Romancing the Rogue (17 page)

In Which Lord Devon Obeys His Wife

Wilhelm had stared
down an enemy cavalry charge with less fear.

He managed to lift Sophia in his arms and carry her into the house, up the stairs to the master suite. All while she flayed him alive with scorching kisses, heedless of his clumsy fumbling. His wife was riled; her being fierce made her all the more beautiful, and he liked the aggression. If she suffered pain from her injuries, it didn’t show.

He sat her on the bed and she wrestled his sodden trousers off. He reached behind her back and lowered the fastener on her dress, she kicked it over her ankles and onto the floor. “Wil,” she taunted in a wicked low voice.

Her gaze left his face, wandering slowly downward, and he felt it like a brand of fire. She looked at his chest, and she didn’t seem to see ruined flesh. If he hadn’t discerned arousal in her expression before, he wouldn’t believe he saw it now. Her downward perusal stopped at the waist of his drawers, and her lips pulled into a smile as she saw him at full mast, as a soldier would say. She stared pointedly, meaning,
Well, get on with it.

Deliberately he pulled the string free and peeled the fabric down over his hips
—
no mean trick with wet silk and a woman watching to make him self-conscious. Worse than self-conscious, adolescent and on the tenuous side of his self-control.

Now what?

Sophia leaned back to prop her elbows on the bed and raised a leg, toe pointed. The hem of her shift slid down her thigh, and if Wilhelm allowed himself to look, he would get an eyeful of what made those shadows. She rested the ball of her foot on his leg — close enough to his groin to make him swallow hard.

Oh. That was his cue to roll down her stockings. Yes, he did want to touch her legs, ever since he’d seen her fasten her garters that first day in the woods. He dragged his hands over her thigh down to her toes, and by the time he wrapped his fingers around the other ankle, it dawned on him that his lips could make the same circuit. He pressed a tentative kiss to the inside of her ankle. She sighed and lay back with her arms stretched over her head. Permission. Good.

He should have known she would be so responsive. Her breath hitched; she made tortured little moans, and all he did was tease the insides of her thighs. Without breaking his kiss, he rucked up her shift, pushing it up under her arms, and she pulled it off over her head. He didn’t stop to gawk, but he wanted to.
Later
. Definitely later.

She raised a knee, so he went for it — put his mouth on her before he could think about it overmuch.

Her back arched off the bed; her gasp sounded strangled in her throat. If he didn’t know better, he might think he was the first to do this to her. She sighed as he delved deeper, and he felt like Wilhelm, God of Bed Play. The fire in his head traveled south, consuming him.

Her fingers fisted in his hair and pulled a bit, which he liked. He hummed in assurance and she answered with a throaty groan. He’d never been so delirious, had no idea this pleasurable drunken state existed. It felt like a trance, the opiate-like sensation, the gratifying repetition, yet he was very much in the moment
—

Abruptly she seized, tossed her head back, and shouted through clenched teeth. Startled, he rose to see what had hurt her. Her back arched off the mattress and her lip curled in a grimace of pain. No — she sighed then sucked in a breath, her expression altering into something he had never seen before… an erotic little smile. His panic faded. So
this
is what it looked like to please a woman. He watched fascinated as her eyes sealed shut, her lips parted in a sensual
oh
shape, and she writhed under his hands for long seconds, minutes, hours — didn’t matter, the image branded on his brain. A moment of triumph, the single most inspiring event of his life.

Today she had spoken his name in anger and impatience, but now she breathed, “Oh, Wilhelm,” the same way she might have said, “
Chocolate,”
after ten years’ deprivation.

He didn’t want her to talk, so he covered her mouth in a deep kiss. Without words he tried to tell her,
I adore you.
He confessed what he didn’t dare say aloud, that she was his light, his happiness.
I would do anything for you.

He’d imagined the sensation of lying skin to skin with her, but in reality he had underestimated the dark, addicting pleasure of it. How was it she put him in mind of silk and steel and fire all at once? He laced his fingers between hers to disguise his unsteady hands.

Now he understood how the first two people on earth had managed to procreate without any instruction; the same instinct pounded the compulsion in his brain. After years of painstaking discipline, he felt like an exploding volcano, and for the first time, he welcomed it. Need roared through his mind, burned in his veins, making him want nothing else. He knew there would be no going back if he gave in to it. Exquisite temptation, and he had to taste it…

Sophia whispered his name again, music to his ears. “
Now
,”
she breathed in between gasps for breath. “Please.”

He captured her jaw in one hand and looked her in the eye. Fierce autumn hazel seared him, clouded with a dreamy ardor he had put there. So, she meant it. Praying he wasn’t making a mistake, he rose on his elbows and covered her. She pressed her knees to his flanks in a gesture of submission. Heady, how she fit in his arms, how he felt both the protector and master.

He didn’t expect resistance
—
Sophia whimpered. He darted back, she caught him by the arm, and for an awkward moment, they stared in silence at each other.

Entirely possible his technique was faulty, but it seemed more likely he had a separate problem. If his brother’s doctrine could be believed, Wilhelm was in bed with a fellow virgin. Oh, hell. “You are not…”

Oh, yes, she was. She’d been waiting for him to figure it out, and he had made an ass of himself with his assumptions. How the blazes did a man apologize for such a trespass? How would she punish him?

“Sophia, I
—
”

“Stop talking, Wil.” She urged him closer and teased him into a kiss. He half expected her to bite. “Tend to your duties, husband,” she said in a sultry voice then caught his earlobe in her teeth.

Sensation shot to his toes, detouring at his groin. He swallowed then ground out, “You are killing me, woman.”

“Now. Do it,” she whispered, sliding her hands down his chest, squeezing his tensed muscles using the tips of her nails in a combination of soothing-sting.

He had no choice but to obey.

Aggravating, feeling jolts of pleasure while she tried not to stiffen, obviously biting her lip over the pain. Luscious, hot, beyond his imaginings — this could be over very soon. He waited to move until she seemed to recover. His pulse radiated from his groin and vibrated in his head; he had only felt the like in the throes of combat when the thrill of death wielded control over his aggression. In those days, he’d responded with a battle cry and surged into the attack. That would not do here, and his body was at odds with his mind.

Finally she moved, and he followed. Like a dance, deliciously carnal, electric pleasure at every rise and fall. He meant to be gentle, but a streak of white-hot energy possessed him. The instinct to conquer overrode conscious thought. Nearly painful, to linger near the top of a summit without knowing what lay on the other side.

He felt her yield, pliant as he held her by the small of the back. Her fingers raking down his back hurled him over the edge. He didn’t mean to drive her so hard into the mattress. Dark waves slammed through him from head to toe, like a lightning strike. His vision went dark. Every muscle clenched. The most exquisite pleasure shot through his core and radiated outward, riding his pulse.

Delirious. Frenzied. A fiery-icy pleasure-pain seared his nerves. Rocked by stormy waves, crushed in a vise and stretched out on a rack, blown apart by dynamite — it nearly knocked him unconscious.

Unbearable heat, eerie tingling. Sudden weakness. He let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d held in. His hearing had cut out and slowly returned with a dull ringing sensation in his ears, echoing his erratic pulse. His voice choked on a feral groan, and his arms gave out.

He’d had no idea it was such violent business.

Sophia clawed his neck and thrashed with her knees and elbows before he understood she was in distress. He rolled away at once, but she caught him squarely in the jaw with a flailing fist as she pushed herself up and scrambled out of his arms. Her gasping for breath turned into shallow weeping. Cautiously he drew her into an embrace. She came willingly but shuddered as though cold, as though she might fall to pieces.

“Virgins always cry,”
Roderick had warned. Wilhelm had half a mind to do so himself, but he had the suspicion Sophia had just been frightened more than she had moral regrets. Guiltily he realized he’d had no comprehension of her the past few minutes. He’d lost control, awash in sensation. How long had she fought him without him noticing her panic? He’d probably crushed her, made her feel trapped, deaf to her pleas to let her go free.

Husband of the year, right here.

He did what had worked before, holding her gently and muttering in the soothing rise-and-fall patterns he used on spooked horses, coaxing her to breathe deeply in rhythm with him. His body jerked with an aftershock, making him aware of his cooked nerves, sweat-slicked skin, the warm blend of their fragrances simmered with a salty cotton scent. He drew it in, tasting it, memorizing it. A pleasant exhaustion rivaled with the insidious suggestion,
Do it again!

No, she wouldn’t want him again. He had done it wrong, as he’d known he would. Jackass. And he owed her an apology, but he wanted to wait until he could sound sincere. Now his throat felt swollen, his thoughts jumbled, and he simply felt too damned good.

He liked to think he’d just gotten her with child, but she had insisted it was impossible. Enough failure-flavored elation for one day. Wilhelm surrendered to drowsiness as he felt Sophia drift to sleep, but first he whispered three words to her. Because he wanted to, and because she wouldn’t hear.

~~~~

“Wilhelm, stop behaving
like a maudlin old woman.” Sophia cupped his shoulder and tried to roll him over. Like pushing against a boulder. “You are sulking? Ridiculous.”

In the dim morning light, she saw faint red tracks down his back, claw marks. They spread over his backside, evidence of the rabid, desperate creature he’d turned her into. It had been a good sort of delirium, until the end. But who was the one pouting? She still felt the residual tingle of pleasure in her limbs and a dull ache that could easily turn into desire if encouraged.

“I know you’re not asleep,” she warned, tracing her fingers over the scratch marks. So he refused to discuss what had happened the previous night? She reached over his hip, grabbed a handful, and rubbed a few gentle circles… then squeezed. Hard.

He launched off the bed, shouting, “Bloody
hell
, woman!” then turned with a flat glare.

She wasted no time, sliding under his arm to press herself against his front and molding her lips over his. She felt his bewilderment then acceptance as he laced his arms around her waist and kissed her back. Slowly, the strokes lazy and playful, infused with the sensuality that had possessed them the night before. It made her want him, made heat crawl through her veins, made excitement unfurl in her belly and tickle her nerves in anticipation.

And that was all.

No matter how she teased and provoked him, he merely rubbed his hands over her and kissed. The man could probably kiss for hours. Not that she meant to complain, but wasn’t it supposed to be far easier to seduce a man? Slaves to desire and void of clear judgment in the throes of passion, and all that?

If she hadn’t already been wary, she might have missed the careful way his hands behaved. He avoided her back, specifically the scars under her shoulders. No, she didn’t imagine his fingers sliding over her ribs but shifting forward before touching the tapered whip marks there. To make a point, she ducked her head and kissed the bullet scar on his shoulder. She traced the taut pink and purple welt on his skin with her fingertips, waiting for him to understand she found no shame in it.

He froze, his hands still on the small of her back. She listened to him breathe, slowly in and out until she could stand it no longer. She twisted around and sat on her ankles, presenting him a view of her back as she gathered her hair and pushed it over her shoulder.

“Look your fill, Wilhelm. Yes, it is as bad as you imagined. Worse, I wager.”

“You showed me before.” His voice was tense and deep, like a rusty hinge.

“Then why are you so bothered? Do I repulse you?” The possibility made her conscious of her nudity when moments before she had relished it. She pulled the sheet under her arms and bit her lip against the stinging in her eyes signaling tears.

“No!” He rose to fold her in an embrace, and she pushed him away. He scowled, surprised at the rejection. “Not in the least. You are my siren, lovelier than my wildest imaginings. What kind of hypocrite would I be?”

“The worst.”

He sighed in a gust and leaned back, hanging his head. “Sophie. I am sorry. Truly.” She waited while he chose his words. “I confess…”

“Yes?”

“I confess distraction.” He blurted the rest all in one breath. “Touching you arouses me. Of course. But then — it makes me insane with anger. He flayed you to the bone, Sophia. I have never seen the like, and I ordered my fair share of floggings in the army. He tried to
kill
you. He could have.” His eyes went cold, and she saw flint, a ruthlessness she’d glimpsed before. It chilled her, that hint of violence. “And I want to kill him.”

Oh. Well, what should she say to that? “You’re right. I am distracted now, too.”

“And honestly, love, I can’t bear to remind you of the abuse, not in bed like this.” He looked out the window, which was mostly covered with curtains. Anything to avoid her gaze, she guessed. “And I’m sorry I did it wrong. Frightened you, I mean. It won’t happen again. I swear.” He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, leaving her to guess what emotion he battled.

She suspected the “it” in his statement meant he would not try again. Stubborn, bull-headed man. Well, she was stubborn, too.