Page 47 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel
She lifted her leg, wrapping it around the back of his thigh, and the change in angle made the sensations even better. This time, when he slid in, he stroked the spot inside her that his fingers had found before, and she bucked against him, eager to recapture that delicious feeling.
He increased the rhythm, sliding in and out with the perfect amount of friction, and Ellie closed her eyes as her head began to spin. Pleasure built, ratcheting higher and higher, and she clutched at his muscled back as she sought relief.
“Take your pleasure,” he ground out hoarsely. “Steal it from me. That’s it, beautiful girl. Take it. Now, Ellie.Come.”
Her body obeyed his command. Her inner muscles clenched down hard, and pleasure burst over her. It was overwhelming in the best possible way, as if she were being tumbled by a huge, unstoppable wave, and she let out a sob of relief.
With one last thrust, he withdrew from her body. Dazed, still bleary-eyed with her own climax, she watched him kneel between her legs and fist his cock. He pumped, his expression almost pained, and then with a groan he reached his own crisis. Hot, thick ropes of his seedlashed across her belly as he bent over her, supporting himself on one arm as his back bowed in ecstasy.
Ellie could barely move. Every limb felt like it weighed a hundred tons, as if she could sink down through the mattress, through the earth, but her skin was alive and glowing. She’d never felt better in her life.
Harry let out a long, satisfied sigh, and sat back between her legs. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes roved over her naked body as if he were memorizing her curves for a future heist. He grabbed his shirt from the edge of the bed, and used the expensive material to wipe the evidence of his climax from her skin.
Ellie’s stomach clenched at his gentle ministrations, and at the possessive, satisfied look on his face. She felt marked, somehow, as if what they’d done had left a permanent etching on her soul, an invisible version of the inked tattoos that sailors sometimes bore.
She shook her head to dispel the foolish notion. Her brain was too befuddled by the unexpected pleasure to think straight.
Harry slid off the bed and pulled back the sheets. “Get in. Unless you’d like to use the privy?”
She nodded, grateful for his consideration, and when she looked around for something to cover herself with, suddenly shy, he tossed her the coverlet that had been spread on the bed. The silky cashmere was as soft as a whisper, and he smiled as she wrapped it around her body.
“I suppose this is made from mermaid hair, or butterfly wings?” she teased.
“Why settle for second best?”
She collected her chemise from where he’d tossed it onto the floor, then went to investigate the adjoining bathing room. When she returned, feeling slightly lessself-conscious in the chemise, he was lying in bed, the covers pooled at his waist. He looked thoroughly wicked and satisfied, and she slipped in beside him with a little shiver of delight.
His long fingers played with her curls, then stroked her cheek. “Nowdo you feel sleepy?”
Ellie yawned, perfectly on cue, and when he smiled, she had to resist the urge to reach up and trace those outrageous dimples.
“A little bit,” she admitted. “Your plan to tire me out has worked.”
He lay down and turned to face her on the pillows, and she shook her head with a rueful smile. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”
“Shakespeare,Romeo and Juliet,” she said, identifying the quote. “That’s an easy one.”
He traced her eyebrow with the tip of his finger. “Do you know, some scholars argue that even Shakespeare was a fraud. He stole ideas from other sources. A few even claim another playwright wrote his works—or maybe a whole group of people.”
His finger moved to her nose, running the length of it and back up. “But does it matter? Those plays have given audiences pleasure for hundreds of years. They entertain. They console. If the name of the man—or woman—who created them is wrong, who cares?”
“I know what you’re doing,” she said sleepily. His lazy touch was making her drowsy. “But names are important, especially in theton. They show connections and relationships with other people. They prove how well we know a person, how formal we are with them. Addressing someone by their title is very different to using theirsurname. And using their Christian name, or a nickname, shows a closeness, a familiarity. I can be Miss Law, or Eleanor, or Ellie, depending on who I’m with.”
“I work with Miss Law.” He traced her top lip and she wrinkled her nose. “She’s a formidable specimen. An excellent investigator.”
“And Eleanor?”
“Ah. Eleanor is wallflower with a stubborn streak. I met her the night of the Chessingtons’ ball. She needs to learn to live a little.”
“And what about Ellie?”
His dimples made an appearance. “Ellie’s my partner in crime. A wicked siren, impossible to resist.”
She shook her head, denying the description, even as it secretly warmed her heart.
“Knowing someone’s name feels like youhavea little bit of them, somehow. Do you know, the ancient Greeks thought a person could achieve a kind of immortality by having their name spoken aloud, long after they were dead.”