The Runaway Countess (19 page)

She tossed her head in what she hoped was a lighthearted, guiltless maneuver. “And the last? You still have one finger left.”

Trent glared as he ticked off his pinky finger. “Lastly, you will come to dinner every night. Prompt, appropriately dressed and engaging.”

She wondered at that request, but did not comment. Her mind was still stuck on the words “forfeit your freedom”.

A moment passed, but when she did not protest his demands he let his attention drift from her to scour her chamber.

She stood, thinking now she could shoo him from her room and be done with the incessant questions and demands.

He did not take his leave but prowled the room like a soldier on patrol. He fingered the small marble statue of a shepherdess on the mantle then placed it down. Pulled back the silk window curtain and looked out into the inky night then let it fall closed again. He was working something out in his head, considering and piecing together.

Finally, he looked at her, his face a mask. “You still tell me nothing of the highwayman’s motivation. Why are you protecting him? You say you are upset with him, yet you guard his secrets.”

“I hide nothing.” She lifted her chin. It was all out in the open if he chose to see it.

“No, some things you hide very well, Mazie. But not for long.”

His prowling took him back before her, just an arm’s length away. She stood still, as one does when confronted with a wild animal stalking through the forest.

He cocked his head and studied her. His eyes lingered over her mouth, her hair. He was silent a long time, still considering, contemplating. Then he sighed and looked down at the thick carpet and his hot gaze landed on her bare feet.

She felt his eyes move up her calves, draped in silk. Up her restless thighs, clamped around a pulsing at her core. Up her quivering belly, across her breasts, her throat, her jaw, to her eyes.

She quaked like a leaf, her whole being touched by his gaze. She rooted both her feet, determined to survive his next attack.

“Other things you do not conceal at all, do you?” His voice slid over her like a caress, drawing goose bumps to her skin. He reached out and rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers. “Your body tells me the truth you do not want to say.”

His eyes were half-lidded, a smoky grey as his hand moved to cradle her chin. His thumb caressed her bottom lip and sent a wave of shivers down her spine.

“I can read the desire in your body. I can feel the attraction between us.”

Mazie opened her mouth to deny it, but Trent shook his head with a bitter laugh.

“There is no use denying it.” He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck and played with the small hairs there, causing her knees to falter and her eyes to close. “Neither of us wants it to be there, but so it is.”

She forced her eyes open and wet her lips with her tongue, preparing a sharp retort. She wouldn’t let him seduce her again, wouldn’t let him have that power over her. No matter what words he said, it was still just a game between them.

“Despite all of this—” he lifted his hand away in a cold, sweeping gesture that indicated the room, her, the moment, “—despite the deceit and the lies, the attraction is there.” He was still a moment. “There is nothing more that I want at this moment than to touch you. Taste you. Watch your eyes close in pleasure as I sink myself into you.”

A pulse of heat raced through her.

“But I will not.”

She exhaled. What had he said? She couldn’t be sure with the blood pounding in her ears.

He leaned to the side and retrieved his wineglass. Still intense. Aggressive. Taking up all the air in the room like a blazing fire.

He took a large sip of wine. “I wish I could say that I was immune to my desires, that I passed by your rooms at night and was not tempted to enter. The truth is I am eager to have you, to satisfy this unhealthy thirst and be done with it.”

“How-how flattering.” Her voice lacked the sharp condescension she sought.

His mouth twisted. “I am a man of principle. A man of rules, Mazie.”

She stared at that mouth, at the rise and fall of his chest laboring with his breath. What was he saying? She willed her mind to comprehend. “Why are you telling me this?” The words sounded more forlorn than she would have wished.

He took another sip of wine and let his gaze drift over her again. Frank admiration showed in his face, stark wanting and the promise of deep pleasure. She shifted on her feet and his lips widened into a smile as if he sensed the restless pulsing deep in the places she ought not to think about.

“I tell you so that you will remember who is in charge here. Who holds the control.” His tone was the low slide of gravel.

Yes, he was right.
This is just a game, Mazie.
Just a game. Slowly, she reined in her breath, pretending disinterest. Her brain screamed that this was dangerous. That she needed out. She forced her shoulders into a delicate shrug, the lighthearted motion at odds with the lava coursing through her. “If you say so.”

Trent drained his glass and put it down. Mazie felt a moment’s disappointment that their game was over so quick even as she told herself she should be relieved.

He stepped closer and dipped his head in a bow. “My lady.” He held out his hand and she placed hers in it, thinking he meant to kiss it in farewell.

He hauled her into his arms instead. A sharp tug that flattened her against his chest. He lowered his head at once, his lips covered hers, pressed with more determination than finesse. She struggled to push him away for one alarming moment, but her desire was too rampant, too loud. He was everywhere—his scent, his heat. She gathered fistfuls of clothing and pulled him close. Closer.

It was a kiss born of thunderstorms and the wild loneliness of night. It was hot, fierce and needy. Both panting, they pressed and grabbed for more. He filled her with his taste—sweet and salty, a nectar that she craved. She rubbed her tongue against his, drawing a harsh breath from his lips before he cradled her face, tilted it, kissed her deeper. And deeper still.

Then his hands were wandering over her, dragging the fabric of her dressing gown with them. Silk slid across sensitive skin, erotic and frustratingly gentle. He skimmed his fingertips across her breasts, wakening the peak of her nipples. Slid his hands to her shoulders, down her arms, and her robe fell to a pool at her feet.

The rasp of their breaths filled the room. He held her arms at her sides and stepped back, let his eyes wander over her body clad in only the exquisite, evocative lace of her nightgown. One nipple felt the raw touch of the night air and she wondered if it was exposed through the delicate lace.

But she kept her gaze on Trent. Watched him as he watched her. His eyes were dark, half-lidded as he looked his full. The muscles of his neck and shoulders bunched with restraint, he leaned forward. She pulled back. What was he— Mercy. He licked her nipple. The heat of his tongue scorched her flesh through the rough texture of lace. Again, his tongue made a rough slide across her sensitive bud. She was shaking now. Everywhere. He drew the hard bud into his mouth and sucked, sending a jolt straight though to her private flesh, making her squeeze and throb.

Her head was too heavy to hold up and she let it fall back. She ground her teeth. It was pleasure bordering on discomfort. The sensation aching and raw. Uncontrollable.

He straightened, cupped her breasts, held their weight in his hands then rubbed his thumbs over both sensitive peaks.

She cried out, a wrench of sound that filled the room.

Then she grabbed him, pulled his mouth to hers. His stubble burned sharp against her chin. He had not shaved. He was not so civilized tonight.

Desperate to touch him back, to feel him and to gather back some of the control, she slid her hands down his hard chest and unfastened the buttons of his jacket and waistcoat. With a deep inhale, savoring his scent of spice and musk, she pushed open his waistcoat and ran her hands across his hard abdomen, up his torso, across his wide shoulders. The heat of his skin burned through the soft lawn of his shirt and she felt the overwhelming need to touch his flesh.

Trent held her back an arm’s length and for one glorious moment she thought that he was going to disrobe. That he was going to reveal the planes of muscle beneath all that damned fabric.

But, his face set in rigid angles, he simply lifted her up into his arms and carried her to a nearby chair. He sat, his lips on hers, and arranged her so that she sprawled across his lap. Her legs draped across one side of the chair, and his erection pressed against her buttocks. She liked the feel of him, shocking as it was. His movements hasty now, he slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders and roughly pulled the silk and lace from her breasts.

“God, Mazie.” His voice shook as he looked at her.

Never had she felt like this, like warm chocolate wrapped in skin. Trent. It was Trent who made her feel so lovely. Trent who would not send her to Harrington. She reached up and cradled his face, stroked his hair.

He kissed the inside of her wrist, then lowered his mouth to her throat. She dropped her head back against the padding of the chair, thought only of the pleasure he was giving her. Softly, he trailed his lips across her collarbone and over the top of her breast. She was shaking, waiting for his mouth. Finally, he blew on her nipple, hot breath that had her panting. He scrapped his teeth over the sensitive bud and she arched into him, dug her hands into his hair.

Somewhere, her mind was aware that his hand was on the bare flesh of her thigh above her knee, that it was moving higher. Somehow, her knees parted to let his fingers glide up the inside of her thigh. A thousand shocks of sensation lit her from within. She grabbed his forearm, needing that bit of control.

His fingers cupped her mound. Pressed against her aching, pulsing flesh. She did not realize she held her breath until he swept deeper, deeper still, parting her damp folds. She cried out, gasped for breath. Felt a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s guilt. But he captured her lips with his own, drew her tongue into his mouth and stole her thoughts.

And his hand, oh, he did wicked things with his hand. Parted and stroked, explored and teased. She did not know she could be so soft and damp. Did not know she could be so full of ache and delight.

He stroked a point of pleasure so exhilarating that she jumped.

“Shh,” he murmured against her lips. “Easy.”

She tossed her head and spread her legs farther.

Trent made a sound that she felt rather than heard. It rolled through her, mingled with the bursting, roiling sensation demanding release. He touched her there again and her whole body tensed, arched into him.

“Trent,” she cried, clinging to his forearm, the bone and muscle thick under her hand.

He nipped her earlobe and his fingers found a rhythm, something wild and sinful, and everything in her melted. Deeper and deeper, down and down she was drawn until her whole awareness was centered on his hand touching her, his fingers circling over her aching flesh.

His lips found her nipple, pulled it into his mouth, pulled at the pulse and throb beneath his hand. Then she wound upward again and his strokes came faster. Her hand was still on his forearm and she felt the intention of his caress, the masculine gift of it.

She rolled her head against the chair, not knowing what she needed, only that she couldn’t stand more. Her heartbeat sped. His mouth teased the other breast. “Please,” she begged.

Stop. Don’t stop.

“Let go, hummingbird,” he murmured against her flesh. “I’ll catch you.”

His finger dipped into her once, twice, gathering her nectar, then around and around, he drew her higher and higher until he closed his teeth on her nipple and she shattered. Points of sensation burst through her. He lifted his head, caught her cries with his mouth, swallowed them as surge after surge of pleasure rolled through her, poured up her spine in arching waves.

Thought evaporated as she floated out into the darkness of the night.

Then down, she rested down again.

Shaken and undone, she curled in toward him, sought his comfort. They were both gasping for breath. The sound of their panting filled the room. He held her pressed against his chest, her ear over his heart so she heard the racing of his pulse. Neither moved for long minutes. Then he smoothed her skirts down over her legs, smoothed her hair back from her face and lifted his hands from her. It took the space of a few heartbeats, but finally she realized he was not going to touch her again. He was ending the embrace, ending the challenge, proving to her that he was right. That he was in control.

Cold air washed over her skin.

She pressed off his lap onto shaky legs, pulled up the straps of her gown and crossed her arms, vulnerable and ashamed by her response. “Y-you said you would not touch me.”

“No.” The word was between a pant and a growl. He looked so damn good, sitting back in the chair like a king, his hair mussed and his coats open. Mazie looked away.

“No,” he said again, drawing her gaze back to him. “I said I would not bed you. I never said I would not touch you.” His face was tense, haunted by something, then he stood and she noticed that his erection bulged against his falls.