Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

47. Fitz

47

Fitz

F itz pulled Georgiana into his lap, her legs straddling his from where he sat on the edge of the bed. Gripping her hips, he brought her down, lining himself up at her entrance. God, he could feel the heat of her, how she throbbed for him, aftershocks of her release still fluttering her intimate muscles. Muscles he wanted to be surrounded by.

Her eyes flew wide. “You-you. Isn’t it supposed to deflate after?”

He laughed, deep and rich with want, shaking his head. “Jennings family trait. I only need a few minutes between bouts. And after tasting you? Seconds.” And to prove his point, he thrust at the same time he dragged her hips down and sank to the hilt.

The breath fled her lips on a shocked exhale and ended on a moan that melded with his. Bliss. Heaven. Home. That was what it was to be inside her.

Her lips skimmed over his cheek until she found his mouth and then she was sipping at him, nipping at him, his greedy little wife.

Gigi rocked and ground against him, rode him without hesitation, without a hint of uncertainty. She took what she wanted, unabashedly.

She let out a low, guttural groan, her hips picking up speed as she clearly found a perfect spot, a perfect rhythm. Fuck, fuck, fuck . Whatever she had just done had the head of his cock rubbing against a spot inside her that had lust pulsing out of control to his cock. God, it was like she was ribbed, and she rocked herself on that spot, again and again and— fuck —again. This was going to be over—for her and for him—if he didn’t take control. And he wasn’t ready for it to be over.

He tightened his grip on her hips and pushed her back. She whined, her pelvis thrusting forward, desperate to get back to that glorious spot.

But what his wife didn’t know was that he had been doing a lot of reading since he received those pamphlets. And it had been eye-opening. There was this tactic of staving off orgasm—repeatedly—which sounded like pure torture. But apparently, the constant denial led to overwhelmingly intense orgasms. And he wanted nothing but overwhelming orgasms for his wife. She deserved nothing less.

He slowed his thrusts, giving her only a semblance of what she wanted. She writhed in his lap, desperately seeking, trying to increase the pace, to control the angle. But he denied her the pressure she craved, the impact she needed. Only to give her a tease. A hard thrust. Retreat. A grind of hips, rubbing over her clitoris. Retreat. Another thrust. Retreat.

She growled at him, her fingers digging so hard into his sides he could feel her nails through his linen shirt. His free hand flew to her jaw, and he yanked her to face him, his grip biting. She stilled, panting against him, warm puffs of champagne-and-spice-tinted breath.

He tsk’d at her at the same time he inwardly groaned. Because it was delectable when his kitten let out her claws. Her eyes bore into him, black as the night outside. He squeezed, and she gasped, head dropping back, supplicant. He petted her jaw softly. It still felt new, being rough with her. He liked it—no, loved it—but he needed to break it up with soft touches.

“You don’t growl, micetta,” he murmured, tracing the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “The only thing you do for me is purr. Understood?”

The prettiest whimper fled her lips, and his eyes rolled back. God, this was bad. She was bad. Because the way she turned to putty in his hands when he bossed her around, dictated to her like the only purpose she served was to serve him, it was heady, consumed him with an addicting lust. And he wanted more, needed more to attain that high again.

It had always been easy to let lust take over him during amorous encounters; it was one of the few times Fitz came out of his shell, his nerves and anxiety pushed away by something stronger and more potent. But this level of lust? He thought it very possible he could be that sinister, wicked man she wanted. And he would revel in being that man for her.

His hand dropped to her breast, squeezing, rolling his thumb over her nipple. He needed a taste. Would not survive without one. He lifted her by the hips until his mouth landed nearly level with her nipples. And he finally went in for a sample of what he craved. He hummed, trailing his tongue over the rough, peaked tip. It was heady, the taste of her skin, the taste of him on her skin. The taste that she was his. His cock twitched inside her, and she gasped.

He sucked her into his mouth, and she cried out, her hips moving frantically over him. His hand went to her arse, stilling her with a forceful squeeze. He was in control here. He leaned back on his free hand for leverage. And while his mouth attacked her breasts, tongue and teeth licking and grazing, he held her immobile in a bruising grip as he thrust his hips into her. He drove hard, the sound of slapping skin, his grunts and heavy breaths, her choked cries, filling the room.

He moved to her other breast, rolling his tongue over her, flicking the tip of her nipple. She pushed her chest closer to him and, God, what a way to die. Suffocation by his wife’s breasts. He dug his fingertips into the plush flesh of her bottom. Pleasure raced through him, demanding and unstoppable. His cock was moments from bursting.

He needed her to get there first, wouldn’t accept anything less. He sucked her nipple into his mouth and gently bit down. She shuddered, her muscles fluttering lightly. He bit down harder and slammed her down on him as he thrust up into her. A sharp cry burst from her, and her back arched. Her cunt clamped down on him, and he was done. That perfect, pretty part of her squeezed the orgasm straight from him.

He thrust into her once more and held, burying his face into her breasts and groaned his release. His body convulsed, hers still trembling and jerking from her own release. And then he fell back on the bed, limp, her slumping against him, just as boneless. Boneless together, nothing but a tangle of limbs. Nothing but one.

Georgiana rolled off him, eyes shut, features relaxed in what he hoped was what she had found a very blissful encounter. Her eyes peeped open and tracked over him, and she promptly burst out laughing.

“What?” He smiled bemusedly at her. He wasn’t so sure laughter after a bout of lovemaking was a good thing. But he was Fitzwilliam Jennings, after all.

“Y-you’re still f-fully clothed, Fitz.” She broke down in another fit of giggles. “Goodness, y-you’re still w-wearing your boots.”

His face split in a grin and a chuckle rumbled in his chest. God, she was right. He hadn’t even shucked off his boots in the heat of the moment.

His very naked wife crawled over to his feet and tugged off his boots, her delectable arse wiggling in front of him. Absolutely glorious. He reached forward and gave it a soft swat.

She froze, then turned to look at him, her lids heavy. “Careful, husband. You might end up thoroughly shagged again, still fully clothed.”

He let out a soft snort. “Is that supposed to be a threat? Because I have to say, all that does is make me want to spank you more.”

She walked on hands and knees back over him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Perhaps that was what I was after all along.”

He gave her another playful swat, and she fell to her side, snuggling into him with a giggle. This he could do. The playful swat. But he wasn’t sure how hard to do it when in the middle of a shag. One thing he had learned in his reading was that there were very different levels of roughness. Some people desired serious pain. He didn’t know where his wife fell. He so desperately didn’t want to do anything wrong with her. He wanted everything to be perfect for her.

“You are in your head,” she murmured. She must have noticed his quiet, his stillness.

“I just… I am very new to all of this. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

She dusted her lips over his shoulder and across the protruding bone of his collarbone, then pushed up and studied him. “First off, you are doing extremely well. But I don’t expect you to be some sort of proclivity expert, Fitz. We will figure it out as we go along.” She gently ran her finger through the curling amber hair that lightly covered his chest.

“Why did you go to your mistress?” she asked into the silence. “Why did you not just come to me? They are my desires, after all. Who better to tell you what they are, what I want you to do to me?”

He grimaced, letting his head sink into the pillow. He stared into the crimson canopy. “When you say it like that, I feel like a complete arse and utter cod’s head. I just…”

“You just?” She tugged at his chin, pulling his gaze to hers.

“I knew you favored the Duke, Gigi. I thought if I were to disappoint you in bed, not deliver what he could, I would push you toward him. I thought if I fumbled as I tried to give you what you desire—and I know I will fumble—I would risk losing you, would risk earning your disgust.”

“Fitz—”

He shook his head. “I’m not done. Let me finish.” He winced. That had come out boorish. “A-apologies.”

She rubbed his chest soothingly, her eyes gentle. “You’re fine, husband. Keep going.”

He blew out a breath. “It wouldn’t be the first time I was found lacking.” His throat grew thick. “Nor the first time I was passed over for a different man,” he managed.

His stare locked on his fingers, plucking at the bed linens. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Not when he was so exposed. Vulnerable. He knew he was safe with Georgiana. Knew she wouldn’t hurt him. But some wounds were just too deep, forever to be left flayed open.