Blood Fire by Sharon Page Page B

erection in an office of the Royal Society. He cupped her bottom and dragged her to him. Her legs were open, and she moaned as her bare quim nestled against his shaft.
    Oh yes.
    She had ached for this, too. But first, she must tell him she was going to have his child. And she could not let him guess she was a witch. “I have decided to marry you—”
    “Don’t talk. Wrap your arms around my neck. Make love to me.”
    She hooked her arms around his strong neck, resting them on his broad shoulders. Bending his head, he kissed her. Then he pushed his erection inside her.
    He filled her; the stroke of his shaft touched sensitive places inside that made her sob and tremble. So many intense sensation rushed through her, she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming in delight as he thrust slowly in and out.
    She pressed her lips to his stubbly jaw, kissing and licking as he moved his hips gracefully and fluidly, teasing her deep inside.
    It was so good. So very good.
    She had to stay quiet. If she cried out or moaned, someone could hear. What a scandal that would be.
    But the risk . . . the danger . . . made this hot and thrilling.
    “I can’t last, Lady O,” he whispered throatily by her ear. His hips moved faster, arching forward, pressing his groin to her to drive deep inside. His shaft rubbed along her tingling, aching clit. Each stroke made her whimper against his skin.
    It was magic. Pure magic. She clutched his shoulders, moving with him. It was like chasing something. Pleasure was there . . . so close . . . and if she just thrust madly against him as he buried himself into her, she would find it.
    With a soft roar, the fire burned brighter. Papers flew off the desk. As they fluttered wildly around the room, the climax took her. Her fingers drove into his shirt. He gave an intense moan at the exact same instant, and he shoved his hips forward, burying his erection to the hilt. He rocked slowly, groaning, coming into her.
    Then he stopped, bowed his head. Gently, his lips moved over her, touching her forehead, her lashes, the tip of her nose, then her lips. “Mine,” he whispered. “My wife.”
    His lying wife. Reality hit her with more power than the orgasm. Papers had landed everywhere. How did she explain that?
    He was kissing her, long and slow, and she couldn’t even enjoy it. She was staring over his shoulder at the pieces of paper she could see. The fire was now a huge blaze. Wouldn’t he begin to wonder why fires went mad when she was near them?
    Sutcliffe eased back.
    She stayed perched on the edge of the desk. He quickly pulled his linens up, tucking his softening shaft into them. It felt so intimate to watch him casually arrange himself inside. Then he did up his trousers.
    Sutcliffe walked around the room, collecting up the papers. The office of the Royal Society looked like a normal gentleman’s study, except there were strange weapons arranged on the walls between bookshelves. “There must have been a breeze,” he muttered. “The rush of air must have made the fire flare up. Just as it did in my room.”
    Octavia couldn’t say anything. She didn’t trust her voice to stay steady.
    He plunked the pile of papers on the desk and smiled at her. She still sat on the edge, her skirts bunched at her waist. Taking her hand, he guided her back on her feet. Her skirts fell, but they were crumpled and wrinkled.
    He smoothed them, and then he drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it up. “Special license. We can be wed instantly if we want.”
    She must do so for the baby, but she panicked. How could she keep this secret from him? After spending time with her, wouldn’t he realize she caused these things to happen? Then what would he do? Kill her? Burn her at a stake? “I—”
    “Or do you want something large, ostentatious, with a grand breakfast and royalty in attendance?”
    “Heavens, no. This is a duty, isn’t it? We . . . we are not in love, and I don’t want to pretend we are