Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

32. Fitz

32

Fitz

F itz really, really, really wanted his wife. She was standing there, blonde hair in a loosely woven plait, tendrils falling about her heart-shaped face, lips parted, pink and pleading. Pleading with him to kiss her back. He didn’t always catch physical cues. But his wife’s green eyes, dark with dilated pupils, lips glistening from where her tongue had just coasted over them? He didn’t need any help to decipher that.

The problem was his wife had absconded with his wits with that soft brush of her lips. He couldn’t think straight when she looked at him like that, when her thumb coasted over the back of his hand whisper-soft, when she’d left a hint of drinking chocolate on his mouth from her kiss. But now seemed like a moment better fit for not thinking. Honestly, Fitz was better off if he avoided thinking altogether.

He reached up to cup her face and tilted her chin up to him. Lord, she was small. He felt like he had clown hands, cradling her dainty face. He always felt like a clown—like Joseph Grimaldi, not just in performance, but in life. Yet his wife seemed to want this clown. Visions of white-painted faces and attire covered in colorful spots flashed in his mind. Lord, he hoped that wasn’t another one of her desires.

She blinked up at him, soft puffs of chocolate-scented breath coasting over his skin. He should probably kiss her now. But he took delight in looking at her. She was so lovely.

He closed the distance, and his lips fell on hers. Her hands fell on his chest. Soft, comforting, familiar. He slid his tongue over her lips, and she opened instantly, allowing him inside. He basked in the warmth of her mouth, the flavor that was Georgiana. Except one thing was missing. That cinnamon-sweet taste he had grown so accustomed to. The one that tasted like comfort, like home. He made a mental note to inform Cook to prepare spiced biscuits. Every day.

He groaned, and her fingers dug into his waistcoat. Her tongue flicked against his, soft at first—hesitant—and he had no idea why. His wife wasn’t ever hesitant.

Fitz didn’t have to worry about that thought overlong. Her tentativeness quickly vanished, and her tongue grew bolder, harder. He turned them, pressing her into his desk, and she sighed greedily into his mouth. Her hips rocked against his, and her hands clawed up his neck to push into his hair.

This was escalating quickly. Just as quickly as his pulse. But there was something about this woman, about her presence, about the feel of her in his arms, about the taste of her on his tongue, that had all his well-laid-out plans fleeing out his study door. Because he hadn’t planned on this. He hadn’t planned on kissing her at all. He had planned on avoiding her, actually.

When he had returned from Adelaide’s earlier, after securing a copy of Fanny Hill, he had set out reading, starting with Letter XI. And that was how his wife found him, engrossed in the part of the woman’s memoir when she was taking a rod to her backside. It was while reading that, that Fitz decided it was best he wait until he received the information from Adelaide before he attempted anything with his wife. Because he was out of his element. Which wasn’t saying much, since Fitz was out of his element much more often than he was in it. But he wanted to ensure he did this…flagellation properly. If that was what his wife desired.

One of Georgiana’s hands fell to the front of his trousers, tracing the outline of him. God, he ached for her. It wasn’t enough, the tease of her fingers over fabric. He needed fingers on flesh, around flesh. And his wife delivered, her hands already having his placket undone. His mouth dropped to her neck, and when her fingers wrapped around him and stroked, he bit down softly, groaning into her skin. Her touch was torture. Pleasurable, ecstasy-inducing torture.

Her breath caught, and she moaned, her fingers tightening. “Yes, Fitz.” Her words were mere breath, and she arched her neck, giving him better access. “Bite me harder.”

He moved down her neck, sucking and licking, relishing the taste of her skin. Then he sank his teeth into her shoulder, and she cried out, her hips jerking into his. Something snapped in his wife. She turned wild, rabid, frantic—rucking up her skirts in front of him.

She tugged on his wrist, pulling his hand between her thighs. Between her thighs where she was very much hot and wet. He growled softly. His fingers swirled over her, and his cock jumped. It wanted her—he wanted her—with a fierce, frenzied, deranged need.

He sank two fingers inside and—fuck—she tightened around him so sweetly. His thumb went to her clitoris, and she fluttered around his fingers. Lord, she was responsive. He swirled over her, gentling his pressure, and she tried to rock into him, seeking. This was something he could give her easily. Vanilla custard pleasure. But that wouldn’t ever be enough for her. Fitz was all too familiar with what it meant to be lacking. He didn’t want to be lacking for his wife. She wanted dark; she wanted rough; she wanted untamed.

He caught her chin in his free hand and forced her mouth to his. He wanted to be all those things for her. So badly. He glided his thumb over her faster. She trembled against him, her core tightening on his fingers, and as soft as her luscious curves were, her muscles tensed against him. He gave her more, more pressure, more skimming over where her pleasure centered. And that was all it took. Her body shuddered against his, and she clamped down on his fingers. She arched against him, sobs of pleasure fleeing her parted lips. And he stole every last one of those cries. God, she was stunning when she came.

He trailed kisses along her jaw and slowly let his fingers slide from her. A slide that was pure torture. His cock throbbed like the devil. His ballocks drawn tight. He ached. Needed. To be inside his wife. She would just have to settle for another bout of bland lovemaking. Blancmange flavored. Because he couldn’t wait until he’d studied more, until he had more information.

And apparently his wife couldn’t wait either. Georgiana spun in his arms and bent over, proffering her bare arse for him. His hands instantly went to her pale soft flesh, hot, smooth—he squeezed her arse—plush. A choked sound came from him. God, he loved her curves.

She fit perfectly with him, her small, luscious body against his lean, tall one. That didn’t actually make any sense given their forms were opposite in nearly every way. But he wasn’t so sure it needed to make sense.

They fit. That was all there was to it.

She backed into him, ground against him, her mewls desperate.

Micetta mia.

Good Lord, he was going to fuck his wife on his desk, wasn’t he? And the door was wide open. “The d-door,” he managed.

“Leave it,” she breathed.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he stared at the entry to his study. The thrill, the appeal of getting caught, spurring adrenaline to surge through him, landing straight in his cock. Perhaps not so bland a bedding, then. Not the most flavorful of dishes. But it was a far cry from blancmange. He’d work his way up to Charlotte Russe.

He pushed her thighs wide and slid his cock between her legs. God, she was scorching, her flesh soaked and swollen from her release. He notched himself at her entrance, his body screaming to drive home.

And then his wife panted out two words that made the heat in his veins freeze over.

“Spank me.”

He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he even drew breath.

She wiggled against him. “Please, Fitz.”

But he couldn’t. Panic was rolling through him like a boulder down a mountain, picking up speed and spinning out of control. His mind flashed back to what he had just read. How hard did he hit her? Was he supposed to do it a certain way? In a certain place? Was it like the choking? The woman, Fanny, had bled . He needed more instruction. He needed more time.

So he did what Fitz did best.

“If you’ll excuse me. I forgot about a prior obligation.”

And he fled.