Folly by Sabrina York

me.”
    “I want you to fuck me.” A whisper. A sigh.
    “Ethan. Call me Ethan. And look at me when you say it.” He
gave her a gentle shake when she didn’t immediately comply. “Do it.” His voice
was low, urgent. A pulse pounded in his temple. A drop of sweat formed near his
hairline. “Say it.”
    “Ethan, I want you to fuck me.”
    “Ah. Yes.”
    He pulled her flush against his body, then bent his knees
and rubbed his hardness against her throbbing center until she nearly swooned.
Yes, it was between layers of clothing, but the sensation was intense. Her
knees locked and she crumpled into his arms.
    He grunted. A grunt of victory.
    Just then the door to the library flew open.
    As one, they turned to see Uncle Andrew enter, tapping his
pipe on his boot heel. He peered at them and blinked. “Oh. I say.”
    Pennington, thankfully a quick thinker, swooped Eleanor into
his arms. “Lady Ulster has fainted,” he said, marching from the room. “I shall
see her to her chambers.”
    Eleanor obliged him, going limp and trying to appear as
fainted as she could. She heard Uncle Andrew’s distracted response. “Good,
good. Very good.”
    No doubt he was inordinately relieved they’d been so
accommodating as to leave him to his research in peace.
     
    Ethan carried Eleanor directly to his room, fully prepared
to defend his actions, but they saw no one, not even a footman in the hall. Of
course, he was moving fairly quickly. Hell. He had her in his arms, the most
beautiful woman in the world. A woman he’d wanted—and hated wanting—from the
instant he’d set eyes on her.
    If he was being honest with himself—and now he could,
because there was no reason left to lie—he’d dreamed about this moment. But it
had always been just that. A dream. And a damn frustrating one to boot.
    He’d dreamed of taking Ulster’s wife, punishing her for
husband’s sins, making her beg and plead and weep for mercy, for his cock. He
had, in the deep cloak of night, pleasured himself to visions of Eleanor tied
to his bed or bent over the divan, languishing beneath the lash. But mostly,
whimpering with pleasure beneath him.
    But now, Ulster was dead. Eleanor was in his arms,
compliant. Wanting him. Wanting him to fuck her. It was no longer a fantasy or
a vague imagining. She was warm and heavy in his embrace, and he was minutes
away from finally having her.
    The anticipation was excruciating.
    Still, when he reached his room, he didn’t toss her on the
bed and mount her, as the beast inside him urged. No. He wanted this to last.
He wanted this to linger.
    Gently, he set her on her feet in the center of the room and
headed for the table by the window bearing an assortment of decanters. He
poured himself a drink and then threw himself into the armchair by the fire,
facing her, reveling in the fact she was here. In his room, his lair.
    She stood silently, quivering slightly.
    Exultation—that of a predator who had finally captured his
prey—lashed through him.
    “Take down your hair.”
    She did so, pulling out the pins, one after the other until
the heavy mass cascaded down her slender back. He stared at it, transfixed. He
wanted nothing more than to wrap it around his fist and bring it to his nose
and draw in her scent. But first…
    “Remove your dress.”
    She blushed and showed him her back. “I cannot.”
    Rage and bitter disappointment flashed through him. “My
lady, we have a bargain. You must do as I say.”
    She glanced back at him, over her shoulder, and shot him a
shy smile, a tentative offering. She lifted her hair, revealing a long line of
tiny buttons running from her neckline to her hips. “I cannot take off my
dress. You will have to unbutton me.”
    Scalding lust replaced his rage in an instant. He was rock
hard in a breath.
    He swallowed a sudden pool of drool in his mouth. Bounding
from his chair, he bolted across the room to her side.
    The buttons were tiny and, truth be told, his fingers shook,
but he