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Lydia smiled, holding onto him tighter. “No, don’t stop,” she whispered. They weren’t going to be interrupted in this house any longer, they were not going to hide their relationship, and they were not going to cower before anyone.

He continued his thrusting in and out of her, their moans and whimpers the only sounds in the room. But the frantic knocking didn’t subside either; it only moved to the background in her mind.

Let them knock in rhythm with her frantic heartbeat. Let them knock as Art drove his cock into her, as her body melted from heat and desire. As the pleasure rose steadily within her.

Thorn moved, pressing the pad of his finger against her pleasure center.

“Yes!” she cried, as ecstasy flowed through her veins.

“Come, love,” Thorn growled. “I want to see you come.”

“Yes, Art, yes!”

The door flew open, and a frantic footman rushed into the room.

Lydia shrieked, and Thorn curled on top of her to cover her body from the view. “Get. The. Fuck. Out!” he roared.

The apologetic footman disappeared just as quickly as he’d appeared, shutting the door behind him.

Mortification mixed with exhilaration inside Lydia’s body and all she could do was laugh. Art joined in on the laughter and kissed her soundly on the lips. He didn’t withdraw; as hard as ever, he started slowly rocking back and forth within her once more.

Their breathing quickly returned to the passionate rhythm as they continued their pursuit of a climax. They breathed and moaned in tandem, their hearts beating as one. Thorn thrust into her faster and faster, the sound of their bodies slapping together the only other sound aside from their moans.

This time, Lydia moved her own hand and touched herself where she wanted to feel more pressure.

“Yes, darling,” he spurred her on. “Touch yourself. Bring yourself to pleasure as I watch.”

Lydia moaned, his words of assurance arousing her even more. His gaze was on her finger, rubbing circles around her swollen nub as his cock slid in and out of her. She pressed her finger where she wanted it most and cried in pleasure.

Her eyes shut, she threw her head back, the intense pleasure gathering at her center and spreading farther and farther until it exploded and reached the tips of her fingers.

She cried out while Art diligently worked on top of her, his movements frantic, his grunts more desperate than before. With a growl, he paused, spilling inside her core.

Their breathing wild, he fell on top of her, his heavy body a comforting weight after a moment of pure bliss.

He raised his head what felt like an eternity later and kissed her lips, his tongue probing at her mouth. She opened her lips and tasted him, their tongues tangling in a passionate dance. He broke the kiss only to plant a peck on her lips before withdrawing from her completely.

She whimpered. It felt cold and empty without him.

“I’ll be right back,” he said with a smile as he rolled off the bed and put on his banyan. He opened the door where the poor footman with burning red cheeks still stood, waiting.

“What’s wrong?” Thorn barked.

“It’s the marquess,” the footman said. “Lord Wakefield is dead.”

* * *

He didn’t feel sad.

Thorn stood beside his late sire’s bed, studying his unmoving features.

Lydia had insisted on coming with him, wanting to see Wakefield for herself—though Thorn suspected she simply loathed the idea of leaving him alone with the man. Even if the man was dead.

She needn’t have worried. The doctor was present, as was Rosemary.

The latter put on a spectacle of tears and hysterics, but Thorn remained unmoving.

He wasn’t sad.