Page 132 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Fine male lips curved with satisfaction. “No need to worry about what I’ll do,” he said, untying her garter. “The better question is, what if you stayed here?Permanently.”

Air fought its way in and out of her lungs. Her quim pulsed, swollen and wet. Though fully dressed, she was on display.

“As your housekeeper?”

His satyr’s smile spread. “As my wife.”

Soft pink lips opened wider. So did her knees. She grabbed handfuls of her skirts as her folded legs opened wider. Her wool stockings snagged on the floor, the little ripping sounds banking the fire in his eyes staring into hers.

She wanted him to look down.

“We’re not cut from the same cloth,” she argued, her voice hoarse. “You need to think about your fut—”

His finger grazed the hot, wet line between her legs. “Don’t think. Feel.”

She tilted forward, a slave to his finger stroking her cleft. Hot, dizzying, carnal sensations shocked her body. It was Marcus.

He knew how and where, even when, to touch.

* * *

Genevieve had come to him for sex. He’d known it as soon as he heard footsteps dithering outside his door. He’d give it, because he wanted her. Needed her. But would she stay? In the short time since she stepped inside his chamber, he’d coaxed and he’d bullied. He’d touched and teased to bring her to his bidding. One finger slowly stroked her quim the way he’d drag his finger through a dish of clotted cream.

In one weak moment, he’d almost given himself away—when she listed what he might lose.

Khan…the horses…her…

Lust battled love, the higher emotion nearly winning, but Genevieve’s eyes widening moments ago told him she was scared.

Of what?

He hated the other look he’d seen in her eyes: the one that feared he’d drink again, as if she saw a man of no substance. Whatever her fears, they’d passed. Her pink tongue dampened her upper lip. With the slim novel beside her, and intimate flesh bared, Genevieve was his to do with as he pleased.

His poor wife. She came up to scratch an itch, and he suggested something permanent.

“You’ll want to…marry a-a wealthy woman.” Her eyelids drooped. “At least someone near your station.”

He toyed with the garter before again brushing the crease between her naked thighs…all the better to keep her from talking about marrying another woman. “Planning my life for me, are you?”

She squeezed his wrist. “Please. I can’t think when you touch me.”

“That’s the idea.”

Cogs and wheels ticked behind her half-masked eyes. Young as she was, Genevieve had seen much, been used, and probably used others right back. She was no innocent, nor was she jaded by life. Practical. Clever, though poorly educated. And more than a little tenderhearted.

She released him, and one brow arched. “Undress for me.”

A frisson of delight got him in the smalls. He braced both hands on his knees, grinning. “Aren’t you a surprise?”

His skirted sergeant was back.

“I want to see you. All of you.” Her chin tilted up. “I didn’t get a good look before.”

“Do I get anything?”

“We’ll both get what we want.” She looped a finger in her shift’s cambric bow hanging over her bodice. A thin, blue line streaked her breast. She’d been painting again while he mulled over decisions in his bedchamber. The parlor’s mural, her sweet gift for him. His wife’s cool outer shell hid the best prize—her heart.

“Stay with me tonight.”