Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T he house where he had kept his former mistress had been empty for several months in anticipation of his impending betrothal. There was absolutely no reason why Garrick should, at this very moment, be escorting his brother's unsuitable betrothed over its threshold whilst she was dressed in the shabbiest guise of a gentleman he had ever beheld.

None save lunacy.

And that was most definitely his motivator. It had to be. How else could he explain bringing her here, where they would be utterly alone and where he knew there was a most accommodating bed?

"Surely you did not expect to fool anyone with this ludicrous garb," he could not resist commenting as he lit a candelabra within the front entry, sending light to illuminate her clearly feminine form.

Any man would have to take but one look at her to note her hips and arse, her lovely face and skin as soft as silk. There was nothing masculine about her. True, she had obviously gone to some lengths to flatten her generous breasts. He hated to think of the torture she must have subjected them to, and the worst part of him thought about how he would like to soothe those insulted attributes with his lips and tongue. Perhaps even his teeth as well.

But that was the lunacy once again, which seemed to dog him with increased determination with every moment that passed in her presence. And whilst he was most certainly teetering on the brink of madness, given his reckless decision to bring her here, he also had a far more noble force propelling him. He needed to find Aidan, and he had reason to believe he was at last closer to doing so.

"I have fooled many, many people on innumerable occasions," she said with the airs of a duchess. "I always dress thus when Aidan takes me to bare-knuckle boxing matches."

Even his mother would have been impressed with her regal poise, dubious lineage aside. Admiration, however, was decidedly unwelcome when directed toward Miss Sutton. He quashed it with ruthless determination, reminding himself that she had just announced his brother had squired her about London.

Had Aidan kissed her too?

Had she responded in the same manner?

Damn it to hell, what was the matter with him?

He busied himself by lighting some sconces, bringing more light flickering to life. "My brother has been accompanying you to bare-knuckle matches whilst you are dressed as an unconvincing gentleman?"

Did the woman not appreciate how irregular this entire affair was?

"I do believe I spoke plainly." Her tone was tart, a rebuke.

How dare she?

Garrick turned back to her only to discover she was hovering far too near, her green-brown eyes sparkling even in the shadow cast by her brim, generous lips tilted into the slightest hint of mirth. Of course she dared. Look at her, all that glorious auburn hair somehow piled beneath a monstrosity of a hat, lovelier than the most sought-after demimondaine.

"What did you intend to do with the hat?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

The answer did not matter. Every moment he tarried here with her was one less spent in more worthy endeavors. And yet, it would seem he could not help himself. He was curious about everything when it came to this woman. What was wrong with him?

Her lips pursed. "The hat?"

His irritation grew, magnified by the desire that had already sparked to life. "The one on your head, madam."

Who was he fooling? The desire had never truly stopped burning. From the moment he had seen her, he had wanted her. Coveted her for himself, regardless of how very wrong such a need was. Regardless of how very wrong she was.

"Oh." Her gloved fingers went to the brim, gliding along it. "Keep it on my head, of course. I never had to remove it at the matches."

As he had thought.

"Therein lies the problem, Miss Sutton," he informed her, keeping his voice haughty. "One of many. You were intending to venture into the gaming rooms at The Duke's Bastard whilst wearing a hat. The members of the club all typically remove their outer garments upon entering. Not only would every gentleman within have noticed you for that reason, not a one of them would have been stupid enough to mistake you for a man. Truly, if you are intent upon going about in such a guise, you ought to be intelligent enough to consider no gentleman carries on with his hat upon his head for the entirety of a social event."

Her shoulders stiffened and her chin went up, a posture he recognized now as being defensive. "They do for bare-knuckle boxing."

"Ruffians." His lip curled with distaste. That Aidan would have taken her to such a rough crowd rankled, although Garrick knew it should not. "One hardly ought to consider the actions of an assortment of lewd and rough characters at a bare-knuckle bout the harbinger of polite society."

"Thank you for the lesson, Lord Lordly." She crossed her arms over her sadly flattened breasts and pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm a busy woman. I haven't the time to dawdle with you in the house where you keep your ladybirds." She paused and gave an exaggerated sniff of the air. "None of them are about this evening, are they? I don't smell perfume."

Not again with the Lord Lordly business. He absolutely despised when she called him that, and Miss Sutton knew it. Which was why she used the name at every possible opportunity. And how had she known Letitia had always been surrounded by a cloud of perfume? Further, how had she understood the manner of residence to which he had brought her?

She was an intelligent woman, Miss Penelope Sutton. A force to be reckoned with. He had known it from the start, but he understood it more now, standing here with her in the place he had vowed never to return when he had bid his farewell to his mistress and given her the congé.

"I advise you to speak to me with greater respect, madam," he bit out, tamping down the urge to kiss those mocking lips.

"Or what shall you do?" she taunted, a teasing smile curving her mouth.

Kiss you.

Bed you.

"I shall make certain none of my friends and acquaintances patronize your family's establishment," he said instead.

The smile fled her lips. "Are you threatening me, Lord Lordly? I would have thought you'd realized your empty promises don't frighten me by now."

How brazen she was.

"It is not empty," he assured her silkily. "Nor is it a threat. I brought you here to speak with you about my brother. Such discourse is naturally best undertaken where no one else is lurking about with eager ears, all the better to spread scandalous gossip."

"Then let's have done with it." She pouted, tapping her booted foot on the floor. "I've places to be."

She had places to be .

Where?

And with whom?

He forced his ridiculous jealousy down, harnessing his ire instead. "Curse you, woman. Do you not have a civil tongue inside that stubborn head of yours?"

Her smile was beautiful, transforming her features even beneath that dreadful hat, and lighting a fire within him that made him briefly lightheaded. "Not for you, I don't."

There was no more maddening wench in all England, he was certain of it. And yet, there remained that ludicrous, all-consuming hunger for her he could not seem to quell, regardless of how much he tried with ration, calm, and the stern reminder of how socially inferior she was in every way that mattered.

And all the ways which didn't.

Unfortunately, a certain portion of his anatomy did not give a damn about anything other than Penelope Sutton's bewitching lips and swaying hips.

He cleared his throat, irritated more than he wished to admit by the sight of that oversized hat hiding her lustrous hair from view. Before he could garner control of himself, he reached out, plucking the offensive monstrosity from her head and tossing it to the floor, where it landed with an ignominious thump.

Her outrage was instant. "What do you think you are doing, throwing about my bleeding hat?"

Ah.

How interesting.

Apparently, when her ire was sufficiently piqued, Miss Sutton's East End roots rose to the surface. Garrick ought to be appalled. Instead, he found himself intrigued. "It was distracting me. I cannot speak with you when half your face is cloaked in shadows."

In truth, he could. But he did not wish to.

Her glorious hair had been restrained with what had to be handfuls of pins, trapped neatly to her head with a carefully coiled chignon pinned high with the obvious intention of being hidden within the accommodating height of the hat.

"Speak to me without it then," she said with a resigned sigh. "You have wasted enough of my time this evening."

Someone ought to remind the vexing woman she should address a viscount with at least a hint of respect. And he would have been the one to inform her, were it not for the undeniable burden of the news he was about to impart. Strangely, the notion of hurting this irritating, burdensome, beautiful woman cut into his heart with the precision of a freshly honed dagger.

"I spoke with one of Aidan's friends at The Duke's Bastard this evening," he forced himself to say, attempting to remain stalwart. "I also managed to have a brief dialogue with Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, who is the owner of the establishment. The information they both shared suggests my brother was— is —involved intimately with another…woman."

He had been about to say another lightskirt , but that word hardly seemed fitting in relation to Miss Sutton. Despite what he knew of her. Lady was not the proper term, either, but to suggest anything less seemed akin to paying the most grievous of insults to the hazel-eyed spitfire before him. Blast. What was this? He was considering Miss Sutton's feelings?

Why?

How?

He was certain he ought not. She was hardly deserving of his consideration. After all, she had manipulated his idiotic sibling into this nonsensical betrothal, had she not?

"Another woman?" Miss Sutton repeated, her full lips pursing.

Begging to be kissed, that mouth.

Christ.

Why did she not seem as utterly crushed as she ought to at the news his brother had disappeared with another woman? But then, why had she responded to Garrick's kisses in the manner she had? The woman was convoluted. Perplexing. Vexing.

His cock was painfully hard.

Bringing her here had been a mistake.

Concentrate on the matter at hand, you arse!

Garrick inhaled swiftly, which proved a dreadful misstep as it only brought the delightful scent of Miss Sutton's Winter's soap into his lungs to further tempt him and did nothing to calm his madly surging desires. "Another woman," he said stupidly, watching her for a trace of sadness. For a reaction.

Any.

She remained stoic, nary a trace of sadness on her countenance. "That would hardly be surprising. Each time the wind blows, Aidan finds a new ladybird."

Garrick frowned. "You are not distressed by this knowledge?"

Her lush lips curved upward. "Should I be?"

"As his betrothed, yes," he bit out. "Surely you have some sense of pride, madam."

"Aye, I've pride." She inclined her head, studying him with that regard he continued to find distressingly attractive. "Lots of it. I'm a Sutton, Lord Lordly. We wear our pride on our coat sleeves." Grinning, she offered him her forearm as example.

He examined the coat—a terrible piece of workmanship if he had ever seen one, fashioned from dreadful cloth, altogether too large for her form, the cut and color unbecoming…

What the devil was he thinking? Her coat hardly mattered.

"I should think you would be more concerned, considering your… betrothal to my brother," he said stiffly, wishing his prick to the ethers.

His trousers had reached beyond the point of being uncomfortably snug. His self-loathing only slightly eclipsed his insufferable lust.

"He ain't my betrothed."

Her dulcet voice scarcely permeated his vacillating thoughts.

For a moment, Garrick was certain he must have misheard her.

But no. His ears had not deceived him. Her stubborn expression told him so.

"He is not your betrothed?" he repeated, mind racing in an effort to comprehend this sudden development.

When had they put an end to it? And when had she seen Aidan last? Most importantly of all, why the devil had she not said something sooner?

"No." She shook her head, a hint of sheepishness entering her gaze before she blinked, those long lashes lowering to chase the emotion. "He ain't. He never was."

Now, he was convinced he was mistaken. "Forgive me, Miss Sutton. I must beg you to repeat what you just said."

"You heard me correctly, Lord Lordly. I was never going to marry your brother. He didn't even propose. He came to me with this nonsensical notion we ought to wed to spite your father. I told him to go to the devil, but apparently he misunderstood me, for he went to your family with the news we were betrothed instead."

Garrick stared at her, his mind gradually drinking in this new knowledge. He ought to be experiencing a number of emotions, shock and outrage primary amongst them. However, as he beheld the woman who had been the object of his furious desires from the instant he had first seen her, all he felt was a searing, delirious, almost dizzying sense of relief.

Relief he had not been kissing his brother's betrothed.

That he had not been lusting after her like a besotted fool, betraying Aidan.

That he would not have to explain to Father and Mother that he had been unsuccessful in his attempts at persuading Miss Sutton not to snap their youngest son in the parson's mousetrap because he, as their eldest, had been thrusting his tongue down her throat at every opportunity.

And relief because if she was not betrothed to his brother, that meant Garrick could have her for himself.

Thank God.

"You are not marrying my brother," he said slowly.

"You are a clever nob, aren't you?"

Whether it was her biting sarcasm, the smirk curving her pretty lips, or the reassurance she was not Aidan's betrothed that motivated him, he could not say. All he did know was that in the next moment, his body was moving, surrendering to his desires, taking control over his mind.

He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him, and then he claimed her mouth with his.

Of all the responses she had anticipated receiving from the viscount when she revealed to him Aidan was not her betrothed, seduction had not been among them. And yet, that was precisely what was happening now.

His lips were demanding, hot and firm and giving her no choice but to kiss him in return. How could she not? She would never understand her weakness for the arrogant man holding her so snugly in his arms—as if she were somehow dear to him.

What a lark! In truth, she knew she was anything but. He had made his disdain for her quite apparent. She was not fit to marry his younger brother, and he had been willing to bribe her in order to avoid the terrible scandal which would have ensued had he and his lofty duke and duchess parents been forced to welcome her into the family. Why, then, these passionate kisses? Why his tongue teasing her lips to open, then delving inside?

He tasted of sweetness and mystery, and regardless of all the reasons why she should not, Pen longed for Viscount Lindsey. Longed for him badly.

Longed for him more than she had ever desired a man's kisses and touches before.

Perhaps this was her reward for taunting him. She should not have goaded him, and she knew it, but as he deepened the kiss and moved them slowly backward, she could not summon a hint of regret. Because she was aflame, and he was nipping at her lower lip as if he wanted to consumer her, and her frantically beating heart and the need burning through her told her that she wanted to devour him too.

It made no sense.

They despised each other.

He was an arse who believed the worst of her, always polished to polite societal perfection.

But an arse who melted her defiance, it was true.

Somehow, her hair pins were raining to the floor and her hair, previously trapped in the tightest chignon she could muster, spilled in heavy waves down her back. His mouth left hers to find the side of her throat, the patch of skin above her rudely tied cravat. His breath fanned over her desperate flesh, making her knees cease to hold their stern shape. They buckled.

He caught her, hauling her into his arms.

Of course he did. Lord Lordly was faultless elegance in every act he committed. A gentleman like him would never allow a lady—even one he looked down his aristocratic nose at—to fall. She wanted to summon resentment, anything to resurrect her swiftly crumbling defenses, and found none.

But then, he quite startled her. Because he was carrying her in his deliciously strong arms. Carrying her through the dimly lit hall into the darkness beyond, holding her tightly to his chest as the scent of him wound its way through her senses. Citrus and bay and musk in a combination that rendered her nearly delirious with desire.

The house was empty. And thank heavens for that. But he knew his way, and she should have been bothered by the knowledge, just as she should have resisted his lips and rejected his kisses. Just as she should not be here with him now, very much in danger of losing whatever lingering remnants of her tattered virtue remained.

Yet, she was not bothered. And she was here. And if she did indeed lose the ragged shreds of her virtue to the viscount, she knew she would not grieve a single bit of them.

"My God," he said against her throat, "why do I want you so bloody much? I have asked myself again and again, and yet I can find no answer."

She would have answered him, but she had been asking herself the same question ever since he had first kissed her, and then again just moments ago. Pen most certainly did not have the answer. She doubted she ever would.

It ceased to matter anyway.

He had moved them over a threshold. Light from the brace of candles he had lit in the hall carried dimly over, sending shadows and a warm glow to dance around them. A brief glimpse of carpets and furniture suggested the chamber was a room for receiving callers.

He settled her on a large French sofa, falling to his knees on the carpet as he went, nudging her legs apart so he could settle between her thighs.

He was a tall man, his height such that even in his current position, their faces were at the same level. For a bewildering moment, their gazes met and held before he made a sound of raw desire in his throat and his lips were on hers in a deep, drugging kiss.

What was it about this man's lips that made her want to feel them on hers without end? Their tongues mated, and she knew in that instant that she was going to give herself to him. Not because he was a vaunted lord, the heir to a duke. But because she wanted him. She wanted him, and Pen had never been saving herself for marriage. She had no interest in taking a husband. Why not allow herself this reckless moment of abandon? Men did so all the time, and without recrimination.

He broke the kiss and dragged his mouth along her jaw. Her head fell back in invitation.

"You are bewitching." His low voice was at her ear, his teeth nipping her lobe as his fingers made short work of the knot of her cravat.

Oh good heavens, yes. Yes, yes, yes.

The lone word became a litany in her mind as he flung the scrap of linen to the floor. And again as he undid the handful of buttons at the neck of her shirt. More acquiescence hummed through her veins while he peeled her out of her coat and waistcoat, and then pulled her shirt over her head.

He lowered his head to kiss her shoulder while his large, warm hands cupped her breasts through the binding she had wrapped around them earlier that evening before setting out on her jaunt. She never could have predicted this outcome then. His teeth emerged to graze along her clavicle until she shivered.

"What have you done?" he asked, his thumbs unerringly finding her nipples beneath the layers of fabric she had used to secure herself. "Such a travesty."

The combined effect of his touch and the tightness of the linen had her aching. She wanted his hands and mouth on her. Without thought, she found the pins keeping the binding in place. She plucked them free, and though she knew she ought to place them somewhere for safekeeping, his hot gaze on her was enough to make her forget.

They slipped from her touch, raining to the carpet below.

Holding his stare, she began to unravel the linen. With each layer that came undone, her heart sped, the desire coursing through her burning hotter, anticipation sparking to life like a flame. The last of the binding fell to her lap, leaving her breasts bare. Relief and desire warred for supremacy.

His head dipped, his breath fanning hotly over her aching flesh, and desire won. When his mouth latched on to the peak of her breast, she nearly came out of her skin. He sucked. Liquid heat pooled between her thighs. This longing was familiar and yet new. New because it was stronger than anything she had ever experienced.

"Christ, you are perfection," he praised against the swell of her breast. "It hardly seems fair."

No, she was not perfect at all. He was. And yes, she thoroughly agreed that it was most unfair. She would have said as much aloud had he not then taken her other nipple into his mouth. And had not his hands caressed her waist so tenderly, as if even her skin was a vessel to be worshipped, learning the curves in a slow way that suggested he was committing them to his memory.

Her hands, previously occupied by clasping the silken tufted cushions of the luxurious sofa, reached for his broad shoulders now instead. His heat was a welcome sear, but it occurred to her that there were far too many layers of gentility keeping her from what she wanted.

Him.

A new boldness seized her, and she pushed at his shoulders until he rocked back, his gaze melding with hers. "Shall I stop?"

Ah, he believed she was putting an end to this interlude.

"If you do, I'll plant you a facer, Lord Lordly."

His smile was instant and genuine. So genuine, it quite caught her by surprise.

Heavens , the viscount was handsome. Diabolically so.

"Garrick," he said.

For a moment, she blinked at him in befuddlement, trying to comprehend the meaning.

"My name," he added, his voice somehow…softer, having lost some of the crisp aristocratic starch he ordinarily wielded like a weapon. "You may use it, if you like."

He was giving her permission to use his given name. Her heart thudded hard.

"Garrick," she repeated, liking it far too much on her tongue. She swallowed, trying to chase the inconvenient emotions persisting. Desire was all she would allow herself to feel for him. "You may call me Pen."

"Pen."

Her name in his baritone made a wicked thrum of need pulse to life at her core. For a heartbeat, all she could manage was to stare at the arrogant lord who had believed the worst of her when he had first appeared at The Sinner's Palace. Who perhaps still did.

And yet, he was on his knees before her.

She wanted to see what was hidden beneath his aristocratic layers. Needed to. She reached for his coat, and he aided her in shucking the garment, along with his waistcoat. His cravat came next, and they worked together to pull his shirt over his head.

Shadows and light flickered over him as he moved, lovingly illuminating and then hiding the contours of his broad chest. What a marvel his clothing had been hiding. He took her breath. She was reaching for him again without conscious thought, her palms coasting over his warm skin, following muscle and sinew to the waistband of his trousers.

He made a new sound, laden with such raw need, she would have fallen to her knees herself were she not already seated before him. Whatever Viscount Lindsey thought of her, despite the disparity in their stations, he wanted her. His words had told her one tale, and the rest of him was telling another. For the first time, he was not invulnerable.

When her right hand paused over his wildly beating heart, she had no doubt of it.

"Pen," he repeated, his voice a delicious rasp to her senses. But when those sculpted lips would have said more, she pressed her fingers to them, staying his words.

His mouth stretched into a smile beneath her touch, and he tipped his head back, kissing her fingers before sucking one into his mouth. The silken, wet heat and the suction sent a peculiar rush of need through her, the gesture intimate and erotic all at once.

Holding her gaze in the dim light, he released the digit he had been torturing to kiss a path up her inner wrist. He caressed her thighs in slow, knowing strokes, thumbs pressing lightly into the delicate flesh. He stopped at her elbow, his head lifting, the new angle allowing the flickering candelabra from the nearby hall to catch on his sharp cheekbones and haughty brows.

She was melting. Falling. Desiring.

Being foolish as she had been before, it was true.

But she was older now. Wiser, she liked to believe. And besides, when a woman's heart had already been broken, there were only pieces remaining. Nothing left to shatter any more, since it had been ground to dust beneath Daniel's boot heel.

The thought of the man she had so recklessly believed herself in love with was enough to propel Pen into action. She hooked her legs around Lord Lindsey's waist and pulled him onto the generous sofa with her. He went willingly, easily, falling atop her whilst taking care to keep his weight from crushing her into the tufted silk cushions and abundance of pillows adorning the piece of furniture.

His scent encircled her, and so did his heat, his strength. The evidence of how badly he desired her was pressed thick and hard against her where she ached the most. As if to prove just how much they wanted each other, he swiveled his hips, bringing the lower halves of their bodies into delicious, grinding connection.

"I did not bring you here for this," he said.

Even if he had, she was beyond the point of caring. The two of them had been dancing about each other from the moment their paths had first clashed. In some ways, it was inevitable that they found themselves thus.

"But you want it now," she finished for him, her hips chasing his as he rocked against her.

She knew what the act of making love entailed. Although any one of her brothers would have torn Daniel Peabody limb from bloody limb if they had discovered what had happened when Pen had been sixteen, that long-ago time when she had believed herself in love with him had made certain she possessed a rudimentary understanding. But although years had passed and time had faded her memory, she knew she had never felt this wildly wanton. The feelings and sensations she had known before were a tepid comparison.

"I want it," the viscount—Garrick—said, bringing her mind from the murky depths of a past best left in the dark. "I want you."

Another slow roll of his hips.

And she was wet and aching.

"Then have me," she invited, shamelessly pressing her breasts into his chest as she arched her back. Her nipples were hard and eager to be touched. Her entire body was aflame.

This was his fault. He alone had caused this madness, and now he had to put an end to it for the both of them. There could be no other outcome to this night save one.

"Have you," he repeated in a dangerous voice.

One that was sinful and husky and promised delirious passion.

"Yes." The need was rising up from a new place within her, and with it came a sense of power she had never known. She was no stranger to men looking upon her with rampant desire. Each night she had donned a wig and sung for the patrons of The Sinner's Palace, she had watched the fancy nobs as they looked on, longing for the illusion she had presented them.

But Lord Lindsey was different. He did not desire the blonde wig or the saucy singer, not the role she had played. No, indeed. He wanted plain Pen Sutton, the fiery-haired daughter of a drunkard, who had lived in the East End all her life. Who sometimes dropped an h and spoke flash despite the efforts her eldest brother had gone to so that she would speak like a lady. Garrick desired her not because of what and who she was, ready to take advantage of her, but rather in spite of it. And somehow, that made a difference to Pen.

That made all the difference.

He stilled, dipping his head to rest his forehead against hers, his breath fanning across her mouth in the most delicious prelude to a kiss she had ever experienced. "This is a mistake."

She froze, thwarted desire sending a waterfall of disappointment to douse the flames of her desire. But before she could say a word, his mouth was on hers. He was kissing her again. Deeply, hotly, deliciously. Kissing her as if his next breath depended upon the precise manner in which he moved his lips against hers.

His hand slipped between them, working meticulously on the fall of her trousers. Buttons slid from moorings. Fabric parted. His tongue was in her mouth. And then, the miracle of his touch, stroking there, where she wanted him most. Where her flesh was throbbing and longing for his touch.

He lifted his head, breaking the kiss, his breathing harsh. "Christ. You are dripping."

As if to punctuate his words, he worked his fingers over her folds in slow, steady thrusts. The wet sounds seemed to echo in the hushed silence of the house. There was nothing between them but the steady rise and fall of their breaths and the sound of him teasing her.

When he parted her folds and he found the sensitive bud hidden within, her hips bucked and she cried out.

He toyed with her, circling her nub and then delving deeper, finding her cunny. He probed her with his middle finger, and then he lowered his head to suck her nipple as he thrust into her with that lone digit. The invasion was new, unexpected.

Good.

So good.

Better than good. What was better than good? The best. Lord in heaven and all the angels, yes. He was the best.

She arched into his touch, bringing him deeper.

His attentions were so different from what she had come to expect, from what she knew. She felt as if she were stretched full of him, and yet simultaneously as if she did not have nearly enough. There was no pain, no discomfort, no pinching. Instead, her body felt as if it were made for his. He thrust in and out gently, slowly at first, and then with increasing vigor as his tongue lashed her nipples.

When his thumb circled over her pearl as his other finger sank deep, the combination proved too much. He sucked hard on the peak of her breast, thrusting inside her as his thumb stroked and strummed and brought her to release. The sheer pleasure of it nearly tore her apart. She felt as if she were wound tightly and then exploded into the ether, such delicious abandon and pleasure swamping her body and mind that she was helpless to do anything but ride his hand, hips tipping greedily upward for more, and hold his handsome face to her breasts so that he would continue this sweet torture.

Her heart was pounding so hard and so fast as the desire licked through her that she feared it would burst. But as the waves of her crisis ebbed, the pounding continued.

And that was when she realized it was not her heart at all.

Rather, it was someone rapping on the door.