Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (12 page)

He smoothed down her skirts then drew her up against his chest, his arm a steel vise around her ribs, firmly supporting her. She felt breathless and physically drained, her mental faculties dulled and disoriented.

“Is it over?” she managed, feeling suddenly bereft and strangely impolite. Surely her body couldn’t take any more. But, “I didn’t give you any pleasure.”

“No pleasure?” he echoed. He gave a harsh laugh. “Angel—” A muscle worked in his jaw and he stopped suddenly, as though to collect himself. He took a breath, then let it out slowly. “You gave me pleasure.”

Really? How remarkable. Slightly confused, but pleased nonetheless, she snuggled contentedly, drowsily, against his chest. “Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Brooks?”

“Jonathon.”

She smiled. “Jonathon.” The word came out in a soft, sultry purr, a warm whisper against the bare skin of his chest.

“Tell me what?”

“How wonderful life could be.”

She could feel, rather than see, his smile. Not loosening his grip on her, he shifted lower, readjusting her weight so that she was lying atop him. Then he pulled the quilt around them both. “Goodnight, angel.”

Chapter Fourteen

Bounder. Rake. Scoundrel. Cad. Ridiculous, antiquated words. Words of his mother’s generation—no, his
grandmother’s
generation. Words that had always applied to men other than himself. Until now. Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, was no paragon of moral virtue. He’d never claimed to be. He liked to drink, he liked to gamble, and he liked to bed women. Sins all, but he never hurt anyone but himself.

But as he watched the morning light filter into the bedchamber, something gnawed away at his conscience. Not remorse. Never that. What troubled him was what would happen once they reached London. Although he couldn’t define precisely what he and Brianna shared, he recognized that it was both fine and fragile. Surely it would shatter beneath the weight of their separate lives and responsibilities.

And then what?

He shifted slightly, turning his attention to the woman who lay curled up next to him in bed. Brianna's back was fitted snugly against his chest, and her derriere pressed tightly against his hips. Her body was warm and silky soft, her breathing low and steady. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was still fast asleep. Jonathon couldn't blame her for being tired. They had made love all night, and neither one of them had fallen asleep until just before dawn.

She murmured something in her sleep and shifted slightly against him. As she moved, her long, dark hair spilled over her pillow and swept across his chest. Her bottom pressed warm and inviting against his groin. Jonathon felt himself grow hard, wanting her almost as badly as he had last night. He traced his fingers lightly over her breasts, contemplating waking her up and making love to her again.

He loved the way she made love. The way she melted into his arms with such innocent sensuality. He had had lovers with more practiced expertise, but never had he been with a woman who moved him the way Brianna did. She stripped him of all his defenses and cynicism, demanding as much from him as she gave of herself. The finer points of lovemaking could be taught, but not something like that. Mrs. Brianna Donnelly was a rare find, indeed.

She lay on her side, facing away from him, her body all soft valleys and winsome curves. But not entirely naked. Neither was he. Their clothing was arrayed haphazardly on their bodies, some pieces tightly fastened and secure, other garments missing entirely—as though they’d been victims of some rare, exotic storm.

Jonathon gently lifted her hair, letting its silky softness cascade through his fingers. Brianna woke. She rolled over to face him. She didn't cover herself or brush his hand away, as he feared she might. Instead, her dark brown gaze locked on his, wide and doe-like. As usual, her face was a canvas for her emotions. He read shy surprise in her expression, as well as something that looked very much like pleasure.

“Did you know that your skin glows like honey in the morning light?” he said. “And your eyes shine like ripe currants.”

She pulled a face at that. “I thought currants were red.”

“Not after they’re baked,” he defended lamely.

She gave another light laugh. “Women want eyes like emeralds. Eyes as blue as a sapphire sky. Eyes that glow like amber. My eyes remind you of a fruit that’s baked in a pie.”

“I didn’t mean—”

She waved him off. “It doesn’t matter. Truly.”

Jonathon cringed at his unparalleled ineptness. What was wrong with him? In London, he was known for his glib tongue, his natural facility to charm, cajole, and flatter. But with this woman he was stripped bare, reduced to the clumsy utterances of a boy just out of knickers.

“Did you realize that you always use food as a way to describe me?” she continued. “Either you’re constantly hungry, or you simply want to devour me.”

He thought about that. As a rule, while he had a natural appreciation for the feminine sex, he generally admired women from afar. He liked their grace and beauty, the feminine curve of their bodies, their lilting voices, and the comely sway of their hips.

But Brianna stirred something deeper, something far more primal in him. She was honeyed skin, eyes as dark as baked currants, and hair the color of cinnamon. All heat and spice and lusciousness. An exotic treat created just for him. He wanted to lick her, suck her, taste her. Just the scent of her skin stirred an unquenchable hunger within him. Everything about her was a temptation. He wanted his mouth on her at all times.

He imagined thrusting his throbbing cock through the shadowy cleft of her breasts. He imagined running his hands all over her luscious little body. Resting the ripe plum tip of his penis on her lower lip. Kissing her thighs. Sucking her nipples until they grew as tight and hard as newly ripened berries. Driving into her tight, hot sheath over and over until he came with an explosive force.

Everything about the woman brimmed with untapped, erotic potential. He recalled the powerful effect it had had on him when she’d moistened her lips, closed her eyes, and tilted back her head to offer him a kiss. Her gasp of shocked surprise when he’d planted his lips on her quim instead.

Jonathon was not a man naturally drawn to innocents. (Despite her marriage, he suspected her sexual knowledge could fill a thimble). And therein lay the trouble. He preferred a bedmate fully schooled in the art of sexual pleasure. Seductresses who liked to flirt and tease, who made a game of sexual intercourse.

Clearly that category did not include Brianna. Jonathon knew that she was anything but the experienced sexual sophisticate he preferred. She was far more dangerous. A woman like Brianna would give everything she had to give—and demand that Jonathon give something of himself in return.

Even now, she studied him with an expression he couldn’t begin to interpret.

“Regrets?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“What are you thinking about?”

“London,” she replied, a wistful edge to her tone. She rolled onto her belly and propped her chin on her fist. Her hair was thoroughly mussed, her cheeks flushed, and her dark eyes glistened. He could see the outline of her ass through the sheer fabric of her drawers—as ripe and round and delectable as an apple.

Damnation. There he went again with the food analogies.

“Once we reach the city,” she continued, “I’ll have an employer and my behavior will once again be scrutinized. Now I can taste a bit of freedom, and it’s delicious. I want to savor it.” She looked at him. “Is this what it’s like to be a man? To be able to do whatever you want, without fear of rapprochement? It’s remarkable.”

He sidestepped the question and brushed his palm along the quilt, settling it on the rounded, enticing curve of her ass. The temptation was simply too great to resist. “I, for one, am very glad you’re not a man.”

“Me, too.”

“Brianna,” he began, then stopped. Sobered. “You should know I can’t promise you anything of a lasting nature.”

She drew back and looked at him. Arched one delicate dark brow. “Why, you arrogant sot.”

“What’d I say?”

“Neither can I promise
you
anything of a lasting nature. How do you know that you won’t tumble truly, madly, deeply in love with me, only to be left broken-hearted when we go our separate ways in London?”

True enough, he supposed. Except for the fact that they’d already discussed this. Love didn’t factor into it.

Jonathon knew himself better than that. He knew what motivated him. For all his breezy charm and glib smiles, the icy organ that comprised his heart remained remarkably unaffected by sentiment, while the organ between his legs was a hot-headed, randy bastard, ruthlessly eager to jump at nearly every opportunity that presented itself. His cousin Richard had been right on that score. Despite his vast wealth and privilege, he was a shallow, undeserving fool.

Blissfully unaware of the direction his thoughts had moved, Brianna continued, “So it’s agreed, then. Whatever passes between us now is just…an adventure. Perhaps not a Grand Adventure on the order of the
Prince of Thorncastle
, but an adventure nonetheless. An adventure that ends once we reach London.”

So saying, she offered him one slender hand, as though to shake on it. Setting terms. Bloody hell. His heart—that block of ice tucked within his chest—melted just a bit. He’d never shaken a woman’s hand before bedding her. She slipped her small, dainty hand in his. With sudden clarity he realized that what had seized him earlier hadn’t been remorse, but alarm. This was a woman he actually could fall head-over-heels, shamelessly, recklessly, hopelessly, in love with.

“There,” she said. “Now everything’s settled.”

Nothing
was settled. At least not in Jonathon’s mind. A score of unprecedented emotions tumbled through his mind, but he resolutely pushed them aside. Later. He would think on it later. A hunger to touch her so intense it bordered on greed possessed him, taking precedence over any words they might say.

Gently, almost experimentally, he stroked his fingers along the satiny skin between her cheekbone and her jaw, tracing the delicate hollow of her cheek. Then he moved on, caressing her chin, the base of her neck, and the fragile line of her collarbone. Her skin felt like satin, unbelievably soft and warm. Brianna didn't move while he touched her. She sat immobile, her eyes locked on his, as though she were uncertain what to do.

"Do you like that, Brianna?" he asked. "Do you like the way I touch you?"

For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then she admitted in a guilty, almost breathless whisper, "Yes."

"I'm glad "

"I'm . . . surprised," she said, in a voice that was filled with wonder.

She looked more than surprised, but Jonathon didn't pause long enough to decipher the emotions reflected in her expressive eyes.

He lifted his fingers to her mouth, gently tracing her lips. For some reason, that seemed to break the spell that she had been under. Brianna let out her breath in a soft gust of air that held both surrender and release. A slight, almost imperceptible shudder ran through her. She turned her cheek into his hand and pressed her lips gently against his palm. The kiss was soft and feather light, like a kitten nuzzling his hand.

That sweet, artless kiss broke something in Jonathon. Once again, the cool aloofness with which he held the world at bay seemed to melt beneath Brianna's touch.

He slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her with all the eager hunger and restless ardor of an untried schoolboy. Brianna wrapped her arms around his neck, matching his hungry ardor with her own. She rocked against him, kissing him with a passion and intensity that left Jonathon nearly breathless.

In the early morning glow that enveloped them, her rich, exotic features ripened to an even deeper beauty. Her hair was more vibrantly auburn, her eyes a darker brown, her lips fuller and infinitely more seductive. Even her curves, hidden beneath layers of quilt and bedding, seemed more pronounced. He noted the gentle swell of her hips, the narrow expanse of her waist, and her high, pert breasts.

He held her tightly in his arms as he kissed her chin, her cheek, the pearly-pink lobe of her ear, then gently trailed hot, loving kisses down the nape of her neck. She gave a gasp of pleasure and tilted back her head, giving him full access to the warm, sensitive skin beneath her ear.

She was exactly what he needed her to be, sweet and yielding, wild and exciting, exhibiting the same passion and heat in her sensuality as she demonstrated in her everyday life. He felt his blood boiling with the rapid awakening of hot, sexual desire.

Jonathon had always priding himself on being a considerate lover, seeing to a lady’s needs before his own. Not this time. His heart raced, his pulse drummed unsteadily. Aware he was being swept away, moving too fast, he grabbed hold of sanity and forced himself to slow down. He drew back and searched her eyes. “Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me now and we can stop. There is a point we’ll go past—”

“I want you,” she said. “Please.”

Stark relief exploded within his chest. Thank the Lord Almighty. He grasped her hand in response and pressed a light kiss in the center of her palm. Their eyes met. She smiled softly, then pulled her hand away and let it rest against his chest. His muscles quivered in response to her touch. His cock swelled. He’d bed skilled lovers before, but none had had the effect on him that Brianna had.

As he’d noted earlier, they’d fallen asleep in a state of shabby undress, their clothing half-on, half-off. He was eager to correct that. He would settle for nothing less than direct, skin-on-skin contact. While his lips lightly skimmed her throat, he moved his hand to her blouse and slowly began to release the buttons, one by one.

He pulled the soft linen garment off her shoulders, leaving Brianna in nothing but a simple cotton undershirt. But that plain undershirt was a thousand times more enticing than any piece of frilly lingerie Jonathon had ever seen. Her breasts strained against the fabric, small, feminine globes that he ached to hold in his hands. Her nipples stiffened to ripe, tiny peaks, their dark berry color visible beneath the thin garment.

Apparently eager to perform the same task for him, Brianna reached for his trousers, working the buttons free. The light brush of her fingertips against the cloth caused his penis to swell to a point near pain. They moved at an unhurried pace, stripping each other of their unwanted garments. Stockings, socks, blouse, chemise, drawers, shirt, skirt, and trousers landed in a careless pile at the foot of the bed. Finally they were both naked.