EPILOGUE
“Ilove the scent of roses on your skin, Mrs. Sutton.”
Emma was on her belly, sprawled naked across the bed, as Hart’s lips moved in a series of worshipful kisses up her spine.
“Mmm,” she said, not a coherent word but rather a sound of supreme contentment.
Because she was content. Was there a word that went beyond contentment? If so, she could not think of one with her husband’s mouth on her. Blissful? Joyful? Ecstatic?
Yes. She was decidedly each one of those and more.
There was nothing better, as far as she was concerned, than her husband’s voice calling her by her newly married name. Nothing better than his mouth on her eager flesh, his hands wandering over her body, bringing it to life.
“Have you been using the Winters soap I bought you again?” His teeth grazed a particularly sensitive area on her middle back, and she shivered.
Just when she thought he had shown her every place on her body that responded to him, he taught her another.
“I have,” she said, thinking of how sweet he had been, surprising her with trinkets and thoughtful gestures each day of their marriage. “You spoil me.”
He kissed his way to her shoulder. “That is what a gentleman does with his wife, is it not?”
“I have a notion a gentleman does not do half the things with his wife that you have done with me, but I adore every one of them.” She smiled, sated from their earlier round of lovemaking, but already feeling a new stirring of desire rising as his hands swept over her in slow, knowing caresses.
“Which ones, Mrs. Sutton? A husband ought to know these things.” He nipped her shoulder.
“You want me to say wicked words,” she accused without heat.
He swept her hair to the side and kissed the nape of her neck. “Always.”
“A gentleman would never presume to ask his wife to utter such bawdy lewdness.”
He nibbled on the side of her neck. “Well then I reckon it’s bleeding fortunate that I only pretended to be a gentleman so I could make you my wife.”
While it was true that Hart Sutton would never be the sort of drawing room dwelling gentleman who was utterly at ease in a ballroom and knew the manners and customs of polite society inside and out, he had made a concerted effort to court her during their betrothal. Proper and Hart did not belong in the same sentence, but he had, in every way, done his utmost to observe propriety and avoid offending Aunt Rosamund’s sensibilities.
Despite the extraordinary beginning to their romance, they had managed to marry without a hint of scandal, aside from the expected gossip concerning an earl’s daughter wedding a man who was decidedly not from Mayfair. Abigail and Cassandra had been spared; their mutual debuts next Season would be without the pall of disgrace, and Emma would be well situated to aid them as a married lady. She had already made fast friends with her fellow Sutton wives, which would only help to bolster her position. The ever-growing wealth of the family was helping to remove some of the censure they faced among the ton. However, with her father no longer drowning himself in drink and vowing to stay away from gambling, the future for her sisters seemed so much brighter than it had mere months before.
And she had Hart and his family to thank for that.
But then her husband’s hand caressed down her back, over her bottom, trailing over her crease in the barest of touches, and she quite forgot to think about anyone but him.
“My dear Mr. Sutton,” she drawled, prolonging this little game of theirs. “Do you mean to suggest you are not truly a gentleman? I confess, I am shocked.”
He kissed the hollow between her shoulder blades, and then his fingers dipped, finding her entrance. “You don’t feel shocked to me, love.”
“No?” She parted her legs wider, encouraging his exploration. “How do I feel, husband?”
“Wet.” He traced the evidence of her desire over her in a teasing, tantalizing circle, denying her what she wanted. “Wet and sleek and deliciously hot.” He strummed against her cunny in yet another agonizing prelude. “You feel like you want to be fucked.”
The breath fled her in a heavy sigh of anticipation as longing turned into raw desire. When he used vulgar words and spoke to her with such intimate candor, she melted for him. But then, when did she not melt for this man?
Emma writhed against the bed, trying to get those magical fingers where she needed them most. The friction of the bedclothes against her already swollen pearl only served to heighten her desire.
“I do want it,” she told him, giving him a bit of his own teasing in return.
“What do you want, love?” His fingers glided, seeking and finding her nub. “Tell me.”
Shamelessly, she ground herself against his knowing hand. He rubbed with just the right amount of pressure in the place that made her most wild. She was… Oh, that was so lovely, and did he expect words from her just now? She was nothing but an instrument of pleasure, his to do with as he wished. The knot inside her tightened to exquisite perfection as he worked her just as she wanted.
And then he stilled. His lips brushed over her nape once more. “You want my fingers inside you, don’t you, Em? You want me to fuck you until you spend. Or perhaps you’d prefer my cock? Is that it, love? You want my big cock in your cunt, stretching you and filling you until you scream.”