All I Ever Needed (60 page)

Knowing the importance of stride, Sophie pressed her lips together tightly. Sampson was waiting for them when they reached the bedchamber. The valet accepted his dismissal with his usual neutral demeanor and blandly offered to keep Sophie's maid from disturbing them as well.

"Now you have done it, Sophie." East dropped her on the bed. "Sampson will not forgive you if you ruin my stock."

Sophie raised herself on her elbows and crooked a finger at him. When he bent, she pulled on it, then him. As soon as he was sprawled beside her, she turned and kissed him full on the mouth. His arms would have come around her, but she drew back and shook her head. "I have had it in my mind all evening that I should undress you," she whispered. "You have no objections, I hope."

"None."

"Good." She sat up and took his hand, urging him to follow her when she left the bed. "Come, my lord. Some things are best accomplished in the dressing room." Sophie felt some initial reluctance, but she overcame it with an over-the-shoulder glance that promised much in return for his cooperation.

The dressing room they shared was crowded with two armoires, a vanity, three padded stools, a washstand, commode, and a large cheval glass. Sophie guided East across the small Persian rug and directly to the mirror, softening his discomfort by stepping in front of him. Reaching behind her, she found his wrists and pulled his arms around her until they were crossed under her breasts. She caught his eyes in the mirror.

"What do you see, East?"

"All I ever needed."

Sophie's eyes brightened with unshed tears, and her smile was watery. She had to work her words past the ache in her throat. "I love you for saying so," she said quietly, "but I know you hope I will be put from my purpose. Will you not lift your eyes, my lord, and tell me what you see."

Eastlyn glanced at his reflection. "An extraordinarily fortunate man."

"An uncommonly handsome one," she said. "But I have never known you to acknowledge it. I have always supposed you cared little for what society makes of your fine looks and your manner, but I think now that perhaps you have cared too much. It is still the roly-poly young boy you see, is it not? The one with a fondness for sweets who eagerly thrashed anyone who remarked on his size. You have not been that boy for a very long time, though I wonder if you are not afraid you will glimpse him when you look upon your reflection. I mean for you to be done thrashing yourself, my lord, and see what I see."

Sophie turned in East's arms and began to unbutton his frock coat. She felt his breath catch when he realized her intent, but he did not stop her, not when she discarded his coat, nor when she loosened his stock. He watched her delicate, deliberate movements as though from a distance at first, then came to see them more clearly as he reconciled the vision in the mirror with the one he had harbored in his mind's eye.

Sophie ran her hands across his broad shoulders, then down his arms, smoothing the fine linen fabric of his shirt before she removed it. She laid her lips at the curve of his bare throat and settled her palms on either side of his trim waist. She knelt slowly, her mouth making a damp line of kisses along his taut flesh. His skin retracted where her fingertips trailed. She applied herself to his shoes and stockings, then finally his satin breeches and drawers, and when he was naked she made love to him with her mouth and hands, every kiss a perfectly nuanced expression of carnal passion and depth of feeling.

She brought him to his knees, and he played the lady's maid, stripping her of silk and cashmere, satin and batiste, until it was only her flesh beneath his hands, soft and pliant, warm and achingly responsive. The glass was forgotten; voyeuristic pleasures paled in the wake of absorbing the heat of each new caress. They learned to see themselves through the eyes of the other, and that vision was at once distorted by love and made unflinchingly honest by it.

In the aftermath of lovemaking, he took her to bed, and they settled there, deep in the downy comforter, fitted like spoons in a drawer. Sophie stared out the window and silently counted the stars framed by the sash. "There are eleven tonight," she told him.

East raised his head and followed the direction of her gaze. "So there are." He propped himself on an elbow and studied Sophie's features in profile. "Do you find your peace there?"

"Sometimes," she said. She welcomed the arm that slipped around her waist. "I am not so alone as I used to be, but there is always comfort in what is familiar." She stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips. "Is it the same for you?"

He nodded. "It used to be a package that arrived at Hambrick Hall every Thursday. Scones. Biscuits. Tarts. Little iced cakes. I was partial to those cakes, you know."

Sophie turned on her back and looked up at him. "And now?"

Eastlyn bent his head and brushed her mouth with his own. "Don't you know, Sophie? It is this sweetness that I crave, and the woman who has courage enough to give me my just deserts."

The End

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BEYOND A WICKED KISS

The Compass Club Series

Book Four

Excerpt from

Beyond A Wicked Kiss

The Compass Club Series

Book Four

by

Jo Goodman

USA Today Bestselling Author

BEYOND A WICKED KISS

Reviews & Accolades

"Witty dialogue and clever plotting."

~Publishers Weekly

Ria had seen a portrait of West once and wondered immediately how he had been coerced into sitting for it. She amended that thought: he had not actually been sitting. As a young man, West had posed standing beside a great black stallion. The artist had been skillful enough to capture insouciance in every line of West's lithe frame, from the shoulder resting negligently against his mount's flank to the leg making a casual cross of the other at the ankle. There was carelessness also in the shape of his mouth, in the smile that revealed a profoundly wry appreciation for the vagaries of life. That particular placement of his lips carved a deep dimple in one cheek and merely hinted at one in the other.

It was the eyes, though, that had riveted her attention. There was humor suggested in the dark green depths, but there was something else that was not so easily defined—and it made her shiver.

Ria had glimpsed it this evening, just moments before he had spoken her name aloud, and she wished she had been looking elsewhere. It was a glance that pinned her back and made her heartbeat trip.
Anger
was insufficient to describe it.
Rage
was rather more than it was. This was temper on a short tether, the desire to do harm and damn-the-consequences, masked by humor and a careless smile.

It made her less afraid for herself than it did for him.

Drink in hand, West returned to his chair. Instead of sitting, he hitched his hip on the arm and balanced himself with easy grace. She had been woolgathering, he noted, and wondered at the direction of her thoughts. She was not entirely comfortable in his presence—which he counted as a good thing—but neither had she made any noises about leaving him. He wished there were less trust and more wariness in her manner. What the devil did she want with him?

"So you induced that poor clerk to betray me," he said consideringly. "Dare I hope it cost you thirty pieces of silver?"

"Not nearly so much as that."

"I was bought rather cheaply, then."

"I'm afraid so."

He nodded and sipped his brandy again. "To what purpose? You still have not explained yourself. You have made a rather long journey to arrive at just this end. Surely I am owed your reason for it."

"I require your help."

His smile was sardonic. "I am not so deep in my cups that I could not surmise that myself. The more salient point is, how much."

"A great deal, I should think."

"A hundred pounds? A thousand? You will have to name your figure." He observed that she was much struck by this. Her mouth parted and formed a perfect O.