Ashlyn Macnamara (24 page)

One that quickened her pulse and made her breath come in shallow spurts. One that demanded she set her tongue to the notch at the base of his throat and taste the salt of his skin. One that urged her hands to explore the broad planes of muscles that banded his chest, to feel them ripple beneath her fingertips, to search out the places on his body that would elicit a groan, a hiss, a shudder …

“Isabelle,” he whispered, “if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

“How am I looking at you?” Her question ought to have been a challenge, but instead, it emerged from her lips in a seductive purr.

He leaned his forehead against hers. His lips hovered less than an inch from her mouth. She could nearly taste his breath. “Like you’re ready to devour me on the spot.”

Dear Lord, was she so transparent? “Oh.”

“Believe me, my dear, I should like nothing more.”

He closed the gap between them all too briefly, his lips a fleeting brush against hers. She tried to follow, tried to prolong the contact, but he eluded her.

A flash of lightning bathed the cottage in brilliance for an instant, followed by a low growl of thunder.

“It seems we shall be stranded for quite a while.” Still that yearning note in her voice. Why couldn’t she be sensible around him? Why must she continue to play with fire whenever he was near? Not simply fall the way she had the first time, but leap into the flame. Already her foot teetered on the brink of a precipice.

“Yes, it does.”

She leaned toward him, caught his lips with hers, but
once again, he pulled back before a true kiss could take hold.

“Before we take this too far,” he added, “I need something from you.”

“What?”

“Your assent.” He kissed her temple. “Your trust.” Another brush of his lips against her brow. “I ask a great deal, you see, but never more than you’re prepared to give.”

She lowered her lids against the intensity in his gaze. He wanted her, of that there was no doubt. Seduction laced his tones, but it was enmeshed with something else—caution, perhaps. A readiness to stop, should she call a halt. And he was letting her know now, before desire sunk its claws in too far, before lust clouded their judgment and urged them on.

Ironically, the knowledge made her decision all the more difficult. He was placing the power in her hands, allowing her the lead. It was a singular moment in a life that had always been guided by the dictates of others—her family, society, circumstance.

When she’d trysted with Jack’s father, she didn’t know what she was letting herself in for until it was too late. He’d pushed her to the point of lust-fogged judgment all too easily, and then her body had taken over and responded to his and kept on responding until her virginity and her reputation lay in the tatters of her ball gown.

But this was different.
George
was different. He’d been nothing but a support to her through these last worry-filled days, always there, always solid, always doing his utmost to find her son. And now he’d given this gift, beyond price, to her who had once possessed every possible luxury.

She knew the value now, having lost it all. And she also
knew this: She’d willingly trade all of these if it meant getting her son back. She owed George.

But she shouldn’t do this because she owed him. She should do this because she wanted. Because she cared, and how could she not? Cared because he’d given, yes, but more than that. His charm, his wit, his nonchalance, his willingness to tell the rest of society to bugger themselves. How she wished she possessed such courage.

And that was just on the surface. He possessed a depth, one he kept well hidden, but she’d witnessed it that evening in the ballroom when he’d sat at the pianoforte and let the music flow through his fingers. He’d let her in that night and shared with her a secret piece of himself he shared with no one. Not even his longtime friends.

He caught her chin in the palm of his hand, his long fingers splaying about her jaw. Her heartbeat raced onward. She’d waited too long to reply.

He would withdraw now. He’d leave her untouched, and when the rain let up, they’d each return to their separate worlds—she to her empty home in the village and he to the crowded manor where he felt utterly alone.

Where had that thought come from? It had popped into her mind, but her gut reacted to it, and she knew it for the truth. This charming wit of a man who easily surrounded himself with family, friends, acquaintances, who eased through life with a smile and a snappy rejoinder, was essentially alone in the world, because none of that was him. None of the façade he presented to the
ton
was real. It was armor, a shield to protect his essential self from ridicule.

“Wait,” she whispered.

“I am waiting, waiting for your reply.”

She swallowed. “Yes. The answer is yes.”

That one word sent a jolt through him. She felt its tremor beneath her thighs. “Yes what?”

Still wary. Still ready to withdraw before they got carried away. She
wanted
to be carried away—with him. Only with him.

“Yes, you have my assent.” She leaned close and pressed her lips to his. “You have my trust.” Another kiss, this one longer, more lingering. “You have me. For as long as you want me.”

With a groan, he tightened his embrace and drew her into a devouring kiss that stole her breath. His tongue swept between her parted lips, and she gladly responded. Too long. Too long her feelings had been deadened. What joy to discover them once again, and so much more intense than she recalled. Each thrust of his tongue, each brush of his fingers against her throat, her temples, her nape elicited a pulse of pleasure that rivaled what she’d experienced last night.

A growl emerged from deep in his throat, and the sound released an answering throb in her belly. Not close enough. Not even with the negligible barrier of her thin cotton chemise between them. She wanted his skin against hers.

All of it.

She wanted to wrap her arms and legs about him and pull him into herself. She wanted to be filled with him, to merge so completely that both of them ceased to exist as separate entities.

His insistent tugs at her hips sent her scrambling, and somehow she landed in his lap without their lips breaking contact. Her fingers plunged into his hair, and beneath her bottom, the hard length of his arousal pulsed insistently through his breeches.

Her core throbbed in response, aching for him. She pressed her thighs together in a vain effort to ease the delicious discomfort, and he groaned into her mouth.
He tore his lips from hers, leaving them swollen and tingling, while his breath puffed warm and shallow against her cheeks.

“If you don’t sit still,” he rasped, “I shall go quite mad.”

She grinned. She couldn’t help it. The sheer need driving those words unleashed a torrent of utter wickedness. Slowly, deliberately, she canted her hips. “Perhaps I want to drive you mad.”

His breath released on a hiss, and his eyes seemed to roll back for a moment. Then he seized her by the hips and turned her until she faced him. Somehow, he wedged her knees on either side of his flanks so that the delicious, hard length of him pressed just where she wanted it. “Then let’s do it up right, shall we?”

He shifted his hips beneath her, a thrust that sent a spark of pure pleasure arrowing from the apex of her thighs to her womb. Heat radiated through her limbs. She dug her fingernails into his bare shoulders, closed her eyes and arched her back.

“God, so beautiful,” he muttered, the sound a low rasp in his throat. “Just as you were last night.” He set his lips at the base of her neck and gathered her close. Through the thin layer of her cotton chemise, her nipples peaked against his chest. Warmth and power welled from him to her.

Beneath her fingertips, the muscles of his shoulders bunched. His lips slid along the column of her neck, his tongue tracing a path to the spot where her pulse raced. He nibbled, and she jerked against him. The movement elicited a groan, while sending another jolt to her midsection. Her inner muscles clenched on nothing, and her ache for him expanded.

Lord above, it would take so little to complete their joining. Nothing but a couple of flicks to release the fall
of his breeches, to release
him
. A slight adjustment, and she could sink onto him, letting her weight multiply the sensation of being utterly filled with him.

And she was ready. Heavens, she was ready.

She slid herself along his length and felt the moisture seeping from her. She repeated the motion, gasping as the knot of desire tightened in her midsection. She thought of that wonderful rush of ecstasy he’d shown her with his tongue and his fingers buried deep. It lurked within once more, elusive, but each movement brought her closer.

“Please.”

She buried her face against his chest, breathing in his scent, panting. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, stuck her to him. She closed her eyes and let herself feel. Experience. Surround herself with him. With George.

This was nothing like some hasty encounter in a darkened drawing room, each movement furtive, each sound from without like an alarm that they might be caught at any moment. Here, the world receded until only the pair of them existed, only, soon, they as a pair, as separate man and woman would cease to exist altogether.

“Please, please.”

His hand slipped along her thigh. She drew in a harsh breath in anticipation of his touch just
there
. Yes, there. Oh, yes. Oh, God, yes. His fingers parted her flesh, explored among her folds until his thumb grazed the spot.

She turned her face into his shoulder, pressed her lips against his heated skin, tasted him. He moved with her, his thumb on that bud of flesh, his erection beneath, thrusting in a mimicry of their ultimate joining. The pleasure rushed in on her, a great wave that rose, crested, and crashed until it engulfed her. Its salt filled her mouth. It tore the air from her lungs and left her gasping on a wordless scream of joy so powerful, so all-encompassing she could die of it.

Part of her, in fact, just might have.

He’d taken her fear into himself, taken her need, and now he’d taken another, far more essential part of her. Joy, pleasure, and pain combined, and she gave it. She gladly gave it for him to possess as long as he would.

And they were, as yet, clothed after a fashion. She opened her eyes. Her mouth was plastered against his shoulder, agape, her tongue tasting his skin—and something coppery. Blood.

She jerked her head upright. “Heavens. I’ve bitten you.”

His laughter vibrated through his chest. “That you did, but I believe you might still make it up to me.”

He took her hand and pressed her palm to the spot. Beneath her fingertips, his heart beat, rapid and powerful.

“Better already,” he whispered. “Just keep touching me.”

The note of harshness in his voice, the insistent thrust of his erection between her legs reminded her they weren’t finished yet. Not tonight. Tonight he wouldn’t be content with her pleasure alone. He was about to demand his due.

A tremor of renewed desire thrummed through her. Oh, yes, his pleasure would be hers, as well, the ecstasy shared and redoubled. She watched from beneath half-lidded eyes as her fingers traced along the plane of his chest, swirled a pattern through the crisp hair scattered across it.

His breath hitched. She glanced up to find his eyes closed. His fingers curled into her waist, holding her steady in his lap while she explored. Her nail grazed the raised disc of his nipple, and his grip on her tightened. She circled the tiny peak, marveling at its soft texture.

A tremor passed through him—it passed through her
as well, shuddered through her core, where they were pressed so intimately together. She thought of his tongue on her nipple when he’d kissed her breasts last night, when he’d drawn her into his mouth and suckled. Such exquisite pleasure. She tapped the tiny knot beneath her fingertip. What if …

Before her mind could complete the question, she dipped her head and licked. His entire body jerked beneath her, and a groan burst from his lips. She kissed the spot again, allowing her tongue to circle and savor the taste of him, the musky scent of his arousal. His fingers threaded through her hair, holding her in place, while she grazed the sensitive flesh with her teeth. His breath rushed between his lips in shallow pants, as if he’d run five miles.

Emboldened by his reaction, she let her hands explore further, down the ridges of his abdomen, tracing the line of hair that extended from his chest to his navel, and lower.

Lower, it disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches. Two flicks—that’s all it would take to release him from the confines. She wriggled on his lap, bringing forth another groan as her sensitive flesh tortured the length of his arousal. Her hand slipped to the left button, but unfastening it required too much concentration the way her fingers trembled with anticipation.

He grunted and stiffened. He straightened his spine—somehow he’d slumped, his back against the edge of the table. How they’d managed not to crumple into a heap was anyone’s guess.

His hand encircled her wrist. “Hold on a moment,” he rasped. “I believe we’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom. You deserve better than a tumble on a wooden bench.”

She focused on the fingers curled just above her hand. “It isn’t as if it’s my first time.”

He slid his free hand from the back of her neck to her jawline. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “It isn’t a question of first time or tenth or hundredth time. It’s a matter of what you deserve.”

“What I deserve?” she echoed. She had all she deserved in a tiny cottage in a godforsaken village in Kent. After she disgraced her family, they hadn’t even deigned to give her that much. She couldn’t deserve any more—or a hard bench or a rough wooden table or, at most, a straw-filled mattress covered in musty sheets.

“What you deserve is the finest linen, feather mattress, a canopy, velvet hangings.” He arched a brow. “Cherubs, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, not cherubs.” She tamped down the urge to giggle over his sudden, fanciful turn.