Waking Up with a Rake by Mia Marlowe

Author:Mia Marlowe [Marlowe, Mia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

He was certainly hard as stone, but stone encased in warm male flesh. She wasn’t sure which part of him fascinated her most—his hard shaft or the soft testicles beneath it.

She ran her fingertips over his length and then palmed his balls while she continued to stroke him. He moved toward her caresses, arching into her.

When she glanced up at Rhys’s face, his eyes were closed and he was biting his bottom lip.

“Am I hurting you?”

His eyes popped open. “No, but if I stand still any longer, I’ll burst.”

“We can’t have that. By all means, don’t stand still.”

He wrapped his arms around her and bent to kiss her, leaving enough space between them for her to continue to fondle him. He groaned into her mouth.

A thrill of feminine power coursed through her. She’d made him groan with need. She’d reduced him to bare lust. Her heart sang in wicked triumph as she continued to explore him.

His hands roamed over her as well, down her back, cupping her buttocks, lifting her against him in long languid strokes. She ached so deeply a groan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Oh dear. Lust is contagious.

No, this was more than lust. There was such tenderness in his touch, such heart-stopping sweetness in his kisses, even the neediest of them. He cared enough to be concerned for her safety. Surely he cared for her in others ways as well.

She’d already admitted she liked Rhys. It was more than many marriage partners could say.

Certainly more than she could say for the Duke of Clarence. His reputation with women was such that she couldn’t even console herself with fanciful imaginings of the royal duke’s valiant and pure male soul. Any other man who’d sired ten bastards on two different mistresses and tried to force them on Polite Society would be met with only direct cuts. Without his royal standing, the duke was merely an aging libertine.

Of course, what was Rhys but a young libertine?

Nevertheless, she liked him. He was charming and clever and brave and…wounded. Her heart ached afresh for his pain over Lieutenant Duffy. There was a depth to Rhys Warrington most would overlook.

He wanted it overlooked, she realized. How much of his playing the rake was only to disguise his well-hidden pain?

Then Rhys deepened their kiss, and all coherent thought fled from her mind. She draped her arms around his neck as he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the waiting bed. Somewhere between the fireplace and the bedpost, her nightrail hitched up past her knees.

She didn’t mind. She might not even have noticed if he hadn’t run a hand over her leg from ankle to mid-thigh. She didn’t stop kissing and touching him as he laid her down on the feather tick with care.

She didn’t protest when he joined her there, settling with most of the weight of his upper body propped on his elbows while he kissed her to oblivion.

It was a little like heaven to feel the sheltering warmth of him.

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