The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [61]
That was all it took. He sucked in his breath, began kissing her again, and in a remarkably short time, he was moving inside her again, and it no longer surprised him at all. He wanted to make it last longer this time, and it did, at least a full minute longer before he was jerking above her like a palsied man and she was heaving, so frantic that it seemed to him in one single sane moment that she wanted him all at once, just as he did her. When his hot fingers found her, she cried out into his mouth, her breath hot and fierce, and he poured himself into her.
“I want you on top of me,” he said into her ear when he could draw a breath. She said nothing, not that he expected her to. She was utterly relaxed beneath him, probably asleep, he thought. Then he simply collapsed, his head beside hers. It was as if someone had slammed a door down on his head, only it didn’t hurt at all, and his sleep was very deep and profound. He just winked out, holding her tightly, still deep inside her, her arms holding him hard against her. He felt her hands on his back, warm even through his clothes and he realized in some part of his brain, that he’d just pulled his breeches down and that he still had on his shirt and his jacket.
He was a pig, but he would think about it later.
He awoke at the touch of a wet tongue on his left ear. “Spenser,” she said, then licked him again. He reared up over her, balancing himself on his elbows and looked down at her face.
She looked dreamy, vague, and excited, a combination that ignited him instantly, no delay whatsoever.
“Spenser,” she said again, and when he leaned down to kiss her mouth, to taste her, to revel in her, she said, “I’ve seen pictures of the woman on top of the man. I would like to try it. You don’t believe I am too big, do you?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “But not just yet, Helen, not just yet. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. I’m an old man, Helen—” And then he was moving deep inside her again, growing harder and harder by the moment as her mouth was on his, and she was biting him, licking him, and his world once again spun out of control.
“I’m going to die,” he said when at last they were both breathing hard, pressed hard together, his face only an inch above hers because he didn’t have the strength to push himself up higher. “I am thirty-three and I’m going to die. Helen, I may be a man of interesting habits and experiences, but this goes beyond anything I’ve ever known in my life. I’m tired now. Would you like to sleep for just a little while with me?”
She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. There was a slight smile on her mouth. He kissed her, then once again they were asleep in Lord Prith’s gazebo.
Lord Beecham awoke to realize his butt was bare and he was cold. It was twilight. He slowly eased off Helen. He fastened his breeches and pulled on his boots. He stood over Helen, just watching her breathe. Her legs were glorious, long and white and sleekly muscled, his seed smeared on them, and he groaned with the feelings that flooded through him. He hadn’t asked for this. Life had been perfectly pleasant.
Of course life had been pleasant. What had he done to make it unpleasant? He had enjoyed himself, done precisely what he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it. He wasn’t vicious or petty, but it was rare that he saw things outside his pleasant existence.
He looked down at Helen.
She wanted him for a partner. She wanted to find that damned lamp more than anything else in this entire world. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she wanted that damned lamp more than she wanted him, except for the few moments when he touched her and she touched him and they came together as fast, as violently as a winter storm lashing out of a midnight-black sky.
He lightly touched his palm to her thigh. Slowly, very slowly, she opened her eyes. She didn’t move, just looked up at him. She smiled at him. “I didn’t get to be on top,” she said.
His muscles nearly went into a spasm. “Next time, I swear