Free Christopher's Medal by S.A. Laybourn Page B

hair and thrust back, driving him deeper. Her cunt throbbed with every push, every threatened withdrawal. Christopher braced himself above her, propped up on his arms. His hair flopped over his brow and his gaze locked with hers. In the midst of the fire and passion, he paused, smiled then ducked to place a fierce, possessive kiss on her open mouth.
    Grace smiled at him and kept him close when he quickened, driving into her pussy with apparent desperation, as if seeking absolution for the mess downstairs. She forgot all about that when the blood rushed to her nerve ends, heat pooling in her groin when she came with a sharp gasp, all else forgotten except Christopher. “That’s my Grace,” he whispered. “I love to watch you come.”
    “Less talk. Kiss me.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” He swooped to cover her mouth with his once more before pounding to his own climax.
    Grace held him in the aftermath, stroking his hair as their breathing slowed and all that could be heard was the soft rustle of the curtains, moving with the evening breeze. She closed her eyes and thanked the General and Allonby for the gift she had in her arms.
    * * * *
    “Will I do?” Christopher stood by the wardrobe fidgeting with his cufflinks.
    Grace paused in the bathroom doorway and stared. She’d had no idea what Christopher had meant by a mess uniform until that moment. The short red jacket tapered down to points above a low-cut blue waistcoat. A saber glittered coldly against the dark fabric of the trousers. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Victorian portrait.
    “Oh, my.”
    “Is that a bad ‘oh, my’ or a good one?”
    “It’s a good one, believe me.” Grace no longer felt over-dressed in her long gown.
    “You clean up rather well yourself, Gracey Webb.”
    Grace’s cheeks burnt when she smoothed down her filmy overskirt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a long dress. “Thank you.”
    Christopher held his arm out. “I don’t suppose you can help me with these bloody cufflinks, can you?”
    “I can do that.” She took the cufflink and threaded it through the eyelets, fighting to keep her hand steady. The scent of Christopher’s cologne drew her back into the night and the feel of his body against hers.
    “Thank you.” Christopher’s hand cupped her chin. His thumb caressed her jaw. “Thank you for being here with me, Grace.”
    Grace touched his face. “It’s my pleasure.”
    “I won’t mess your makeup if I kiss you, will I?”
    “No.”
    She felt his kiss down to her bones, to the roots of her soul. The breeze slipped through the open window and swirled around them. It brought with it birdsong and the rustle of the trees in the park. He sighed into her mouth and she wound her fingers through his hair, not wanting the sweetness to end.
    “Come on, you two!” Someone pounded on the door. “Time to go.”
    Christopher’s arms fell away. “Bugger.” He sighed and took her hand. “I suppose we’d better get this over with.”
    Everyone gathered on the broad sweep of gravel in front of the house, apart from the bride and bridesmaids. The wedding photographer swooped and hovered while they walked down the drive toward the tiny chapel set on the edge of the parkland. Guests were already arriving, filing into the church, or lingering under the trees chatting.
    “Oi! Beaumont!” Someone called from behind them. “Where the hell have you been?” A man steered his wheelchair across the gravel. Grace tried not to stare at the place where his lower legs should have been.
    Christopher grinned. “Mark, it’s good to see you.” He shook the man’s hand and eased Grace forward.
    The man, dressed in a well-tailored charcoal gray suit, turned to Grace. “Who’s the bird, mate?”
    “Charming as ever.” Christopher squeezed Grace’s hand. “This is my girlfriend, Grace Webb. Grace, the man with the appalling manners is Mark Bracewell, he’s an old friend of mine.”
    Mark’s handshake was firm.