“Yes,” she answered.
And then he said nothing, only made a feral noise as she heard the sounds of him unfastening his breeches. His fingers caressed over her arse, dipping lower to her trembling pussy. She widened her legs and held her breath as he fit the crown of his cock to her opening.
One hand on her hip, he thrust into her, thick and full. She couldn’t keep from crying out in bliss, then his other hand came up to cover her mouth.
“Shh,” he breathed against her neck.
Breath sawed in and out of Cecilia’s nose as he continued to fuck her. She jolted with the force of each superbly rough stroke, writhing with ecstasy as she fought to keep from making any sound to alert passersby in the corridor. His own breath came in short, hard pants that gusted across her nape.
Owen’s hand moved down from Cecilia’s hip to her clitoris, rubbing it as he thrust into her.
Cecilia came so powerfully she saw bright constellations behind her closed eyes. It was a mercy Owen’s hand covered her mouth, else she would have screamed so loud as to bring the whole house running.
A moment later, he pulled from her, and his hot seed spattered across the dip just above her arse.
Owen slid his hand away from her mouth, and she sagged forward as their gasps mingled in the tight confines of the narrow closet. Sex and lavender scented the air.
Soft cloth stroked over her behind as he cleaned her.
She turned, and he was there, pulling her to him as they kissed deeply. Every swipe of his tongue against hers made her hum with pleasure.
“I wonder if there’s anything left to teach you.” She shivered in the afterglow of how he’d been so commanding, so driven with need that he’d forgotten all his reticence. “You won’t need me anymore.”
“Never say that,” he said insistently. “There’s so much I have to know—and you’re the one to guide me.”
Only when his fingertip brushed against her cheek and spread wetness across her skin did she realize she wept.
“Vita mia,” he murmured, “why are you crying?”
She hadn’t cried in years. “I…missed you.”
His lips found hers. “Every moment we were apart was torture. Here, with you, is where I belong, and to hell with the consequences.”
“Parliament?”
“I voted as I was supposed to. Now that’s done and I’m here again.”
She wrapped her arms around him tightly, loving the feel of him.
“Amore mio,” he said hoarsely, “I don’t want to stop what we have. I think of what it would mean to never kiss you again, never touch you again, and it shatters me. But I’ll do what you want, only tell me.” His voice rasped. “I need to hear it from you—do you want me to stay?”
A shudder ran through her as she pressed her heated face against his shoulder. “I know this cannot last. I know this and yet…and yet…” She swallowed in an attempt to collect herself, but her efforts were futile, and her voice shook. “I will take what I can get.”
He sucked in a breath, then rubbed his lips against the crown of her head. “Tonight. We’ll meet again at the cottage.”
“Midnight, at the cottage.”
He was hers and she was his—for now. She could not ask for more than that, even as she ached with wanting more, with wanting him to be hers forever.
Chapter Eight
Diving beneath the surface of the pond was like diving into midnight itself. Water black as the sky surrounded Owen, and with a few strokes of his arms, he drove himself through it as though swimming through his own dreams.
He surfaced, taking in air, and sleek, wet arms immediately encircled him.
Pulling Cecilia closer, his lips found hers. Her slick body pressed close to him. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he held her close as he used his legs to propel them through the water. They were one creature, buoyant as they glided together.
He rolled onto his back, his hold on her secure so that she lay partially atop him. Lazily, he kicked his feet, keeping Cecilia and himself at the pond’s surface. He loved the feel of her with him in the water, where peace came so readily. Though he swam and sculled at Oxford, it was never as wonderful as it was here, in Tarrington House’s pond, with Cecilia in his arms.
“There’s almost nowhere to swim in London,” he murmured.
Moonlight traced the curve of her cheek and down the length of her wet hair. “The Thames is hardly fitting for a bathe.”
“The best I was able to find were the Highgate Ponds at Hampstead Heath, but the demands on my time ensured I was only able to go once in the whole week.”
“How fortunate you’ve returned to all the pleasures of Tarrington House.” She rubbed her breasts against his chest. In response, he cupped one of his hands around the curve of her arse. A startled but pleased laugh escaped her. “Such boldness you’ve cultivated in your time away.”
He could do that now, touch her without the hesitation and second guessing that had so hindered him.
“If I’ve become bold,” he said, moving his legs to push them toward the shore, “it’s because I have received excellent instruction.”
“No teacher could ask for a more receptive student.”
They reached the banks of the pond, and he lifted her up so she could stand. Joining hands, they strode through the silt and reeds until they reached the grass. They stretched out side by side on the blanket she’d taken from the cottage. The air was thick and sultry, barely stirred by a breeze, ensuring that neither he nor Cecilia would be chilled as they lay together in the depths of a warm night.
He stroked his hand lazily up and down her back, and they were quiet together. As they’d arranged earlier—after they’d furiously, clandestinely fucked in the closet—they had met in the cottage. There, he’d showed her exactly how much her lessons had taught him. Her teeth left marks on his shoulder from where she’d bitten him during her climaxes. Thank God he preferred to dress himself rather than rely on his valet, even though Owen was reasonably certain that Chalmers wouldn’t go tattling to other servants. Still, if he could keep the gossip mill quiet about the new duke’s amorous life, all the better.
“You’ve talked little of London,” she murmured.
He shrugged. “Buried in meetings and engagements. There was hardly time to enjoy it.” There had been a sophisticated, pretty widow he had met at a dinner party—they hadn’t sat beside each other, but the lady had made eyes at him throughout the meal. When they had gathered afterward in the drawing room, she’d offered him nights in her bed for the duration of his stay in the city. He had politely declined.
“Though,” he said, “I met with MacCulloch, the president of the Geological Society of London, in the relatively new headquarters on Bedford Street. We discussed new classification systems. He’s some theories on mineralogy that—” He stopped at her laugh.
“This the first I’ve heard you speak of London with any enthusiasm.” She propped her chin on her fist. “And it’s absolutely perfect that it relates not to the theater or an assembly, but rocks and minerals.”
“Can’t find good examples of chalcocite next to the punch bowl.”