Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

52. Epilogue - Georgiana

52

Epilogue - Georgiana

A few days later

Chesterfield Ball

London, England

GEORGIANA SIDLED UP next to the Duke of Ironcrest where he stood like a stone gargoyle with his back against the wall of the Chesterfield ballroom. He slowly perused her figure from head to toe, his dark gaze molten. Perfect. This would do splendidly. She nearly giggled. His expression was unreadable, his scar stark against his cheek, but he seemed…curious.

“Mrs. Jennings,” he murmured, looking back out at the ballroom. “Have you reconsidered my and Lord Dunmore’s offer?”

She flicked open her fan and covered her mouth. “Apologies, Your Grace, but my answer remains firmly in the negative.” She scanned the crowd, searching for a head of disorderly amber curls. “Plus, I happen to know you already have an assignation with Lady Camoys tonight.” She winked at the Duke, and he blinked. He clearly had no idea what to do with her.

“But considering our…history,” she continued. “I was hoping you could stand there with your ducal smolder on full display. You know—the one where you look as though you’re going to devour a woman without even touching her.”

His black brows lifted incrementally.

“I am aiming to make Mr. Jennings jealous,” she said in a hushed voice. “Like back at the brothel, if you recall. You, in particular, will—let us say—light a fire in him.” She nearly moaned, thinking back to that night.

Since that night, they’d been exploring each other’s desires quite thoroughly. No seeking outside help—just communication and experimentation. Though she couldn’t deny the pamphlets he’d gotten from his ex-mistress had been enlightening, even for Georgiana. Which was saying something.

She fluttered her fan and leaned closer to the Duke. “It is a game we play, you see. I am sure you understand the appeal of punishment.”

That was one of the first discoveries they’d made together. After Georgiana nearly expired in a pile of lust when Fitz had burst into the brothel in a fit of jealous rage, she knew she needed more of that . More of angry mongoose Fitz. Feral Fitz. Possessive I’m going to punish you Fitz. And her adorable, bumbling husband? He liked to punish her. Something about the jealousy made his stumbling disappear, something primal took over him. And once he learned her limits—which were essentially non-existent—he lost all reservations.

The Duke’s eyebrows were nearly at the hairline of his short, cropped locks. “You would like to use me in some sort of sex game with your husband?”

“Yes, exactly!” She bounced on her toes. “I knew you would understand. And, of course, it would be unkind of me to ask you to do so without recompense.”

He tilted his head, his lips twitching ever so slightly. His eyes didn’t seem as dark as usual. Was she amusing the Iron Duke?

“Recompense…” he questioned.

“I may have shared a few tricks with Lady Camoys.” A saucy smile curved her lips. As she had said, she had learned some very interesting things in those pamphlets. “I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

His eyes widened in pure shock. He shook his head, sliding his expressionless mask back in place. “You surprise me, Mrs. Jennings. It would appear I missed quite the opportunity when you propositioned me last year.”

“That you did,” she said with a cheeky smile. “Oh! He’s heading this way now. Hurry, seduce me!”

She blinked up at him, channeling every ounce of innocent, impressionable maiden. His lips twitched again, and he nearly—nearly!—broke into a smile. She fluttered her eyelashes and shot him her best come now, make haste look.

He cleared his throat and reached for her gloved hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he bowed over it. “You are an absolute spitfire, Mrs. Jennings,” he murmured huskily, his lips coasting over the back of hand.

She tittered, her gaze darting to Fitz. Who was mutinous. Yes! She met the Duke’s gaze, and he ever so slightly tilted his head in question.

“Perfect,” she whispered. “You are an utter angel.”

He straightened, his furrowed eyebrows the height of disbelief.

“Fine, you are an utter devil. Thank you, Your Grace.”

A hand fisted the back of her skirts, giving it a powerful tug that nearly had her stumbling. Georgiana sucked in a breath and then nearly squealed in delight.

“Your Grace,” Fitz practically growled.

“Mr. Jennings,” the Duke drawled. “I have been keeping your lovely wife company. We have been having the most…delectable of conversations.”

Fitz’s lips flattened. “Thank you for being so solicitous, but I will take it from here.” His words were as stiff as his bow to the Duke.

Her husband’s hand flexed on her back, and she didn’t even have time to curtsy her farewell before he was already discreetly guiding her down the wall toward the exit of the ballroom.

“You will pay for that little show, wife,” he murmured, lethally soft.

She practically vibrated with anticipation.

She really, really, really hoped she would.

GEORGIANA’S BACK COLLIDED with the wall in the dimly lit chamber, the first empty room at the Chesterfields’ that she and Fitz had found. Her husband stood feet in front of her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, breath bursting from him. His cheekbones were tinted with a flush, his amber eyes pure fire. He clenched and unclenched his fists. She shivered.

“The Duke, Gigi?” He whispered the question, the promise of retribution sharp in his gravelly voice.

She dipped her chin, looking at him from beneath her lashes. “It was nothing, Mr. Jennings. I swear it.”

“He. Touched. You.” His palm slammed against the wall next to her head.

Oh, heavens. The vibration of the wall reverberated straight through to her core. They’d played this game before. But never with the Duke. She was going to be fucked so hard for this. She couldn’t wait.

“He was merely being p-polite.” Her words stumbled as his teeth grazed the shell of her ear.

His free hand slid up her body, skipping over the spots that craved his touch the most. She tried to arch into his hand when he reached her breast, but he denied her. He skipped on past until his hand settled around her throat, his thumb pushing up her chin, so she was forced to meet his penetrating gaze. His amber irises churned dangerously, like a glass of swirling whisky.

“There is only one man who touches you.”

Her heart rattled in her chest, her pants echoing harshly in the quiet room.

“Who is that man, Gigi?”

Lord, she was supposed to be able to form words right now?

His hand flexed on her neck, and her knees went weak. “You answer me when I ask you a question,” he demanded.

“Y-you. Mr. Jennings.”

“Better,” he praised, and she preened. His lips brushed over hers, his thumb gently caressing the edge of her jaw.

This man. He knew the exact right balance of punishment and praise. At first, he’d told her it was because he was nervous he was being too hard with her. He needed to offset it with softness. She’d eagerly informed him she loved the combination. He’d grown more bold, more confident. Her husband was nothing if not a quick study. And nothing made her heart swell—and her core pulse—more than a self-assured Fitz.

Her lips tingled with want. He hadn’t granted her more than that one soft brush of his lips. And she was dying. She licked her aching lips, and his gaze dipped. But he denied her. He stepped back, her body going cold. She whimpered.

His hands went to his cravat, tugging, loosening the fabric. His bored gaze scanned her from head to toe, his mouth turned down, contempt arching his brows.

“You were flirting with him.” He pulled his cravat free. “In full view of the ton . Like a fucking harlot.”

She sagged against the wall. Yum .

He squeezed his hands into fists and let out a slow breath. She nearly smiled. He still struggled with the degradation. The things he said were delicious, the most sumptuous of desserts, but she thought he might still surprise himself each time something so cruel fled his lips.

“Is that what you are? A harlot, wife?” He stepped toward her, closing the distance. His features tightened, his gaze so sharp it was cutting.

She shook her head adamantly, her coiffure jostling dangerously.

His hands shot to her waist, and he spun her, pinning her chest flat against the wall. She turned, her cheek sliding along the smooth wall covering, trying to meet his gaze. He yanked her arms together behind her back, and cloth slid against her wrists, then cinched tight. Her body trembled, anticipation roaring through her ears, coursing through her veins.

His nose traced a path up her neck to her ear, and he gave a quick, hard tug as he knotted his cravat. “I think you lie, wife. I think you love nothing more than a thick cock down your throat.” His tongue replaced his nose, trailing over the column of her neck. “Filling you.” He ground his stone-hard erection against her, sending streaks of heat between her thighs. “Flooding you with cum.” He growled viciously. “Mine, and mine alone.”

Yes, please.

A sharp tug at her wrists had her stumbling backwards, her husband’s hand curling around the back of her neck to guide her—control her. He squeezed, and the ability to stand nearly deserted her. Her gaze jumped to various pieces of furniture in the darkened chamber, finally landing on the large piece her husband was leading her to. Her eyes widened.

“Fitz,” she hissed. “This is Lord Chesterfield’s study .” They couldn’t do this in the man’s study. It was one thing in a drawing room or broom cupboard—everyone did that. But in a man’s private domain? If they were discovered…the ramifications could be horrendous.

His chuckle was dark and evil and hair-raising. He pushed her up against the lord’s desk.

“That it is, love.” He bent her over the desk, pressing her stomach flat against the hard surface. Rustling of skirts melded with his low rasp, “And I’m not going to just fuck you in his study, I’m going to fuck you on his desk.”

She groaned, and her traitorous hips pushed back against him, seeking the press of his cock. Her heart rate kicked up, beating hard against the wood surface below her. Another discovery they had made was her husband loved the thrill of having sex in public. The risk of getting caught had always held a thrill for Georgiana, but Fitz?

Let’s just say their visit to the theater had proven just how wild for it he was. He’d made her sit in the front row of his family’s private box, and promptly disappeared beneath her skirts while she was left clinging to the balcony rail, desperately trying not to let her face show all the wicked things her husband’s tongue had been doing to her. He had been hidden behind the solid balcony wall—her face not so much. Later, he informed her it had been punishment for her doing the same thing to him in his study when Felix had interrupted them.

The blunt head of his swollen cock slid between her thighs. Her muscles went instantly tight. If he wasn’t in her in the next five seconds, she was going to die.

He bent over her, leaning his heavy weight on her. “I knew you were a whore,” he whispered in her ear, his cock slipping easily back and forth over her, his head rubbing perfectly against where she was most sensitive. “Look at how wet you are for me. Do you ache for me, love?”

She whimpered in assent. Her fingers flexed where they were trapped between their bodies. She wanted to touch him desperately, and the denial sent lust spiraling through her. He lifted off her, his hands going to her hips. And then, like the torturous bastard he was, he sank inside her slowly. Inch by slow bloody inch. He retreated just as lazily, his thick length teasing her, her intimate muscles clenching on him, greedily trying to pull him back to her. But the devilish man continued with his slow, sensual strokes, overwhelming her with a slow, sensual stretch.

“God, you’re lovely,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Non credo che mi abituerò mai a quanto sia delizioso vedere il mio cazzo affondare nella tua bella fica.”

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how delicious it is to see my cock sinking inside your pretty cunt.

Georgiana’s eyes rolled back in her head. She loved how he sometimes reverted to Italian. Filthy words were so much more potent with an accent. But the love and reverence in his voice had the need for closeness, for touch, for embrace barreling through her.

“Fitz,” she whined. “I can’t—I need—”

Her wrists were freed before she even finished saying the words. He pulled out of her, and she was spun and lifted onto the desk in a breath. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and he drove back inside her, his arms pulling her close, his nose sliding against hers. He knew. He always knew exactly what she needed. The compatibility they had in the bedroom almost seemed surreal. But perhaps that was what happened when you were in love.

His hips slammed into hers, his hands gripping her arse so hard it was sure to leave a bruise. He practically lifted her off the desk. Her hands fell to his biceps, straining under the effort, and her belly went molten, the pleasure in her core weaving tight.

Fitz’s lips crashed into hers in a feverish kiss. His tongue delved inside, mimicking his thrusts, and her hands shot to his head, disappearing into his soft amber curls. She held him to her, matching him thrust for thrust, a battle of tongues, a battle that was building to a tumultuous pitch.

The pressure in her core surged, and her thighs scrambled around him, practically climbing him like a tree as she sought that perfect angle. She was so close . The pleasure was hovering just out of reach, simmering, but not boiling over. All it would take would be his cock hitting her in that spot, his hips grinding against her pulsing core. She lodged her heel in his lower back, using his arse for leverage and—she moaned—there was the angle.

He groaned into her mouth, and his hips took on a frantic pace, drilling into her. She was lost. Lost to an unfathomable void, pleasure filling her limbs from fingertips to the tips of her toes, her entire body vibrating. Her skin lit on blissful fire, and she cried out against his lips. His arms wrapped tight around her, his hips delving into her, delivering stroke after stroke of ecstasy. An ecstasy that convulsed through her like the pull of an unstoppable tide, ripping pleasure from her. His mouth fell to her neck, and he bit down, his hoarse yell buried in her skin. And God, did she love him being buried in her, his pleasure, his body, his love.

Her forehead dropped limply against his shoulder, and he sagged against her, the desk the only thing holding them up at this point.

“Well, that was all right,” he murmured into her neck, gooseflesh popping up over her skin.

She huffed out a laugh, and he pulled back to look at her, his lop-sided smile in place. She tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Would most definitely shag again.”

His smile turned wicked. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her hand to his already hardening cock. “That can be arranged.”

Georgiana giggled. She’d created a monster.

She stroked him slowly and whispered over his lips, “I love you, Fitzwilliam Jennings.”

He groaned. “I love you too, Georgiana Jennings,” he managed, his voice strangled.

And then she proceeded to show him just how much. A second time.