The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters
clutched, each punishing the other for unspoken sins. She’d missed his heat, his scent, his hunger for her. The way his hardness filled her hand, and the salt of his skin on her tongue.
It had been so long. Too long. His fault.
He gripped her bottom and lifted her, shoving her onto the desk. Papers and quills fell to the floor.
At some point they ceased fighting each other and began fighting the space between them. They became allies in the war on clothing. Buttons were battled; laces, conquered. Petticoats marched north. His shirt was the final white flag of surrender, fluttering to the ground.
When skin finally met skin, the heat was so searing, they gasped in unison.
His greedy mouth and hands pushed her further onto the desk. He wanted her beneath him. Not this time. She shifted their positions, pushing and pulling and guiding, until he lay on his back atop the desk and she straddled his waist.
There. Much better.
She gazed down at his strong, defined torso, running her hands over muscle and sinew, then tracing all the same paths with her fingernails, lightly scraping over his skin. His hips bucked, and his arousal pushed against her belly. Aggressive. Impatient.
Not yet. Not just yet.
She bent to kiss him, running tongue and teeth down his neck, over his nipples, relishing every hiss of breath and strangled groan she could draw from his body. His hands went to her hair, yanking pins from her upsweep and gathering fistfuls of the unbound locks. The sharp tug on her scalp sent a thrill racing down to her toes.
He’d taken back some control, and he used it, dragging her up for a clash of tongues and teeth. And then pushing her back down his body, down and down, until there was no mistaking his intent.
Fine. She would let him have his way. But she was going to take her time.
She teased open the buttons of his trouser falls.
One . . .
By one . . .
By one.
Then she slipped her fingers inside, curling them about his cock.
One . . .
By one . . .
By one.
Until she drew him out, thick and ruddy and straining. And dropped light kisses down the underside of his shaft.
One . . .
By one . . .
By one.
He growled like a beast. A beast who was hers for the taming. He tightened his grip on her hair. “Alex, you’ll kill me.”
Well, they couldn’t have that.
Alex had never felt more powerful. To most of the world, she was small and slight and insignificant. Even invisible. But right here, right now, she had this man quivering at her slightest touch. Begging for her mouth.
She ran her tongue all the way from his root to the tip, and then took him into her mouth.
With a deep, yearning sigh, he released his grip on her hair. He arched his hips, pushing deeper. Take more of me, his body urged. And yet more.
She wanted more of him, too.
With a few last teasing licks, she raised her head. Hiking her skirts to her waist, she straddled his erection, trapping the rigid length between his belly and her cleft. She placed her hands flat on his chest and drew tall, rocking against him.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
His hands went to her hips, and he guided her into a faster rhythm. His hardness rubbed against her just where she needed it, pushing wave after wave of pleasure through her veins.
She locked eyes with him, riding his body with emboldened desire. Faster now. Her lips fell apart, and her breath rose and fell in her chest. The haze of pleasure descended on her, growing thicker and thicker until that one perfect, shimmering ray of light pierced the fog, pushing her over the edge.
She rode the climax to its sweet, sweet end, and then kept rolling her hips in pursuit of his pleasure.
His thighs went rigid. He was close.
“Chase,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”
There was no reply, spoken or otherwise. His head had fallen back. The tendons of his neck were strained. His eyes were closed tight. He clutched her hips and set his own tempo, dragging her over his length at a brisk pace until he shuddered with release.
All was quiet, save for his harsh breaths.
He pulled her down to him, clasping her to his chest. His spilled seed glued their bellies together. She laid her ear to his heartbeat.
“Where are you?” she asked.
He sounded befuddled. “Here. On the desk. Under you.”
“At the end, I mean. Every time we’re together, at the end you go somewhere else. I don’t know where you are, but it’s not with me.”
He stroked her hair. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m not, either.”
She slipped from his embrace and climbed off the desk in an ungainly fashion. Why was it that in the prelude to lovemaking she was made of breasts and hips and confident hands, and once the pleasure was over, everything was elbows and knees?
She pulled the sleeves of her frock up over her shoulders, anxious to make her escape. If he could go somewhere else, she could, too. “This has to be the last time. I can’t be your mistress, or whatever else you wish to call it.”
“And I can’t offer you anything more.”
“I never dreamed you would.”
Such a lie. She’d dreamed of it before she’d even known his name, and she’d dreamed of it as recently as five minutes ago. Foolishly, every time.
Because he was going to be a duke. And girls like Alex—part American, part Spanish, part island native, entirely orphaned, christened Catholic, and working class—did not become duchesses. Girls like Alex didn’t even get invited to schoolmates’ homes for the holidays. They were paid too little, worked too hard. Pinched in the corridor or overlooked entirely.
And they were forgotten, as soon as they left the room.
Chase sat at his desk with a tumbler of brandy, sorting through letters he’d received from the headmasters of England’s finest boarding schools for girls.
All acceptances, of course. The promise of a generous donation to the school worked wonders that way.
He was at a loss for the best criterion. Academic philosophy? Popularity with upper-crust families? Proximity to London or Belvoir?
By the time he’d sorted and re-sorted the letters four different ways, his quandary became clear. The question wasn’t how to choose where to send them.
The question was whether he could bear to send them at all.
He was drawn from his deliberation by footsteps pounding down the stairs. As he watched from his desk, a figure in white flew past, dark hair streaming behind it. The front door opened, and then banged shut. Either Alexandra had just bolted from the house, or a ghost was playing tricks.
Chase didn’t believe in ghosts.
He rose and followed her, walking out the door and into the brisk night air. “Alex?” He turned in every direction. No sight of her. He lifted his voice. “Alexandra.”
“I’m over here.”
The voice came from