At the Billionaire’s Wedding by Katharine Ashe Miranda Neville Caroline Linden Maya Rodale Page B

exposed core. Staring down, her eyes focused on the surface, elaborately patterned in different colors of wood, while her skin tingled in unbearable anticipation. He came up behind and leaned his body against hers, the denim rough and the belt buckle cold against her ass. He unfastened her bra and his hands cupped her breasts, pinching the nipples lightly between his fingers. Her throat was so tight with longing she swore she could pass out. Ordering her to remain still, he played with her for a while, stroking the sensitive area of her ribs and waist, kneading the globes of her ass. The man was magic. How could he tell that his lips and breath on her nape, in the curve of her neck, and across her shoulders would drive her wild? She felt herself wet and swollen and wanting and still all the satisfaction he offered was an occasional finger instantly withdrawn. When she couldn’t stand it another second she moaned and he pulled back.
    “Yes? Is there something you want?”
    “You know there is, damn you.”
    “All good things come to those who wait.”
    Not her usual philosophy, but she’d go with it, for now, because the man made her feel great and she trusted him to make her feel even better. Soon.
    After some more enjoyable teasing, which reduced her to an inelegant panting, writhing mess, he reached between her legs and held her hard. She almost came on the spot.
    “Not yet.”
    She heard unzipping and condom applying sounds—the genius must have had one in his wallet—and was pushed flat against the surface of the table. He pushed aside her thong, spread her wider and entered, hard. The interval till she exploded could be counted in seconds, but he kept up steady rhythmic thrusts, all the way so his sac swung against her labia, and she came again before he did the same and she felt him collapse against her and soften inside her.
    Soon afterward she was curled up on his lap on the big Chippendale chair, her head on his chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart. She couldn’t utter a word and he remained silent for some minutes. “Oh my word,” she managed finally. “Oh my word, Harry.”
    “Is my lady pleased?”
    “Are you?”
    The way he stroked her head seemed tender. “You needn’t have any doubt.”
    She gave a gusty sigh. “That was fabulous. The best.” She tilted her head for a kiss, just a relaxed, intimate exchange of breath. “You won’t get into trouble, will you? Having wild sex in the Gold Saloon?”
    He grinned like a naughty boy. “Don’t worry, no one will ever know. I’ve fantasized about doing it here for years.”
    “I’m glad to help you fulfill an ambition.” She tugged at her dress, which was crumpled up behind his back. “I’d better get dressed and go to bed.”
    “Come to my room,” he said.

    Harry woke up early, a little past dawn, with the sense of wellbeing that comes from a truly superior sexual experience. Correction: possibly the best night of shagging he’d ever had. Arwen was sacked out beside him, her fists tucked under her head like a child, sleeping the sleep of the just, the jet-lagged, the girl who’d had five orgasms the night before. Tempting as it was to wake her up for another, she might not appreciate being aroused at this hour. Besides, there was something he needed to do.
    Pulling on shorts, a T-shirt, and trainers, he grabbed his phone and loped downstairs and set off for a run around the park, the short three-mile route he took when he had too much to drink the night before. He finished with the steep climb up to the Mausoleum and panted while he logged into online banking. It was a bloody nuisance not having Internet at the house, but he’d just as soon not have Arwen see this particular transaction.
    Duke Austen had been good as his word. As soon as Arwen approved the wedding, the massive bonus had been transferred to his account.
    The view from the top never failed to thrill him, especially at this hour in summer with morning mist