Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (30 page)

He tortured her, lingering until she screamed again, and when she thought he'd show mercy he only moved to lavish attention on the other breast. Emma dug her fingers into his scalp until he grunted and finally raised his head.

"Is there something I can help you with, Lady
Denmore
?"

"Yes, you bastard."

"That hardly smacks of contrition."

"I'm sorry!" she cried too late. Hart had already wrapped his hands around her wrists to hold them down. He bent back to his task, and Emma was helpless to resist. But something about his strength against her arms .. .

Every nerve in her body seemed to swell to tautness. Her nipples were hard peaks of sensation, her sex jumped when she rubbed against his hip. And all the while, she pushed back at his grip and found that her struggles couldn't move him an inch.

His mouth finally slid lower, trailing fire down her abdomen, then her belly. His tongue swirled around her navel, then lower. Emma held her breath until she couldn't stand it anymore, then she began to beg.

"Please, please." She felt his breath tease the skin of her belly. "Oh, please," as his chin nuzzled the dark hair of her sex.

His hands gripped harder, shooting sparks of pleasure into her blood, then finally, he kissed her
there.
Right there where she wanted him. He dragged his tongue over her wetness as Emma raised her knees and tugged against his hold.

She cried out, urging him on. She only needed a few seconds of his skilled attention . . . just a moment.

And then his hot mouth was moving on, kissing her inner thigh, biting gently at the tendon before he sucked the hurt away.

"No!" Emma screamed. "Please, Hart.
Please!'

"What are you begging for, Emma?"

"Your
"Mm." But he was moving lower, tugging her arms down to her hips, moving away from what she needed. His mouth touched the side of her knee before she snapped.

"I need you, Hart. Please. You inside me.
Please.
I want. . ."

She was rewarded quickly. His body moved up, his mouth dragging promises over her skin. His fingers curled tighter around her bones and she whimpered as she dug her heels into the bed.

"I'm sorry for what I did," she moaned, meaning every word. "I'm sorry." He'd moved too high now, he was rising above her instead of sinking down, but she didn't care. She'd started telling the truth and now she couldn't stop.

"You're the only one, Hart. The only one I've ever wanted. I need you.
Please"

He let go of her wrists and lay upon her, hands framing her face for a deep, devastating kiss. Then his hand was skimming down her belly as he raised up, his fingers were stroking her. She was sobbing.

She felt the blunt head of his erection then, nudged against her sex. "Please, Hart. I feel so . . . I need you inside, filling me."

He silenced her with a kiss as he eased inside her. Her shocked cry was swallowed in his moan as her body stretched to take him. Emma sucked in a sharp breath against the pain; she dug her fingers into his shoulders and tried to hide her distress. But she was so ready for him, she wanted him so much, and she found the pain fading to a faint burn before her tears had a chance to fall.

She blinked them back as Hart eased out only to slide deeper still.

"Emma, my God. You're . . ."

Fear spiked through her, disintegrating all other feeling for a brief, lonely moment.

His words whispered over her neck. "You're so tight. So damn hot around me."

He began to move within her and her fear was gone. Everything was gone. Everything but the over-whelming knowledge that his flesh was filling her, stretching her tight, rubbing and sliding in a slow, steady motion.

It felt so good, so good, just what she'd always wanted, and Emma realized she'd breathed the words aloud and Hart was shuddering over her. She shifted and found deeper pleasure in that, and when she wrapped her legs around him and pressed her heels to his thighs, Hart rubbed against something inside her that made her groan for more.

He gave her more, and he was whispering, murmuring words that pulled her further into a deep chasm. Words of promise and threat, tender words mixed up with the wickedest things she'd ever heard. Vile, sweet predictions of what they'd do together. And Emma was floating in a dark sea, struggling, reaching for the darkest, deepest part.

All her nerves, muscles, skin—everything—pulled tight as his shaft stroked faster.

He urged, "Yes," as she threw her head back and strained toward him. Time hung, unmoving and cruel, until finally, finally, all that tension turned in on itself, twisting together until it exploded in waves of light and dark that left her screaming beneath him.

She was still sobbing when Hart moaned her name and slid from her body. His muscles turned to stone beneath her hands; she felt the hot brand of his seed spilling against her thigh.

Her body slowly settled back to its normal state, feeling normal sensations. The coolness of the room, the dampness of their mingled sweat, the sharp burn between her thighs. And tears going cold on her cheeks.

But beyond all that was his wonderful weight against her and the heavy satisfaction of her limbs. She felt decadent. And relieved. He hadn't known. She should have done this weeks before: gotten him drunk and enraged, too angry to notice the subtle resistance of her body.

Hart gave a sleepy sigh when she stroked a hand over his hair. She stroked again, memorizing the glossy texture, the faint scent of spice and vanilla that must be his soap.

His weight lessened slightly, and his lips brushed her collarbone just before he lifted himself from her body. "It's cold." The way his chest pressed against her arm made the words rumble through her.

He twisted and turned, tugging the bedcovers from beneath them so he could pull them over their bodies. Emma nearly melted with pleasure when the warmed linens floated down to her skin. And then his strong arm was reaching over to pull her tighter to him and his knee was resting on her thigh, and she felt safe and warm and even loved. "Stay with me," he sighed. "Stay."

Emma didn't bother to answer. He was already asleep, or close enough, and it was one less lie to tell him.

By the time he woke Lady
Denmore
would be gone. Less than a ghost. She would, in fact, never have existed. But the same could not be said for her feelings or for his.

In the coming days Hart, at least, would have his hatred to protect him. Emma would have nothing but enough regret to last a lifetime.

"Tea, Your Grace."

The words floated over him, accompanied by a dull, warm light. Hart ignored both. He was exhausted and vaguely ill, and he could feel the crisp bite of cold air against his shoulder. In other words, there was no good reason to wake.

The scent of fresh, hot tea touched the air and grew stronger. Hart buried his head in the pillow, trying to escape, but he found another scent there. The faint citrus kiss of a woman's perfume.
Her
perfume.

The reason for his exhaustion—and his pounding head— crawled through his sticky mind. Emma. Emma was here. In his bed.

Even the alcohol that still clung to his brain couldn't stop his slow smile. She had finally surrendered. Or he had surrendered. He didn't know and didn't care. All he knew was that it had been intense and impossibly good.

Christ, if only he felt a little better, they could do it again right now. But his sour mouth and pounding head stopped him from reaching for her. Tea first. Lots of tea. And then perhaps he'd show her his Turkish bathing room.

He smiled once more into the pillow, and his body began to protest that it didn't need tea or time; it was ready to entertain his guest this very moment. Ready to ease her into hot water, lay her against the tile floor while steam billowed around them. Surely the warmth would help his head.

But first he'd have to raise himself up enough to reach the
bellpull
. The servants would need time to ready the bath and he'd need at least enough tea to wet his parched mouth. But he could let her sleep until then.

Plan in place, Hart managed to roll over, though it took him several minutes to force his eyes open. His valet had only cracked the curtains, but the light seemed impossibly harsh. He was too damn old to get drunk, infuriating lover or not.

Speaking of. . .

Hart reached toward her as he turned. He was still reaching to touch her when his eyes revealed the truth, the sad truth. Emma was gone. Snuck away in the night. He'd asked her to stay—he remembered that—and she'd left.

Just to be sure, he sat up to look for her scattered clothes, but the room was pristine. Even his own clothing had been retrieved and taken away to be washed and pressed. All evidence of their interlude had vanished.

He let himself fall back to the pillow; he even let himself groan out a loud, vicious curse. Had he really expected one night in his bed to transform her into a tender, obedient lover? Hart snorted at his own question. Hell, he didn't even want her tender and obedient, just here.

The bedside clock caught his eye. It was nearly one. Perhaps she'd stayed and had finally given up on him when morning ticked into afternoon.

Hell, he couldn't think.

Resigned to being awake—and alone—Hart reached for the cup of tea that steamed weakly in a narrow ray of sunlight. He didn't open his eyes again until he'd finished it, and that was only to refill the cup.

By the time someone tapped at his door, he'd finished that cup too. His head felt marginally better and his stomach showed no sign of rebelling as he called out for the servant to enter.

"Your Grace." The footman bowed and averted his eyes. "That
Stimp
fellow is here. He insists you'll want to see him."

Hart shook his head, then winced and rubbed it gingerly. "He's hours late. Send him on his way. I'll be in touch." "Yes, Your Grace."

Hart reached for the cold toast and assiduously avoided the boiled egg. He was swallowing the first bite when he noticed the stain on the bedcover. Rust red stood out in smeared blotches against the gray and green weave. The toast turned to plaster in his throat and choked him until he finally forced it down with a gulp of tea.

It's nothing,
he told himself as he wiped his watering eyes.
It's not
that,
for God's sake.

But he still rose to his knees to stare down at the small spots. Nothing really, hardly even noticeable. But definitely there. Probably she'd started her menses.

Yes, of course. And that was why she'd left before he woke.

"Of course," he said aloud, relieved at the simple answer. His pounding heart began to slow. Emma was a widow, after all, not a maid. And she hadn't behaved as if. ..

His heart turned over with its eagerness to thump faster again.

He remembered the way she'd knelt before him, ready and completely unsure. Remembered the stunning tightness of her body, even as desperate and wet as she'd been. And her strangled gasp, the painful bite of her fingernails digging into his skin. The way she'd frozen beneath him for long seconds.

"No." His own voice, full of certainty, did nothing to quell the confusion. He glanced down to his cock, to the faint streak of dried blood that marked it. "No."

It simply wasn't possible, even if she had been married to an old man. The woman had ordered him to
perform
for her; she was no innocent, blushing miss.

Hart jumped naked from the bed and snapped the
bellpull
tight. He was rifling through stacks of clean shirts when his valet entered and sounded as if he choked on his own spit.

"Your Grace!"

"I need to get dressed.
Now."
He needed answers, answers to so many things. And he wasn't going to find them in his own bedchambers. Although . ..

"When did Lady
Denmore
leave?"

"Sir?"

"What time did she leave here, and don't pretend at discretion."