Page 22 of The Lyon Loves Last (The Lyon’s Den)

He placed a kiss against her inner thigh. “Brave goddess.” And another, lower. “Clever love.” And another, his cheek brushing against her sweet cunny. “Perfect Caro-mine.”

Mine for tonight. For as long as he was here. For… forever, just this way. Heat and curves and the body’s desires. Nothing else needed. Not dangerous at all.

Her hands slipped into his hair and his control slipped. Almost entirely. Those fingertips stroking against his skin, her strong fists pulling at his hair.

“Do you know this?” he asked, barely capable of speaking, needing moving him to action instead. But he held tight to the reins. For her. “What I’m about to do?” Had that bloody Scotsman done this to her?

“N-no.”

“No one has ever kissed you here?”

“N-no. Is it… is it done?” A bit of uncertainty quavered in her voice.

Her stepmother’s education had not gone this far, then. He nuzzled her curls. “It is. Shall I show you?”

“ Mm .” More a primal sound than a word.

“What was that, Caro?”

“ Mmm . Please .”

Please. He liked that. “Say it louder, love. With all that confidence that is your due.”

He looked up in time to see her bite her lip. Indecision. No good. He surged upward, taking a kiss, holding her tight. “Say what you want. Say it clear. Never fear it.”

Her little face wrinkled. Bloody adorable. “I… could we… have a plan?”

Bloody hell. “No.”

“B-but it would help to know what comes first, then next, and so on.”

He nipped her earlobe. “No fun in that.”

“I like to know… especially when…I do not know.” Heated cheeks and hesitation in her eyes. Nervous about discovering things she’d not read about in books, things her stepmother’s education had left in the dark?

“Trust me, Caro-mine.” He tilted her chin up. “Trust me?”

She bit her lip, nodded.

“No plan.”

She huffed, but she nodded again.

“Good.” He kissed her navel, breathed into her skin. “No bloody plan. Only you and me and whatever pleasures our bodies conjure.”

“Yes.”

Good God. He’d never been so hard. And not because she was naked before him or because he touched her every curve.

He hadn’t yet. No, she controlled him with a single, husky word.

He eased her back down, anticipation sparking across every inch of him.

The tie of her wrapper was already loose, and he undid it completely.

The little ribbon at the neck of her shift suffered the same fate, and he dragged that neckline down, down, each inch of exposed skin making him even, impossibly, harder.

She shivered when he dragged his lips across her neck, her chest. He wanted to stop everywhere.

Nibble across her collarbone, luxuriate in the hollow between her breasts.

He did take time to love those perfect things, nudging the fabric of her shift below them, a white muslin frame from a bloody work of art.

Plump with pink nipples he needed to see in daylight.

The perfect weight in his hand. He traced his tongue in teasing circles around each nipple, closer, closer, until he sucked one between his teeth and rolled it gently.

She arched, moaned, and he might actually die if she did that again.

He could spend all day at her breasts, but she’d asked for something else.

He’d never deny his wife.

His wife .

Those two words gave him as much pleasure as her body did. He’d been saying them more and more since they’d wed, even in those first three months when he’d tried to put her out of his mind.

At the coffee house: My wife is out of town.

In a letter: My wife would agree.

To his sparring partner at Jackson’s: My wife will not thank you for this bruise.

He rested his forehead on the lowest expanse of her belly, inhaling deeply as he grasped her hips with both hands. “Such a perfect handful.” Then he tasted her, licked her seam, the entire length of it. And shuddered. Bliss.

Impossible to control.

But he did his best, holding her tightly as he kissed and tasted, dragging his teeth along her, dipping his tongue inside her. His hands so large across her hips, his smallest finger flirted with her hipbone while his thumb played with the little pearl that was—what a damn delight—driving her mad.

Driving him mad. He’d stayed away so long. Because she’d always been so damn easy to love. It felt like stepping into the sunshine. Required no effort.

She writhed beneath him, and he lost himself to her completely. She arched with a cry off the mattress, and he knew he’d never quite be master of himself again.

Didn’t care.

Couldn’t. She clutched at his shoulders, urging him up her body. He obeyed, stopping to kiss her breasts before taking her mouth, kissing her hard then softly as the tremors wracking her body gentled, stopped. She reacted so effortlessly to him, fell apart with ease.

What a sated, rosy woman.

Beautiful.

Made for him. Or maybe he’d been made for her.

He lay next to her, gathering her up, holding her close. His body begged for release, but this more important.

She turned into his chest, nuzzled it with her nose. “You now, yes? I know that is not all there is to it, husband.”

If he liked saying wife , he liked hearing her say husband even more. His cock leapt, and as if answering its call, Caroline wrapped her sweet hand around it.

He hissed. “Christ, Caro.”

“Bad?” Her grip softened.

“Good. Deliriously good.”

“Ah. Excellent. Without a plan, I’m a bit unsure what to do next. But I do wish to touch you as freely as you have touched me.”

“I am at your disposal.”

With a satisfied smile, her free fingers marched across his chest, outlining his muscle, circling his nipple, driving him mad when they moved lower down the ridges of his abdomen. His clever wife could use her hands disparately, and the other explored his member, cupping and stroking and—

“Caro, you’re driving all control away,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What will you do about it?” she asked with faux-innocent eyes.

He rolled on top of her and kissed her, hard. Her arms flailed wide for a moment, and then she wrapped them around him, hands branding his neck, his spine, then with only the slightest bit of hesitation, his arse.

He ground against her, loving how she rolled her hips up to meet him. Her eyes were once more hazy with lust, and he needed to make her scream again.

“Hold steady, Caro-mine,” he whispered in her ear, “and tell me to stop if you need to.” He parted her legs with his knees and tested her cunny with two fingers—wet and ready.

He nudged the head of his cock against her, teasing her breasts, wanting to build her pleasure even as he might banish it entirely.

But when he inched inside her, she only gave a little gasp.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Thick brows barreling toward on another as she wriggled her hips. God, that felt good. “Not at all. A little… full.” Her brows relaxed. “Continue, please.”

Practical Caroline. “I’m going to take you.” He thrust in slowly. “I’m going to make you mine.”

“Already am,” she breathed, rolling up to meet him. “I suppose it will be official now, though.”

He gently tugged her nipple between his teeth and flicked his tongue over it. She hissed and moaned, forgetting practical, forgetting official. And when he was buried in her to the hilt, she bit her lip and dug her nails into his back.

“Yes,” she groaned. “Felix.”

Lost, then. He slid in and out of her, finding a rhythm perfect for them both.

So easy with her, so right. He slipped a hand between their bodies to tease her clit.

She gave a startled, pleasured cry, and he swallowed it with a kiss, still thrusting in and out as he built her to a climax once more, as he followed her to those heights.

She cried his name, her body pulsing around him, and he joined her, pulling from her slick heat and spilling his seed on the blankets beside them. To keep her safe. Them safe.

When their bodies had settled into a deep rhythm of heavy breaths, he collapsed beside her, dragging her into his arms and kissing the top of her head. So right. As if this were where he was meant to be all along.

The next breath struggled to claw its way out of his chest. Ribs tightened and throat collapsed.

“Are you well?” she asked. “Your heart is racing again.”

“I’m well.” Not though. His heart ached, and his body felt like it was sprinting away from danger. Or chained near it. No escape.

Cheek resting on his chest, she mumbled, sleepy and sated, “Do not go, Felix. Please.”

He said what he didn’t want to say. “I won’t.” How could he deny her? How could he deny the part of himself that wanted to be right here. With her. Forev—

A vision flickered before his eyes—a boy with Caroline’s dark hair and Felix’s own eyes, sick in a room and crying for someone, anyone. No one heard him, though. There was no one to hear.

He shook it off and kissed the top of her head again.

He would stay for as long as it took to slake this desire. This thing between them would run its course. She would find more passion in the running of this refuge. He would return to London knowing she was safe and taken care of. He could stay until then.

She was already asleep, her visible cheek rounded and red, her dark lashes a sweep against her pale skin. And those lips, those lovely red lips slightly parted, as if about to say his name. Or as if exhaling her final breath before death.