Free Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma by Beverley Oakley

she checked herself. How could she possibly speak so plainly about methods that would prevent her conceiving the second son Justin deserved, desired and, yes, as his mother so frequently reminded her, required?
    Her breath hitched in her throat while her mind raced over the best way to navigate these turbulent waters.
    But every thought returned to the truth—she was disloyal and depraved. How could she refuse her husband his rights? Why would she want to when she was blessed above all women?
    It had been months since Justin had visited her, an eternity since his eyes had kindled with that almost forgotten look of aching want that, in the bedroom, replaced the habitual affection he showed her during the day.
    The warmth of his smile gained heat as he rose to untie the cord of his banyan. It slid off his shoulders while he focused his gaze, with unmistakeable longing, on her breasts, still confined in her lace-edged night shift. Cressida felt her palms begin to sweat, her breath fizzling in her throat as her eyes raked the length of him.
    Oh, he’d never reveal himself to her naked but as she recalled the bronzed warrior she’d seen earlier that evening in the mist-filled chamber of brazenness she knew Justin would look every bit as magnificent.
    His good nature was etched in the fine lines around his usually warm brown eyes, now black with desire as they bore into her. His strong jaw was tense with intent, the well-sculpted cheek muscles sharp planes and shadows. Fashionably thick and curling hair brushed forward made him a handsome man. During the day, he was the urbane lord of the manor. Tonight, the finer civilities were stripped away as he pulled back the covers, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the piercing stare and the exuberance of his manhood outlined by his nightshirt boldly declaring his desire.
    For the first time Cressida focused her attention upon the masculine contours of his fine linen shift. No, Justin would never come naked to her and she’d never thought to explore the idea of skin to skin contact. Why? Because clearly this was not what a man did when he was with his wife.
    At least two layers of fabric were always trapped at some point between them.
    Tonight’s strange, lurid, exciting, wicked and depraved voyeurism shocked her yet filled her with longings she could not put into words.
    Longings that curdled in her womb and made her damp, no, slick with desire. She ached to hold her husband to her breast, to wrap her legs around his waist and to rock with him in an embrace that would envelop them in sensation and sweep before it all the pain and loneliness of these ten long months.
    But she could not.
    Not yet.
    Panic ripped through her as the mattress dipped beneath Justin’s weight. What should she do? How could she explain that the only thing between her and Justin was ‘a little matter’ she’d attend to by next week? She’s already used her monthly excuses, last week.
    Stricken, her mind raced. She could hardly breathe through the fear as he slipped beneath the sheets and drew her to him, his fingers gently tugging at the ribbon of her night rail. She felt herself go rigid in his arms and nearly wept at the pain she’d soon cause him.
    Taking her gasp as encouragement, he gently kissed her lips.
    “Lovely creature,” he whispered as the fabric yielded and her breasts spilled out into his hands.
    She whimpered as he found just the right pressure to knead her into compliance. His tongue, hot and wet, circled her nipple while one hand gently massaged her heated inner thighs. She felt her body all but surrendering at the rightness of enslaving itself once more to him. The throbbing at the apex of her legs was agonising. Once he recognised her need she was doomed. She would conceive another child tonight, she knew it.
    Another child, she truly believed in that moment, that would kill her.
    He transferred his attention to her other breast, his hot breath and skilful tongue stirring up the