One Night of Surrender: The Brothers Mortmain, Book 1 by Evie North Page A

settling, experiencing the heat and length of him inside her, her own body thrummed with growing excitement. Her breasts were almost in his face and he began to kiss them, his mouth hot and wet, his tongue stroking her nipples. She was close, so close. His caresses were enough to begin to push her towards the edge.
    As if he knew it, Gervais rolled her over, tumbling her down onto the bed, and he began to thrust into her with a wild passion. At the same time her own passion built again until she was almost senseless. He shouted at his release, his hips pummelling her and then his body went rigid as he spilled his seed deep inside her.
    They lay together, panting, perspiration beading on their bare skin despite the growing chill in the stone room now the fire was out. Sex had a smell, Katherine had discovered, a hot, musky smell. It was the smell of pleasure and gratification and sheer bliss.
    There was a knock on the door.
    Katherine froze, but Gervais touched her face, waiting for her eyes to meet his. “I asked for water, to wash, before…” He let the words drift, then gave a wry smile as he climbed from the bed and, picking up one of the covers from where it lay by the table, wrapped it about him, at the same time calling for whoever it was to come in.
    Turnkey Martin opened the door and behind him shuffled some burly men with a metal bath and several steaming buckets of water. They kept their eyes averted as they set the items down and promptly turned and left. However the turnkey paused to murmur something to Gervais, before quietly closing the door and locking it.
    Slowly Katherine climbed from the bed. Her body ached and her sheath felt raw. She would be sore tomorrow…today, but perhaps it would be good to be sore. To remember.
    Gervais was busy pouring the buckets of water into the bath, then he took up a piece of soap and lifted it to his nose to smell. “Hmm, orange blossom,” he said with pleasure.
    Katherine came closer, watching him, as he stepped into the tub and lowered himself down. It was small, his knees were under his chin, but he splashed water over his body, soaping his skin, with evident enjoyment.
    She supposed this was the last bath he would take, the last time he would wash himself with sweet soap and experience the warm trickle of the water over his skin.
    “Let me,” she said, coming to kneel by the bath. She soaped him gently, cleaning every inch of him. And as she touched him she remembered that she was washing herself off this man, this warm and vibrant body, and he would be dead soon. He would be cold in the grave or, worse, dissected upon some surgeon’s table before his gaping students.
    Her hand trembled but she refused to give in to despair. If there were tears then they fell from her eyes into the water, and if he noticed he didn’t say.
    Finally she washed his hair. He ducked his head while she used the empty wine jug to tip rinsing water over him again and again, until his dark hair slicked to his head.
    He needed shaving, but when she asked he smiled and said it was unlikely they would allow him a razor in case he decided to cheat the hangman.
    “I will have to go to the gallows with my beard,” he said, rubbing his hand over the rough whiskers that had appeared on his cheeks and jaw. They were dark, like his hair and eyes.
    She kissed him, little desperate kisses finally finding his mouth, her lips soft against his.
    He held her face in his palms. “Hush,” he whispered, and using his thumbs wiped away the tears. “You will be free soon, Katherine. That is something to celebrate.”
    He stood but she stayed kneeling, watching as he found his clothing—clean clothing folded upon a chest—and began to dress. Grey trousers and a cream silk shirt, a waistcoat of red and gold swirling threads, and an expertly cut jacket. He pulled his polished boots back on, while his cravat he left till last, tying it carelessly about his neck.
    “Let me,” she said, and came to