{2022 WATTY SHORTLISTER} {18+ COMPLETED}
England, 1842
Lady Hutton, otherwise known as Penelope Chapman, cares not that her husband has a wandering eye. That is, until he wanders away completely--all the way to the continent with his mistress, wh...
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"You are right."
Beckett's voice growled the words in her ear as he flattened Penelope to the inside of the door. She had been close to Beckett before, but it was nothing compared to now. His large, muscled chest pressed into her, and the weight was heady. It immediately sank to her core, making Penelope ache.
"I was?"
She usually would not sound so surprised about being right—it did frequently happen, after all—but she could barely think in coherent thoughts.
"Yes," Beckett groaned. Penelope's eyes were still adjusting, making it challenging to see, but she felt him brush his thumb along her jaw. "It would be a travesty for you to remain untouched."
Anticipation raced through her at his words.
Beckett pulled his head back, and she could see enough to make out his sly smirk. It broke through the shadows.
"Suddenly Lady Hutton does not have much to say?"
His touch fell to her neck, tracing a line down to her shoulders. And then her bodice, trailing a finger along the seam. It skimmed her flesh, giving her goose bumps.
"I find myself rather distracted at the moment," she gasped.
Beckett chuckled huskily. He dropped his head into the crook of her neck, and she immediately arched for him, giving him more. And to her utter surprise and delight, he took it. Beckett's lips brushed down the length of her neck, and Penelope groaned, desperate for him to never stop.
Could this be happening? Truly, were his lips on her skin?
Her mouth opened to ask if he was certain about this, to tell him that she understood his dedication to loyalty and his reasons for restraint. But the words vanished on the tip of her tongue when he reciprocated her groan.
"God, Penelope," he mumbled, his breath fanning over her skin. "I already know that you're going to be the best damn thing I've ever tasted."
"Beckett, please," she whimpered.
He smiled against her collarbone.
"Please, what?"
"Touch me."
Penelope needed more than the feather-light caresses he was giving her at the moment. She wanted to be touched the same way he had hauled her into her chambers and pressed her to the door. She wanted a touch that demanded attention.
Beckett threw his head back with another groan. A moment later, he was hiking up her skirts, bunching them around her waist. His grip slipped into the dip behind her knee, and he hoisted her leg around his waist, using the angle to ruck her skirts up.
Once he had her in a position to his liking, Beckett stepped back into his place—the one where his chest molded against hers. A hum of excitement and heat ran through Penelope, making her whimper with desire. And then she let out an unashamed moan when Beckett rocked his hips into her, and she felt how much he wanted her, too. Oh, heavens.
