This damn woman shattered his delusional contentment.
Craving more sensation, he kneaded the soft flesh of her thighs, sliding his hands up and then clutching her buttocks. So soft and giving. His fingers dipped into her crease, and he squeezed, working himself rhythmically, wanting to draw this out and savor the encounter but knowing that was going to be impossible.
Which it was.
White lightning shot down his spine, and he moved to withdraw, consciously preventing himself from releasing inside her body. Only her legs tightened around him. Unable to prevent the inevitable, he surrendered to the unique, almost painful, pleasure that had already begun to seize him.
It had been fast and impersonal and exactly what Miranda needed. She relaxed her legs and dangled them off the end of the table in a most unladylike pose.
“God damnit,” he uttered, bracing himself with his hand, leaning over her.
“I’m barren,” she murmured lazily. “You do not need to worry.”
She’d sensed his pending retreat and hadn’t wanted to lose the sensation of his rather generous appendage filling her. He was large—larger than any man she’d been with. And contrary to his initial reluctance, he’d needed this encounter nearly as much as she had.
Feeling needed was the most glorious aphrodisiac in the world.
He wiped an arm across his eyes, still inside of her but relaxed now.
But he was also regretful. Remorse already creased his brow. Any second now, he would slide out and step away, leaving her satisfied but empty again.
He might offer his apologies. He would locate a handkerchief and after a few cleansing strokes over his deflated cock, tuck it away and offer to escort her back to the ballroom.
She would decline, of course, as she always did, and sneak around to the front of the manor where she would then locate her driver.
But until he left, she would absorb his weight. His breathing slowed but he didn’t move.
“Are you all right?” she asked after at least a minute of silence. Perhaps he’d strained a muscle. Baldwin had hurt his back once… during. It wasn’t unheard of.
“I don’t even know your given name.” His voice rumbled in the quiet.
Miranda opened her eyes, searching for regret, and then feeling almost uncomfortable when she didn’t find it.
“Or would you prefer I go on addressing you as Lady Starling?” The left corner of his mouth tipped up. Cold filled her veins.
“Miranda,” she answered. But it didn’t matter.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miranda.”
“Is that what this is called now?” She feigned nonchalance, trapped by his gaze even more so than his body, which for all intents and purposes, pinned her to the table.
Awkwardness settled on the silence that followed.
She inhaled and noticed the aroma of his cologne, clean and leathery, of the grass that surrounded the folly, which must have been cut earlier that day, of a lemon oil that must have been used to polish the table beneath her.
And laced within all of those, the unmistakable scent of sex.
An owl hooted nearby, and she could barely make out the distant murmurs of guests, dozens of inane conversations muddled together into a low rumble of meaninglessness.
He shifted slightly, and she prepared herself for a cool rush of air. But she was to be disappointed again.
His gentle fingers traced the edge of her face. “I would like to become better acquainted, Miranda.”
She dropped her gaze to his lips, which were full and unlined—sensual. He’d tasted clean and fresh when she’d kissed him. The slightest hint of a shadow showed on his chin and jaw, and just above his mouth. He was younger than her. Not by much but enough. And he was sweet.
Too sweet.
“Your sister mentioned you were leaving London in a few days—that you’ve been selected as one of Sir Bickford-Crowdon’s protégés.” Ironically enough, in Brighton. She would make it known that she knew he would be leaving. She had no expectations.
He nodded slowly, still watching her. “Being selected is a great honor.”
He still hadn’t moved off of her. Miranda lifted her stockinged feet to the table, having lost her slippers during their joining, and braced them against the surface.
The effect left her cradling him between her knees.
“I have three days before I leave. Allow me to take you driving tomorrow afternoon.” He was younger than her but he was a grown man.
And his scrutiny unnerved her. The oddly formal request to take her driving while intimately joined made her squirm. And yet, there was nothing exceptional in it. And he was leaving London soon. Very soon.
“If you wish.” She wasn’t averse to appearing in public. Being a part of society necessitated that she did just that. But a warning rang in the back of her conscience—he is Peter Spencer, a Ravensdale.
And she barely existed on the fringes.
“It’s not necessary,” she added, shifting her weight and dropping her legs again.
Finally, he rolled off her, but he didn’t go far. He was laying on his side, resting his head on his hand.
Still watching me.
“What do you want, Miranda?” His question surprised her.
She was going to have to spell it out to him. “I don’t require formal attentions. I don’t need begrudging promises. I simply like this. I like sex.”
He lifted one brow but gave no other indication that she’d shocked him.
“I don’t need to be wooed. I’m not husband-hunting,” she elaborated. “I crave physical pleasure.” This time, it was she who lifted a brow. “If you’d like to better acquaint yourself with my craving in the time you have before you leave, you are welcome to visit me at Starling Place on—"
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll reserve a suite at Mivart's.” He surprised her. “For after our drive.”
“It’s not as though we need to hide from my husband.” Not that she had ever cheated on Baldwin, contrary to the rumors she’d heard. Baldwin had deserved all of her loyalty.
“I’ll collect you at five.”
Miranda sat up. Before she could smooth her dress, he rose as well and pressed the handkerchief she’d dropped earlier into her hand.
“Very well.” She did not look at him when she answered, instead, turning away. She tidied herself but was not about to return to the ball. “No need for you to escort me inside. A path leads around to the front. I’ll send for my driver.”
He ignored her, tucking himself away and then fastening his trousers.
“I’m quite sure,” she clarified. “Don’t concern yourself. Your family will be wondering where you went off to.”
“I’m grateful to say that they no longer keep tabs on me.” A grin threatened to dance on his lips as he stood patiently waiting for her. “I’ll see you to your coach. Once you’re on your way, I’ll retrieve Rosa and retire for the evening myself.”
Rosa. She couldn’t help but recall how carefully he’d placed it—her?—into the luxurious case. Lovingly. Would he see her into her carriage with the same carefulness?
She dismissed such a fanciful thought and went to step away from the table, nearly collapsing when her knees buckled. If not for him reaching out to steady her, she would have landed hard at his feet. That would have been too embarrassing—as though she was overcome by their passion—like some simpering innocent.