Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (22 page)

She’d left but one lamp burning low, and it cast her in provocative shadows. He liked that she wasn’t modest, that she was already comfortable enough with him that she felt no need to be coy.

“Please, do close the door,” she said, and only then did he realize that the sight of her had stopped him dead in his tracks, his hand gripping the door handle. He closed the door, shed his trousers, and strode over to the bed. Her second time should be gentle as well, he thought. But it wasn’t going to be. He had envisioned her beneath him for hours now. He craved the feel of her hot velvety tightness closing around him.

When he was near enough, he cradled her jaw, lowered his head, blanketed her mouth with his, and came very close to losing all control. The taste of her made him more heady than his finest Scotch. His body cried out for him to whisper the words, “Touch me,” but he didn’t dare, for fear that the madness would come upon him and he would cause her to suffer. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, and yet he knew that he already had. Selfishly, he had carried her onto the path that made it unlikely that she would ever have the husband and children she wanted.

Children. Damnation! He’d brought sheaths with which to cover himself, to ensure he didn’t give her the children out of wedlock that she didn’t want, but they remained in his jacket. He should return for them but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her at that moment.

He skimmed his hands over her, parted her thighs, felt the molten heat, and realized she was anticipating what was to come. He’d done so little, yet she was ready. Her moans and sighs echoed around him.

Her hands skimmed through his hair, and he groaned with the sensation of her scraping her nails over his scalp.
Stop her, stop her
. But he didn’t. One minute more. But it wasn’t long enough. When had time become so short? Why did it encompass an eternity when he wasn’t with her, yet hurtled along as fast as a train when he was? He wanted to slow it down, make it last forever.

Her fingers flexed, tightened, pressed—

Grabbing her wrists, he broke off the kiss. Locking her wrists together with one hand, he carried them over her head as he climbed onto the bed and positioned himself at the core of her heat. He kissed a trail along the top of her necklace, then below it. With his free hand, he balanced himself over her and slid into the molten recesses. He almost closed his eyes with the marvelous sensations that swelled up within him, but that would have denied him the sight of her.

Rocking against her, he knew the moment that pleasure took hold for her, the wonder of it traveling over her face. Her thighs squeezed his hips. He bore it because he wouldn’t deny her the journey. He was grateful that she was so responsive, quick to settle into the rhythm of their mating.

Lost in the wonder of her, he rode her fast and hard until she was crying out and arching against him. Only then did he let himself go, give the myriad burgeoning sensations the freedom to rip through him, take his breath, his reason, his thoughts. To consume him.

E
velyn feared her wrists might be bruised in the morning. She knew he hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping her when he bucked against her with his final thrusts. Locked in her own web of passion, she hadn’t noticed it either until she’d gotten up to clean herself and fetch the silk robe that he’d had sewn for her. He’d slipped into his trousers, and now sat with his back against the headboard, his ankles crossed, as he ate a meat-filled pastry. The tray of food rested between them on the bed. At least he hadn’t left immediately. Although based on the way he watched her, she suspected they’d have another rousing round before he did.

“I like the necklace,” she said.

“I’ll bring you another tomorrow.”

He said it as though there was nothing special about it. It was simply a thing to be given. As she was just a woman to be taken.

“You’ve given me so much already, you don’t have to give me jewelry.”

He stopped chewing, studied her as though seeing her for the first time. “Mistresses are supposed to want things.”

“Rafe, I’m not here to get things out of you. I’m here because I want to be.”

“What do you mean, you want to be?”

“I like being here. I like the residence. I like the servants. I even like you, as impossible as that may sound.”

Averting his gaze, he reached for a strawberry. “I’ve given you no reason to like me.”

“I suppose that’s true enough.” Only it wasn’t. He’d rescued her from Geoffrey, protected her, always seemed intent on ensuring she had what she needed, even if he did it in a high-handed manner. Even that high-handed manner was becoming endearing to her.

“What do you do when you’re not here?” she asked.

“Purchase you jewelry.”

She rolled her eyes. “I assume you go to your club. What do you do there?”

“Boring things. Look over ledgers, calculate the money coming in, the money going out, make adjustments so always more is coming in than going out. Decide the liquor to be bought, the games to be added, the ones to be taken away. Determine which lords need to be spoken to about their debt.”

“Did you speak to Geoffrey? I know he owed you.”

He nodded. “That’s the reason I was in attendance that night. He wanted to demonstrate his plan to ensure that he paid off his debt. I was there to only observe, but when you walked through the door . . . you fairly took my breath.”

She sat up. “You barely gave me the time of day.”

“Never let anyone know how badly you want something. It gives them an advantage.”

She tried not to give more credence to his words than they deserved. He meant that he wanted to bed her, not that he wanted her for herself. “You didn’t tell me how you came to have the scar on your thigh.”

“It doesn’t make for a very entertaining story.”

“I’m not interested in entertainment. I long to know about you.”

He picked up the nearly empty tray and carried it over to a table. When he returned to the bed, he stretched out on his back, shoved one arm beneath his head, and stared at the canopy. Rolling onto her side, she studied his profile.

“It happened after my brothers had made their way back to London. Sebastian had reclaimed the title, returned to Pembrook with his new bride, and asked me to look after the London residence. One night I saw a silhouette lurking about, so I went to confront the intruder. He fired a bullet into me before I realized he had a pistol.”

It took her a moment to understand that he thought he was finished telling the story. “So then what happened?”

He turned his head to the side and looked at her. “You asked how I came to have the scar. That’s how I got it.”

“But how did you get away? Why was he there?”

“Our uncle hired him and his two mates to do away with us. They came out of the shadows. I beat them to a bloody mess until they were unconscious.”

“While you were wounded you managed to overcome all three of them.”

“I was angry. They tried to murder Sebastian. If he dies, Tristan becomes duke. He’s killed? I become duke. I don’t want to become duke.”

“I think you would make a marvelous duke.”

He scoffed. “I have no patience with Society and it has none with me. But you on the other hand—” He rolled onto his side, slipped his hand inside the silk, and cupped her breast. “I have quite a bit of patience for you.”

“I don’t know about that. Things went rather quickly earlier.”

“They will again, I suspect,” he murmured just before he leaned in and kissed her.

He tasted of strawberries this time, and she couldn’t determine if she preferred the fruit over the heady taste of his liquor. The spirits seem to suit him more; the other seemed far too innocent for one such as he.

Without breaking off the kiss, he deftly unknotted her sash and spread her robe wide so he could have easier access to everything he wanted, and it appeared he wanted everything. She had to admit that he was a considerate lover. With an understanding now of how things were between a man and a woman, she was well aware that he could have taken his own pleasure without giving any to her. While she thought it would increase her enjoyment to be able to engage him fully—holding him, climbing over him, rolling about with him—she couldn’t fault him for giving her what he could.

She didn’t want her hands clamped together this time so she refrained from reaching out to touch him, but it was difficult, so difficult not to touch, not to feel the warmth of his flesh, the softness of his hair.

He lurched from the bed, and she bit back the cry of protest. Of course, he needed to rid himself of his trousers. While he was about that, she worked her way out of her robe completely and tossed it onto the floor.

When she turned back to him, he was standing there magnificently displayed, the flickering flame in the lamp sending light and shadows dancing over him. She rose up on her knees, sat back on her heels, and simply appreciated the sight of him, of what she longed to touch.

With a devilish grin, he crooked a finger at her. With widened eyes, she wondered if he’d managed to read her thoughts, if he knew her deepest desires resided in sharing more with him. “What are you thinking?”

“Just come here.”

She scooted to the edge of the bed, made to get off of it, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Lay back, your legs dangling over the edge.”

She’d be so extremely exposed, and while he’d seen all of her, touched all of her, to do as he asked made her feel vulnerable. Yet how could she deny him, and she wondered when his wants and needs had begun to take precedence over hers. She did as he asked, lay back, and stared at the canopy.

He skimmed his warm roughened hands over her, and she slid her gaze down to his. At least he allowed her to hold his gaze.

“You’re perfect, you know,” he said.

“Careful. You’re beginning to sound like that poetry you abhor.”

“You’re far more comfortable with me than I’d ever hoped you would be.”

She was far more comfortable with him than she’d ever expected to be. But she sensed that he was not nearly as comfortable with her. Oh, when it came to the physical, certainly he had no qualms about baring his flesh to her, but it was his soul she longed to see, his heart she yearned to find.

Kneeling, he gently parted her thighs and buried his face against her soft curls. She sighed in bliss. She dearly wanted to rub her soles up his back, over his shoulders. Instead, she pressed her tongue against her upper lip and fought to concentrate on her own escalating pleasure instead of what she might give to him.

With his tongue, he worked his magic, circling and stroking. Oh, the wicked, wicked man. Welcoming the sensations rioting through her, she dug her fingers into the sheets. Glorious, glorious. She wondered if he was spoiling her for any other man.

She thought she might be beginning to understand why a woman was ruined if she was bedded before she was wedded. Having known one man, would a wanton forever compare the next to the one who’d come before?

With his hands, he kneaded her breasts, and the sensations tripled, quadrupled, threatened to overwhelm her, to bring tears to her eyes. It felt so good. She shouldn’t allow it to be so, but she could no more deny herself the gift he gave her now than she could deny the acceptance of the pearls.

When she thought she could stand no more, her body folded in on itself, raising her back off the bed before slamming her into a whirlwind of pleasure that had her crying out. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched as he rose to his feet like some sort of god emerging from desire, his face set in a mask of determination, his nostrils flaring, his eyes burning with want, want of her. Cupping her thighs, he brought her nearer before plunging into her with one bold sure stroke.

She was fascinated by the pumping of his hips, the undulating of his flat stomach. She could see him so much clearer from this position: the tautening of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth, the flopping of his hair against his brow. The muscles bunching in his arms as he adjusted her position, held her legs.

Throwing his head back, he growled low, slamming into her with his final thrusts. His body was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes were closed tightly, his lips parted, his breathing harsh. While she thought it inconceivable, he’d never looked more beautiful—in a barbaric sort of way. Untamed, uncivilized. Fierce.

When he finally opened his eyes, they shone with the victory of a conqueror. He took a deep breath before slowly extricating himself from her. Her legs weak, she scrambled back. He fell onto the bed, stared at the canopy, his breathing still labored. She thought if she were allowed to place her hand on his chest that she would feel his heart pounding, fast and furiously.

One of them should say something. Instead, she remained silent, curled on her side, and simply watched him, wondering all the while what sort of musings traveled through his mind.

S
he was going to be the death of him. She was different from the others. He tried to convince himself that it was because of her innocence, because she was his mistress, because she was supposed to be different.

But it was her, the essence of her, not whatever label he’d given to her to make her less dangerous. It was the manner in which she trusted him, the way she opened herself up to him, the unaffected way she responded. She was honest, pure, even now.

He feared he would come to care for her. Along that path lay disaster.

Rolling his head to the side, he discovered she’d fallen asleep. As gently as possible, without disturbing her, he reached down, grabbed the blankets, and brought them slowly up over her. She released a soft sigh, and snuggled in against them.

He experienced a sharp pain in his chest as though his heart had ceased its beating. How desperately he wanted her snuggling against him, her hand furled on his chest, her breath stirring the fine hairs.

What a fool he was. He needed to stop this mooning about. She was nothing more than a convenience, a very lovely one to be sure, but the means to an end, not the end itself. She was spoiling him, however. When he was done with her, he would acquire another mistress. He discovered that he rather enjoyed the expediency and accessibility of having a woman at his beck and call. When the need struck, she was there.