And he was home, bloody home. He teetered on a precipice, playing with fire, gambling with his heart. He knew better, but he couldn’t stop.
Libby parted her lips, and he deepened their connection. His mind emptied of all rational thought as an overpowering sensation took over.
Don’t stop kissing Libby Lamb.
Hot, sweet, and wet, she tasted like the forbidden fruit, and he wanted to make her juices flow.
She sighed a sexy sound—a sound that went straight to his cock. He slid his hands into her hair, wrecking her ponytail as he twisted the silky locks between his fingers. This earned him another lusty sigh from the raven-haired beauty. Each kiss fueled his desire. He’d fought his feelings so viciously these past ten days that the relief of giving in felt more like a victory than a defeat. She skimmed her hands beneath his shirt, and he inhaled a tight breath as she explored the expanse of his muscled torso. Her tender touch was almost unbearable. It gutted him while making him want more of her, all of her.
“You taste so sweet, plum,” he whispered against her lips before dropping a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She smiled a honeyed smile against him, humming her delight. Sweeter than a summer day, she’d cast a spell on him. His mind stopped spinning. His nagging thoughts drifted into the distant corners of his mind. The second-guessing dissolved as he trailed his fingertips down the petal-soft skin of her neck, past her shoulders, and settled his grip on her hips. Lifting her into his arms, he turned swiftly and pressed her back into the door as she wrapped her legs around him. Fused together, they released a collective sigh laced with relief and desperate longing. He gripped her supple arse and his palms melded around the perfect globes. They moved together as if one completed the other—two halves becoming a whole.
She held his face in her hands, and her thumb brushed against his earlobe. He’d never bloody thought about his damn earlobes until now. But he’d give up every penny he’d earned to lock that feeling in a bottle.
Kiss after kiss, the energy flowed between them, rhythmic and harmonious. She rocked her hips, grinding into him, teasing his hard length. A frenzied friction kindled between them. He was so much bigger than her. She wasn’t wrong with the beefcake moniker, but they met as equals when their bodies came together.
Spiraling deeper and deeper, he ran his tongue across the seam of her lips when a squeak and a faint rattle nudged his consciousness. He blocked it out, then slid his hand inside her shirt. Massaging her breasts through the lace of her bra, he drew his tongue down her jawline. Tasking himself with tasting every exposed inch of skin, he kissed her neck, licking and sucking the sweet skin—claiming her.
She bucked against him, gasping as they fell into a rhythm that had them breathing hard. He was on the edge, ready to shrug out of his trousers and rip her leggings off. Every impulse screamed for him to thrust inside her, rocking and bucking until he couldn’t see straight. He shifted her weight to his left hand, ready to use his right to free his weeping cock, when that bloody squeak and rattle returned. It had to be the old Victorian, but that assertion vanished when a sharp knock cut through the sensual blue-violet haze.
Libby went rigid in his arms, and they stared at each other. She bit down on her kiss-swollen bottom lip as they remained stock-still. Limbs entwined and chests heaving, they listened.
“Are you in there with my dad, Libby? Are you doing noisy yoga? Is noisy yoga a thing, or are you doing punching yoga? You sure are making a lot of sounds in there.”
Sebastian.
Bollocks.
Libby’s eyes went wide as the color drained from her cheeks. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she was able to form a sentence. “Yes, I’m in here with your father doing him.” She shook her head. “We’re doing a special boxing yoga. We’re doing this because I’m his spiritual advisor, and that’s part of my job. Advising him spiritually with my body and doing it noisily.”
She winced.
Yeah, that was about as cringe-worthy of a reply as one could muster—but at least she could talk. All he could do was stand there rocking a giant boner.
“That’s what I told the people outside that I thought you were doing.” The doorknob rattled as Sebastian turned it from the other side. “Is the door broken? I can’t get it to budge.”
“It’s just…stuck. We’ll try to open it from our side. Now, what’s going on outside?” he asked, finally able to speak.
“I told you already, Dad. There are a bunch of people here.”
It could be that Maud woman who’d left the note, but why would she have a bunch of people with her? A jolt of anxiety rocketed through his body. Bloody Briggs had sent a slew of emails with Rickety Rock PR Events written in the subject line.
Had he bothered to open them? No, and that was a decision he was beginning to regret.
“And what are they asking for, Sebastian?” he called, waiting, trying to get a handle on what the hell was going on outside. He held his breath. A thousand bloody lives could have been lived in the few seconds it took for the boy to answer.
“They’re asking for—”
“For me?” he interrupted.
“No, Dad, they want Libby.”
Thirteen
Erasmus
What in the bloody hell was going on?
“Who would want to speak with me? I don’t know a soul in this town,” Libby said with a crease to her brow as he set her down.
That was his question, too.
“They asked for Libby, you’re sure?” he called to his son on the other side of the door.
“Yeah, Dad, that’s what I said. I decided to check out the barn since it sounded like you and Libby were busy doing noisy yoga, and I didn’t want to bother you. And when I opened the front door, I saw the people with the cameras.”
Cameras?
“One posh guy knew my name,” Sebastian continued. “He said, ‘Hello, Sebastian.’ And I said, hello, posh bloke, if you want my dad and Libby, you’ll have to wait because they’re busy doing noisy yoga, or they could be doing noisy tummy yoga because my dad farted in the car. And yoga helps if you’ve got a sour belly.”
Bloody hell.
“Want me to tell them that you’re coming?” Sebastian asked.
Libby gasped.
What was wrong now—aside from completely losing themselves in frenzied passion.
“What is it, plum?”
She ran her hands through her tangle of hair, working to fix her now lopsided ponytail. “If there’s press here,” she said, lowering her voice, “I don’t think you want your son to run onto the porch to tell them we’re upstairs, locked in a bedroom, doing noisy yoga, and coming.”
She was right!
He cleared his throat. “Sebastian?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“No matter what you do, do not go outside and say that I’m coming with Libby.”
“Well, Dad, who else would you be coming with?” the child lobbed back.
This had to stop.
“Want me to see if any of the people outside can help open the door? Maybe that posh guy?” the boy offered.
It had to be Briggs.
“No, don’t go out there. I can manage the door,” he answered, then swung the creaky thing open. He met Sebastian’s gaze, and the kid cocked his head to the side and frowned.