Finally, he shot to his feet, his dark eyes glazed and hot. Her wetness coated his face and chin, and he licked his lips as he brought her hands to his waistband. “Finish me, Violet. Right now.”
Oh, yes. She wanted that desperately. “What about . . .” She pointed to the terrace.
“They left. Hurry.”
Swiftly, she unfastened his trousers and moved his shirtfront out of the way. “So many clothes.” He made no move to help, staying perfectly still except for the breath sawing out of his chest.
She unbuttoned his undergarment and reached in, taking his shaft in her hand. The soft skin was stretched tight, her fingers unable to meet around his girth.
He dropped his forehead against her temple. “Squeeze hard,” he said, giving a little thrust of his hips. “Stroke me. Fast.”
Obeying, she tightened her grip and pumped his erection. He sucked in air and placed his hands on the wall behind her head. “That’s it, my little mouse. Precisely like that.”
He was so beautiful with his chiseled jaw and the few silver threads at his temple, his skin taut with excitement. She reached her other hand down to his testicles, rolled them in her palm, and Max let out a drawn out, “Fuck.”
Hot breath hit her cheek as he began to talk. “We haven’t long. Your father is in the card room and he’ll come looking for you when he’s done. I have the taste of you in my mouth. Would you like the taste of me in your mouth, as well?”
Her nipples tightened inside her clothing, and she rubbed her thighs together in a desperate bid for friction. Goodness, yes. She most definitely wanted that.
She started to lower to her knees, but he held her upright. “Wait.”
He tore off his evening coat, folded it over, and dropped the cloth to the ground. She lifted her skirts and kneeled on his coat as Max began working his cock, rougher than she had, focusing almost entirely on the head. “Now, Violet,” he gritted out, so she pressed forward and opened her mouth. Steadying her with a hand on her crown, he slid the head past her lips and groaned when she sucked. It took one swirl of her tongue and he reached his peak, his fingertips trembling on her scalp as spend coated the inside of her mouth.
“Yes,” he gasped and shuddered. “That’s it. Take it all.”
She did, gladly. Her body sang in self-congratulatory pleasure as he climaxed, and when he finally pulled out she swallowed him down. Resting a palm against the hard stone, he lifted her chin with his free hand. His thumb traced her lips. “I expected you to spit but you didn’t, did you?” He helped her stand then pressed his forehead to hers. “My God, Violet. What have I ever done to deserve you?”
He touched his lips to hers, kissing her softly, sweetly, with so much tenderness that she wanted to bottle it and hold onto the emotion forever. “Max,” she whispered into his kisses, clutching him tightly. “Your Grace.”
When they broke apart, he breathed, “Thank you, sweet girl,” before stepping back. He tucked and smoothed her hair instead of righting his clothing. “There. Now you may return inside.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go around the side and find my carriage. I’ve no desire to stand around a stuffy ballroom this evening.”
Did that mean . . .? Giddiness flooded her chest, her heart swelling to a ridiculous size. “Did you come just to see me?”
“Go back to the ball.” He began redressing, his attention on his buttons.
She shifted on her slippers, the gravel crunching beneath her feet. “When will I—”
“Inside, Violet.” His tone was sharp and authoritative, the one he no doubt used when the Duke of Ravensthorpe wished to get his way.
But he was not the duke with her, not any longer. He was Max. He would not push her aside, especially when she still had the taste of him in her mouth. “Not until you tell me when I will see you again.”
“We cannot do this.” He pushed his shirtfront into his trousers. “It’s too risky.”
“Then let me come to your home.”
“Violet—”
“Max,” she snapped. “If you do not tell me precisely when, then I’ll show up and surprise you.”
“I won’t let you in. I’ll have the doors and windows locked at all times.”
Silly man. She slid her hand up his chest, tucking her body close to his. “No, I don’t think you will. In fact, I don’t believe you’ll last even fourteen days this time.”
“Do not try to play games with me. You will lose.”
She nipped his jaw with her teeth—and he shivered in response. Moving away, she whispered, “We shall see, Your Grace. We shall see.”
Most days, Max avoided visiting his clubs. They were a waste of time, the rooms filled with brash young men barely older than Will, laughing and joking as if they hadn’t a care. They caused Max to feel a hundred years old. Had he ever been so carefree, so jovial?
Not since assuming the title at fourteen, certainly. After a decade of wrangling the ducal accounts into shape, including taking risks on the London Exchange to refill the empty bank accounts, he’d been ready to do his duty. His choice of bride, the daughter of a high-ranking earl, had seemed a good one at the time, but he and Rebecca had been a poor match.
From the start, there had been problems in the bedroom. She preferred he not undress, and refused to let him see her without clothing. She remained perfectly still during the act, not complaining, but not participating, either. Kisses were to remain chaste and he was to leave immediately upon finishing.
Unhappiness had gnawed at him until Rebecca started increasing. Then he’d taken a mistress, relieved to finally enjoy himself with an eager partner. It had been selfish of him, a decision he’d regretted when his wife found out. Hysterical over his infidelity, Rebecca had gone into early labor and died whilst delivering Will.
A year into his marriage, Max was left widowed with a young son. And guilt. Plenty of guilt.
And the guilt hadn’t yet subsided, not even sixteen years later.
None of it had been Rebecca’s fault. Max should have been more patient, more understanding. He should have tried harder to explain his needs and desires, instead of rushing off to another woman’s bed. Young and stupid, he leaped into marriage with the belief that a wife was no different than the other highborn ladies he’d slept with, the lusty widows and bored society wives.
But Rebecca had been different. It was Max who hadn’t bothered to adjust his behavior, and he’d caused her death. Not a day went by when he didn’t chastise himself over what he’d done, and he would repeat his pledge never to marry again.
Some men were not cut out to be husbands.
Still, he had no choice but to protect Violet.
Brooks’s was quiet at this time of morning. After handing his hat and cane to the attendant, Max found his quarry in the main room, nursing coffee. Only a handful of men were spread out amongst the furniture.
Wingfield frowned at Max’s approach. “Why must I be here so early, Ravensthorpe?”
Max slid into the chair opposite. “Because I wish to speak with you. And you are at my service, not the other way around.”
Wingfield scowled but said nothing as he took another sip of coffee.