew there was no way he would allow her to remain on as governess after she had been cavorting with his brother.
Just as it was for a lady, the reputation was paramount to a governess. Maintaining one’s virtue was a necessity.
“We have a problem at The Sinner’s Palace,” Mr. Sutton said curtly, cutting through her fears. “The Bradleys are causing trouble again, and I need you to accompany me. Get your arse out of bed, you bleeding tosspot. We haven’t time to waste.”