The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (29 page)

He appreciated Lady Amanda’s silence, even though he didn’t deserve any circumspection. There would be time enough for Amanda to tell Free what he was.

God, it was sweet to hold Free, to think of her as his wife. The brilliant smile she angled up at him was the sweetest yet. It was a shame it wouldn’t last the week.

“Shall I carry you over the threshold?” he asked, once Amanda had retrieved a valise by the doorway and taken her leave.

She smiled. “It’s my house. Maybe
I
should carry
you.”

“Don’t.” He touched his gloved hand to her cheek. “I’d hate to break you this early in the evening. I have plans for you.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, and he reached out to her.

It seemed impossible that he should have her. But he did, temporary though the state was. She rested her cheek against his hand and smiled up at him, her eyes glowing.

“One of these days,” she said, “you’ll learn that I don’t break.”

“I already knew that.” He slid his arm around her, brought her close. “Now, my most lovely Free.”

He could tell her now. Tell her that he’d lied to her all this time, that the man she’d married was both Edward Clark and some other long-gone fellow by the name of Edward Delacey. He could tell her that on the morrow, he was going to change everything.

But that light in her eyes shone for him. She stood on tiptoes, her hands resting on his shoulders, her lips breathing warmth against his jawbone.

“Now, Edward,” she said, and he was lost.

He wrapped his arms around her, picking her up and taking her into her house. He shut the door behind him with a final thump.

Tell her now.

That was his conscience speaking. He would have thought the fool thing would have learned its lesson by now. He kissed her instead, taking her head between his hands as if he could pin her in place beside him not just for the moment, but for every instant that followed, and every one after that.

“Yes,” she said against his mouth, her hands on his chest. “I can tell you’re no gentleman. You’re far too well put together.”

“The better to hold you against a wall with, my dear.” He leaned down and kissed her again, as if he could steal her breath away.

But he didn’t need to steal it; she gave it to him willingly, her arms wrapping around him, her lips melding with his, her body pressing to his without any hint of shyness.

No, Free didn’t need to be coaxed into marital relations. Her hands explored him, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, untucking the tails of his shirt. Her fingers were cool at first against the muscles of his abdomen—but he still hissed, and a jolt of lust went through him at her touch.

The way he felt about her, she should have fit perfectly against him. But she was too short by inches to kiss in comfort. That discomfort made it impossible for him to forget himself, as if the strain in his neck, the tension in his lower back as he bent down to her, was recompense for every last lie he’d given her. Kissing her was both punishment and pleasure.

“I’ve wanted you in bed for far too long,” Free said against his lips.

“Ah, God.” It ached everywhere to pull her close, to feel the curve of her waist in his hands. Not just in his tightening muscles, not only in the throb of his erection, but somewhere deep inside him.

Her lips were soft, her breath was sweet, and at least for tonight, she was his.

She took his hand in hers. Her fingers curled around his. For a moment, he felt like an innocent youth. There was nothing between them but shy, sweet desire. Nothing but want, distilled by months of aching. It was easy to follow her down the corridor, easy to open the door to her bedchamber. The curtains were open, and the sunset spilled red over the floor. Enough illumination that he could see her expression, the lovely line of her chin, the color of her hair warring with the sunset.

He slid his finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. “I want your hair down.”

She let out a shaky breath. A small smile grew on her mouth, and she shut her eyes as if she were savoring the sound of him. But when she spoke, her voice was steady.

“I have nineteen pins in my hair. You have hands. You seem perfectly capable of finding them yourself.”

“So I am.” He took off his left glove and set it on a chest of drawers. “So I am.”

The first was easy to discover; just a little bit of metal glinting above her ear. Knowing that one was there, he looked for its mate on the other side. He found it hidden behind a curl. Number three was thrust through the braided knot of hair at the back of her neck; he slid it out, leaning down so that he could place a kiss against her neck. She shivered in response. He didn’t want to let her think, and so he nibbled at her ear as his hands found numbers four through twelve. She sighed as he kissed her, leaning into him. He held her braid in place as he took out the pins. It was almost a game, to make sure never to tug on her hair, never to cause her the slightest bit of pain.

Number thirteen was tangled with a bit of soft yarn that she’d used to tie her braid in place. He removed this and pulled away from her, holding it up in front of her nose. “You said nineteen pins. You said nothing of this, my dear.”

“You’re right,” she told him with an eyebrow arched to naughtiness. “I didn’t mention any yarn at all. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“You’ll have to owe me for it.”

“How?”

“Let’s just put it on your account.” He smiled at her and went back to removing the pins. To remove the remaining ones, he had to undo her braid, run his hands through her hair. He turned her head toward him as he did and took her mouth. Their tongues met, and he lost himself in the simple act of kissing her. There should have been an urgency to it, a rush to complete the act he’d wanted for so long. But despite the throbbing pound of lust in his body, the rising tide of his desire, he felt…calm. He was soothed by her.

He found the last pin and slid his hand down her face, down the column of her neck, resting his fingers in the hollow of her throat. He could feel the beat of her pulse, hungry and insistent.

“You haven’t even taken off your other glove,” she told him, “let alone any of the good bits.”

“Ah, but there was that thread,” he told her. “That undisclosed yarn. I’m not taking anything else off, not until you’re completely bare.”

Her pulse jumped under his fingers. “Oh?” she said.

“Oh.”

“That
is
a punishment,” she said. “I had been hoping to see rather more of you.”

He almost growled. “You will. Your wish is delayed, not denied.”

She smiled at him. “Then I suppose I should take off everything.”

He hadn’t been sure what to expect—really, he didn’t care what path they traveled on, so long as they were intent on the same destination. But this… oh,
this.
She smiled at him, and he thought his heart might stop. Then she undid the buttons of her cuffs, and then her coat. She removed it, revealing a gown of dark gray. God, he was going to go mad with want. She unfastened the sash, reached behind, and loosened her laces. And then she pulled off the fabric in one swift motion, revealing corset and petticoats, and another two inches of her bosom. Her corset was cut so close to her nipples that if he’d slid his tongue along her neckline, he would have felt the pebbling, responsive edge of them.

Still she didn’t hesitate. She unhooked her corset, loosening it enough to lift it off her frame. And then he
could
see her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift, pink and perfect and lovely. His breath was growing hoarse, but she didn’t stop. She unbuttoned her petticoats, let them fall heavily to the floor. The last daylight shone through her chemise, illuminating her legs. Bloomers came off next—then she pulled off her chemise.

“There,” she said. “Is that bare enough for you?”

It was. Her skin was smooth and naked, all curves of breast and hip. Darker red curls between her legs beckoned him to come closer. His whole body seemed wound tight. There was just that hint of bravado in her voice, that upward tilt of her chin. Those were the only signs that she felt any nerves at all. She faced him, though, as if she were sure of herself, sure of
him
. He never, ever wanted her to doubt.

And God, how she would.

“No,” he said. “It’s not bare enough for me. Not yet. Let me show you how it’s done.” And so saying, he guided her to the bed, pushed her to sit on the edge. “Spread your knees, lovely one.” She blinked at him, and after a moment, she did.

He knelt between her legs. “
This
is bare enough for me.” And so saying, he set his mouth to her sex. She was sweet and wet, and she let out a shaky breath as his lips spread her open, as his tongue darted out and claimed her.

“Edward.” It was not quite a question, not quite a response.

“Tell me if you like it,” he said, and slid his tongue up to find the nub of her nerves.

She let out a gasp. “Oh my God, I…do. Yes. Right there.”

He spread her knees wider and leaned in, finding the rhythm of her body. The catch of her breath; the rise of her chest. The pulse of her clitoris against his lips, the taste of her desire. It matched the flow of blood to his own body, the want that was swelling his cock. She was utterly bare to him, every impulse, every desire impossible for her to hide. Her hips flexed up to meet him; her hands tangled in the length of his hair, urging him on. He could feel the flush of her pleasure as it rose on her skin, that delicious warmth spreading throughout her. He could taste the slickness of her sex, growing wetter with every stroke of his tongue. He could sense her orgasm, coming swiftly upon her, flowing over her until her hands clenched and she cried aloud. Her thighs pressed hard against him. He growled and took it all, every last bit.

And then—when her breath died down, when the last of her cries faded from the air—he took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He undid his shirt, the buttons of his trousers. He felt impossibly eager. And yet he seemed to be moving slowly through treacle, as if there was a solemn deliberation to his actions. Her eyes opened and she watched him stepping out of his trousers, sliding down his smallclothes. He folded these, setting them atop everything else.

He was hard, so hard. He knelt on the ground before her, set his hands on her knees.

“Is this…” she said. “Is this how we’re going to do this?”

“Like this,” he told her, and fitted his cock against her sex. “Exactly like this. Slowly. Tell me if it hurts, and we’ll give it time.”

She nodded. “I had thought it would be different.”

“This way, I can watch you,” he said. “And if I’m on top of you, I can’t use my hands.”

“Oh.”

“I very much want to use my hands.”

“Oh.” That was said in the back of her throat, at almost a purr. He felt it in the base of his cock.

So he used his hands, sliding his fingers between her legs, testing the slickness of her. She was ready and aroused; he rubbed the head of his cock in her juices, luxuriating in the feel of her. When she moaned and lifted her hips to him, he slid an inch into her. God, she was so tight around him. The feel of her body, warm and wet around his, pressing all around him, was the second sweetest thing he’d ever experienced. The look in her eyes—that starry, trusting look—was the sweetest.

“All right?” he asked.

“Better than all right.” She smiled at him.

He slid in another inch. She felt good, so good. “Lovely weather we had today.”

She laughed. “The weather? Are we really talking about the weather? Now?”

“I told you. I want to be in complete control. We can talk about the weather, or I could think about how amazing it feels to sink my cock into you.” God, she felt so good. Better than anything he had imagined. “And then it will all be over too fast.”

“So it would ruin everything if I talked about how this felt?” she asked. “About how delicious it is to run my hands along your shoulders. How much I want your thighs against mine. I could tell you that I’m still sensitive everywhere from what you did before, and that you’re driving me mad, going as slowly as you are.”

“Free.” His cock pulsed in protest.

“You keep acting as if I will break.” She smiled up at him. “Here’s a secret.”

He dropped his head to hers.

“I plan to do just that,” she whispered. “To break in pieces, and I insist on having your help in getting there.”

It was too much for him. He took hold of her hips and slid all the way in, seating himself deep inside her. She made a noise deep in her throat, and he was lost. Lost in the feel of her, lost in the certainty of her. He slid out and then in. He’d thought of claiming her, but it didn’t feel that way at all. He was the one driving into her, but it was her touch on his face that undid him. He set the pace, but her muscles tightened around him, squeezing him, and he lost any control he’d had. He took her hard and unrelenting, no sweet words, no pauses to make certain that she was well.

But he didn’t need her to tell him in words. He could hear it in her breath, feel it as he brought his hand between them, found that sensitive nub he’d worried earlier. She was gasping now. He brought up his right hand—still gloved—and found her breast. Her nipple was hard against his touch; she threw her head back.

More. More. She needed more, and he gave her all of him, every thrust, every breath, every last caress, until she convulsed around him again. And then he gave her everything in return, spilling into her, his mind turning to nothing but light, nothing but her.

Breath returned first as his body calmed. Then, slowly, his thoughts returned, one by one, like reluctant fowl returning to the hen house. He needed her. He adored her. And when she found out who he was, she was going to hate him.

He pulled away from her heavily. She swung her legs onto the bed, reached out, caught his hand. And before he knew it, she’d pulled her back to him. Her lips brushed his collarbone, his neck. His mouth. He had no choice in the matter. He had to kiss her.

The sun had set by now, and early moonlight spilled across her face, across that lovely, delicious smile that he’d won from her. She reached out and tangled the fingers of her right hand with his left.