Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

25. Fitz

25

Fitz

I t was Fitz’s turn. His cock was pressed against his wife, and he was finally going to sink into the gloriousness that was Gigi.

Gazes locked, he sank inside, inch by blissful inch. Her breath hitched with each one, her mouth parting further. And then hips met hips, and he was fully seated inside her. And he thought he might die. Because nothing would ever compare to this feeling of being completely enveloped by his wife.

His eyes widened. Shite. She was a virgin. “Gigi, are you well? I should have taken more care.”

She snorted. She snorted .

He frowned at her.

A soft giggle burst from her, which had her intimate muscles doing delicious things to his cock. His body went taut.

“Fitz,” she said, eyes dancing. “I just fucked myself with a dildo. Something I do relatively often, I might add. And he’s bigger than you. You have no need to fear the typical…complaints that come with virgins with me.”

Fitz’s frown deepened. He slowly pulled nearly all the way out, just the tip of his cock inside her. His gaze flicked to hers before it latched back on where they were joined. A low growl fled him. “Your implement isn’t that much bigger.”

Her face split in a saucy grin. “Apparently, it’s all in how you use it, anyway. Unless you’re not up to the task—”

He drove into her.

The breath fled her on an oomph.

Not up to the task? His little wife had just thrown a gauntlet. And Fitz loved nothing more than a challenge. This was one he was determined to win.

Bracing himself on one elbow, he reached for her hip and slid his hand underneath to cup her arse. Fucking hell, the arse on this woman. His fingertips dug into the plush flesh, flexing. Absolutely magnificent.

He tilted her, tugged her toward him, and sank even further. They groaned. He moved slowly, not capable of anything more without completely embarrassing himself. He simply savored her in a smooth, relentless rhythm, rocking against her with each thrust, purposely pressing against where he knew her pleasure centered. He tortured them both, gradually dragging himself in and out of the heat of her, reveling in the breathy cries that escaped her, delving deeper with each drive.

Fitz chased after those sighs and met with soft, sweet lips, cinnamon and spice consuming his senses. His heart rate kicked up. There was that delicious scent he seemed to always find on her. He licked into her mouth and groaned. Not just scent. Taste.

“Why do you taste so delicious?” The words rumbled from him, and he nipped at her lips, punishing them for being so bloody tempting. Everything about this woman was too much, too perfect. “You taste like fucking Christmas.” He punctuated his statement with a hard thrust, and she gasped.

Then her delectable lips curved against his and she nudged his nose with hers. “Your cook makes the most e-exceptional spiced biscuits,” she said, breath hitching as he sank to the hilt in another thrust. “I’ve p-practically eaten my weight in them s-since I arrived.”

Ah, that would do it. He went in for another taste, and she moaned deep in her throat. Bloody hell, he loved the taste of her. From this moment on, his wife would have an endless supply of spiced biscuits at her disposal. He would make sure of it.

He ground against her harder. Her cries grew louder. His heart and cock pulsed in tandem. His grasp tightened on her hip, pleasure streaking up his spine. Searing. Scorching. Staggering. She was climbing to that peak again. He would take her there. And he would hold her as they fell off together. God, this couldn’t be happening.

“This can’t be real, Gigi,” he whispered. “You cannot possibly be real.”

Her hands gripped his face, her gaze locked on his—unyielding. A grip, a gaze, that promised of never letting go. “I am real, Fitz. This is real. We are real.”

Fuck .

He buried his head into the crook of her neck and drove into her, over and over, harder and harder. Needing to fulfill the wild, breathy cries fleeing her lips. The ones of more, of harder , of please.

His hand clutched her arse, lifting her into him. There was too much churning inside him, disordered and dangerous and damn near earth-shattering. The headboard rammed against the wall with the force of his thrusts, and it sounded disarmingly like they were on the verge of damaging the house.

He pulled up and planted his hands on either side of her head as he slowed the pace, brought himself back under control. He had to make this last, savor it, never let it end. Her arms were above her head now, breasts lifted and on perfect display, her hands pressed against the headboard—that she had slid up against, the top of her head hitting the wood with each thrust.

His eyes flew wide. “I’m sorry, Gigi. Your head.” He hastily tried to slide them lower down the bed without leaving her, because he had to stay inside her. He never wanted to leave her.

She gripped his wrist and stilled him, his hand frozen on her hip. “No, Fitz. I like it. I want it as rough as you’ll give me. As hard as you’ll give me.”

“You want me to h-hurt you?”

Her delicate fingers tightened around his wrists, and she nodded, her half-lidded gaze darkening. “I want to ache tomorrow, knowing I was thoroughly used by you. To see marks on my skin, knowing you made them, and be able to think of nothing but tonight.”

His lungs tried to choke him, and his cock tried to unman him. There was absolutely no way this was real.

He slammed into her and— holy fuck —the angle change from when he tried to move them was. Was … He groaned, raw and primal. Her cunt was squeezing him like utter perfection at this angle. Apparently, she agreed, because a guttural cry burst from her as he drove to the hilt.

“There,” she cried out. “Oh, God. There, Fitz.”

Fuckfuckfuck. He wasn’t long for this world. Not when she said things like that.

“I can’t—I need you to come again, Gigi. And I—” He froze and gritted his teeth, clenching his eyes shut. His chest heaved as he did everything in his power to hold himself back from falling over the edge. Not without her.

Not. Without. Her.

Georgiana’s hand slid between their bodies, and just her soft fingers brushing against his cock was almost too much.

“I’m almost—I need—” she gasped out. “Hard, Fitz. Now.”

Her words ended in a cry, and he gave her what she needed. He laid into her, one hand gripping her hip so hard for leverage he was sure he would leave a bruise. Mark her. Like she wanted. Her head tipped back, eyes shut, mouth open on a silent scream.

Her cunt fluttered and then clamped down on him while broken cries fled her lips. And as her body spasmed beneath his, her face slackened in pleasure, he was thrown right over the edge. With her. He pounded into her and then held, chest falling flush with hers, his body jerking as his nerves lit on fire, all sound drowned out by the pure heaven buzzing in his ears and blackening his vision.

Fitz sank atop her, mouths resting together, neither possessing the ability to even move their lips in a kiss, just existing. Surviving on one another’s shuddering sighs.

A slight tug pulled at his skin, and he had the briefest conscience of mind to lift so she could withdraw her hand from where he had crushed it between their heated bodies. When he’d regained his breath, he pushed up on his hands and studied her, admired her. Her eyes were still closed, her beautiful breasts rising and falling with her slowly leveling breaths. He reached over her and tucked a dampened tendril of hair behind her ear. She was stunning with the deep flush to her cheeks, the glossiness shining on her sweat-slicked skin. Slicked from their lovemaking.

His heart stumbled. And then his earlier thought ran through his mind again. This can’t possibly be real.

Her eyes fluttered open, and when their eyes met, her lips curved into a soft, contented smile. He sank forward and pressed the barest of kisses to her lips. He should probably get off her, allow her to breathe, instead of being crushed by him. He rolled to the side and fell heavily on his back.

And promptly jumped ten feet in the air, let out an extremely unmanly yelp, and tumbled to the floor.

“Fitz!” Bed linens rustled and then a scrambling Georgiana appeared, peeking over the edge of tousled maroon bed linens. “What happened! Are you all right?”

Her wide eyes scanned him frantically and…he burst out laughing. She froze, and her chin reared back.

He lifted a hand, trying to signal everything was fine. “I… I…” He gasped between laughs, but collapsed into even more uncontrollable mirth, arm curling around his stomach.

When he finally calmed himself enough that he could breathe properly and form words, he met his wife’s gaze. A smile bunched up her cheeks in the loveliest manner, her green eyes bright, chin resting in her hands as she stared at him. Her quite clearly dicked-in-the-knob husband.

“What on earth has gotten into you, husband?” she said, and if a voice could smile, hers surely was.

He chuckled softly once more and shook his head. “Your dildo may have unexpectedly poked me in the arse. Without warning or permission, I might add.”

She snorted, and she hung her head as her body gently rocked with giggles. “I must beg your pardon on his behalf. I will have a stern talking to him about poking things without consent.”

He pushed to his feet and hurried to his washstand, grabbing three cloths and wetting them before hurrying back to Georgiana. They—dildo included—quickly cleaned themselves, and Fitz tossed the rags into his dressing chamber with the rest of his dirty linens.

He hurried back to the bed and paused at the bedside. Georgiana sat, twisting the bed linens in her fingers, avoiding his gaze. “Is ought amiss, Gigi?”

“Urm. No, not exactly. I just…” She glanced at him with a wince. “I have to use the chamber pot.” Her cheeks bloomed a deep pink. “I never thought of the logistics of all of this before,” she said hastily. “And well, I drank quite a bit of brandy earlier. And quite frankly, a vigorous romp doesn’t do a bladder any favors.”

He grinned stupidly at her. She was so bloody fetching and darling and winsome. “There is a water closet just through my dressing chamber you can use.”

She sat up straighter, eyes rounding. “A water closet? I’ve heard of some homes in London having them, but I’ve never seen one before.”

He frowned. She hadn’t used one before? Then what was she—Oh, right, Felix had only had the family’s rooms plumbed.

“Come with me. I’ll show you how it works. But yes, Felix has an obsession with inventions,” he said as he led them into his dressing chamber. “His study has some of the neatest things that he’s acquired over the years. He’s been following advancements in flushing toilets for a while now—and people think I’m the odd one—but as soon as he thought it worthwhile, he found a contractor who specialized in the trade and voila”—he opened the door of his water closet and pointed to the flushing toilet—“he had them installed in our chambers.”

She glanced at the mahogany wood carved toilet and then back at Fitz. “It looks like a chest, like a lovely piece of furniture, not a place to…”

He stepped forward and flipped up the lid, revealing a wooden seat over a hole that led into a porcelain bowl, similar to a chamber pot. “I suppose for aesthetics.” He shrugged. “After you’ve relieved yourself,”—his cheeks heated—“you pull on this chain up here and it will flush the toilet. And then you’re all set.”

Goodness, perhaps he should have rung for a maid to show her this. This wasn’t something husbands and wives were supposed to discuss, was it? Great, Fitz, now she’s going to think you are leather-headed and never want to bed you—or be anywhere near you—again.

“Fascinating,” she said, her gaze glued to the toilet. “Where does it all go?”

He blinked. Apparently, he had thought wrong. “Blast if I know. I happily leave all that shite to Felix.”

She giggled, her hand shooting to her mouth, rounded cheeks peeking out from behind.

A bit of his tension drained away. Ha! Drained. His lips twitched—at his horrible pun and his adorable wife. “What’s so amusing?”

“Oh goodness, it’s really not appropriate.” Her green eyes danced as they met his. “You’d happily leave all that shite”—she snorted—“to Felix. Quite literally.”

He broke out in a grin. Apparently, he was full of puns tonight, and not even realizing it. “Why, wife, you’re worse than an adolescent boy.”

Her giggles subsided, her eyebrows lifting sheepishly. “I hope I haven’t horrified you.”

“Not in the least. I think I might like you even more because of it.” He walked to her and planted a kiss on her smiling lips. “I’ll see you back in the bedchamber, Gigi.”

He made his way back to his bed, a stupid satisfied smile on his face, shoulders square and proud. All of a sudden, he felt about ten feet tall. He settled himself into his massive four-poster, folding his arms back and tucking his hands beneath his head. His wife surprised him at every turn. He meant what he’d said. He liked her even more for her juvenile sense of humor. There was a solace in it that he couldn’t quite explain. It somehow took away some of his anxiety. There were always so many rules. In how you were supposed to act. What you were supposed to say. What you weren’t supposed to say.

Out in society, the anxiety quickly coiled around him like a too-tight cravat, the pressure of slipping up, of embarrassing himself or his family. He thought that pressure would be ten times worse with Gigi, considering how inept he was with women—and he so desperately didn’t want to muck up his marriage, which usually lent itself to even bigger blunders.

The soft tread of footsteps broke him away from his thoughts. She stood in his dressing chamber doorway, naked and unabashed. Enchanting. Somehow, this woman had worked some sort of magic on him, conjuring comfort when he thought it impossible. He still blundered—and would continue to do so—but those blunders were a bit more bearable, knowing they were with Gigi. Because he thought, if there was one woman who could handle them, handle him and all his Fitz-ness, it might be her.

“What is the time?” she murmured.

He stilled. Was she planning on leaving soon? He didn’t want her to leave. It wasn’t necessarily the done thing for a wife to spend the night in her husband’s bed…well, strictly for sleeping purposes. But blast it all, did he want her to stay.

“Just past midnight,” he said softly. He managed to keep the fear that she’d leave, the telltale quiver from his words. But his heart quivered with nerves just the same.

He pulled back the covers, a Gigi-sized spot clearly waiting for her to fill. He looked back at her and hoped. Hoped she’d take the invitation. Hoped she wanted this just as much as he did.

And clearly, tonight was a night of miracles. Because she padded to the bed and slipped in next to him. And just like in his study, she snuggled into his side, skin to skin, head to toe.

She let out a sleepy sigh and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. Her body softened, and her barely audible whisper coasted over his skin. “Merry Christmas, Fitz.”

Warmth spread through him like a sip of piping hot drinking chocolate after a snowball fight. It settled in his stomach, swirling, simmering. There was that sodding fizzing again. He stilled. His eyes widened.

Realization hit him like a snowball to the face.

All that intestinal upset around his wife? It wasn’t indigestion.

He’d fallen in love with her.

Her breathing grew slower, deeper, even, and she faded to sleep in his arms.

His heart let out a sigh, and he pulled her even closer.

Yes, he loved her.

“Merry Christmas, Gigi.”