by Lisa Kleypas
“I understand.” Beatrix pulled the combs from her hair, tossed them into the pile of discarded lavender silk, and shook out the gleaming sable locks. And she gave him a look that caused every hair on his body to lift. “I know you think that I don’t understand, but I do. And I need this as much as you do.” Slowly she unhooked her corset and dropped it to the floor.
Dear God. How long it had been since a woman had undressed for him. Christopher couldn’t move or speak, just stood there aroused and starving and mindless, his eyes eating up the sight of her.
As she saw the way he watched her, she disrobed even more deliberately, drawing the chemise over her head. Her breasts were high and gently curved, the tips rose colored. They bounced delicately as she bent to remove her drawers.
She stood to face him.
Despite her audacity, Beatrix was nervous, an uneven blush covering her from head to toe. But she watched him closely, taking in his reactions.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, slim and lithe, her legs sheathed in pale pink stockings and white garters. She devastated him. The sable locks of her hair draped over her body, hanging down to her waist. The little triangle between her thighs looked like rich fur, an erotic contrast to her porcelain skin.
He felt weak and brutal at the same time, desire pumping through him. Nothing mattered except getting inside her . . . he had to have her or die. He didn’t understand why she had deliberately pushed him over the edge, why she wasn’t frightened. A rough sound was torn from his throat. Although he made no conscious decision to move, somehow he had crossed the space between them and seized her. He let his splayed fingers travel over her back, down to the curve of her bottom. Pulling her high and tight against him, he found her mouth, kissing her, almost savaging her.
She yielded completely, offering her body, her mouth, in any way he chose. As his mouth possessed hers, he reached farther between her thighs, forcing them to part. He found the tender pleats of her sex. Parting the softness, he massaged until he found wetness, and slid two fingers into the supple heat of her. Gasping against his mouth, she strained higher on her toes. He held her like that, tightly impaled on his fingers as he kissed her.
“Let me feel you,” she said breathlessly, her hands working at his clothes. “Please . . . yes . . .”
Christopher fought with his waistcoat and shirt, sending buttons scattering in his haste. When his upper half was bared, he enfolded her in his arms. They both groaned and went still, absorbing the feel of it, their skin pressed together, her breasts softly abraded by the hair on his chest.
Half dragging, half carrying her to the settee, he lowered her to the cushioned upholstery. She landed in a slow sprawl, her head and shoulders propped against one corner, one foot coming to the floor. He was there before she could close her legs.
Running his hands along the stockings, he discovered they were made of silk. He had never seen pink stockings before, only black or white. He loved them. He stroked along her legs, kissed her knees through the silk, untied the garters and licked the red marks they had left against her skin. Beatrix was quiet. Trembling. As he let his lips stray near the inside of her thigh, she squirmed helplessly. That wanton little movement of her hips maddened him, made him frantic.
He unrolled her stockings and stripped them away. Drugged with arousal, he glanced along her body up to her passion-drowsed face, her half-closed eyes, her dark cascading hair. He pushed her thighs open with his hands. Breathing in the erotic perfume of her body, he ran his tongue through the soft triangle.
“Christopher,” he heard her beg, and her hands pressed urgently against his head. She was shocked, her face deeply flushed as she realized what he was going to do.
“You started this,” he said thickly. “Now I’m going to finish it.”
Without giving her a chance to protest, he bent over her again. He kissed his way into the soft, secret hollow, spreading her with his tongue. She moaned and drew up tightly, her knees bending and her spine curving as if she wanted to gather her entire body around him. He pushed her back, pressed her wide, and took what he wanted.
The entire world was nothing but delicate shivering flesh, the taste of a woman, his woman, her intimate elixir more powerful than wine, opium, exotic spices. She moaned at the tender traction of his tongue. Her responses became his, her every sound tugging at his groin, her desperate quivers sinking into him with darts of fire. He focused on the most sensitive part of her, tracing slowly, bewitched by the wet silk. He began to flick steadily, taunting her, driving her without mercy. She went still, tensing as the feeling came rolling up to her, and he knew that nothing existed for her except the pleasure he was giving her. He made her take it, and take it, until her sharp breathing turned into repeated cries. The climax was stronger, deeper, than anything he had given her before . . . he heard it, felt it, tasted it.
When the last spasm had left her, he pulled her farther beneath him, his mouth going to her breasts. She slid her arms around his neck. Her body was sated and ready for him, her legs spreading easily as he settled between them. Reaching for the fastenings of his trousers, he fumbled and tore at them, freeing himself.
He had no control left, his entire body an ache of need. He had no words, no way to beg please don’t try to stop me, I can’t, I have to have you. He had no strength to resist any longer. Looking down at her, he said her name, his voice hoarse and questioning.
Beatrix made little crooning sounds and caressed his back. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I want you, I love you . . .” She pulled him closer, arching in welcome as he took her with blunt, insistent pressure.
He’d never had a virgin before, had always assumed it would be a quick, easy breaching. But she was tight everywhere, untried muscles clenching to keep him out. He pushed into the innocent resistance, forcing his way deeper, and she gasped and clung to him. He worked inside her, shaking with the effort to be gentle when every instinct screamed to thrust hard into the luscious heat. And then somehow her muscles accepted the futility of trying to close against him, and she relaxed. Her head rested on his supportive arm, her face turning against the hard curve of his bicep. He began to thrust with a groan of relief, knowing nothing except the blinding pleasure of being inside her, being caressed by her. The rapture was severe, absolute as death, delivering him.
He made no effort to prolong it. The peak came fast, slamming into him with a power that took his breath, and then he tumbled into a violent, shuddering release, the spasms piercing. He came endlessly, cradling her in his arms, hunching over her as if he could protect her, even as he lunged into her with ravenous strokes.
She was shaking in the aftermath, thrills of reaction running through her from head to toe. He held her, trying to comfort her, pulling her head against his chest. His eyes were blurred and hot, and he blotted them against a velvet cushion.
It took a while for him to realize that the trembling came not from her, but him.
Chapter Twenty-one
Minutes passed in sated calmness. Beatrix rested quietly in Christopher’s embrace, offering no protest even though his grip was too tight. Gradually she was able to divide the sensation into its parts . . . the heat and weight of his body, the scent of perspiration, the slick of rich moisture where they were still joined. She was sore, but at the same time it was a pleasant feeling, that sense of low, warm fullness.
Slowly Christopher’s urgent hold began to loosen. One hand came up to play with her hair. His mouth turned to the tender skin of her neck while his free hand traversed her back and side. A tremor passed through his frame, a slow ripple of relief. He slid an arm behind her back, arched her upward, and his lips went to her breast. She drew in an unsteady breath at the wet pull of his mouth.
He moved, turning them both so she lay atop him. His invasion had slid free, and she felt it against her stomach, an intimate brand. Lifting her head, she looked down into his face, into those silvery eyes, slightly dilated. She relished the feel of him, a g
reat warm creature beneath her. She had the sense of having tamed him, although it was a valid question as to whether it had really been the other way around.
She pressed her lips to his shoulder. His skin was even smoother than hers, tightly stretched satin over the hard swell of muscle. Finding the bayonet scar, she touched her tongue to the unevenly mended skin.
“You didn’t lose control,” she whispered.
“I did, during parts of it.” His voice was that of a man who had just awakened after a long sleep. He began to gather the disparate streams of her hair into a single river. “Did you plan this?”
“You’re asking if I deliberately set out to seduce you? No, it was entirely spontaneous.” At his silence, Beatrix lifted her head and grinned down at him. “You probably think I’m a hussy.”
His thumb edged the swollen curve of her lower lip. “Actually, I was thinking about how to get you upstairs to the bedroom. But now that you mention it . . . you are a hussy.”
Her grin lingered as she nipped playfully at the tip of his thumb. “I’m sorry for having set you off earlier. Cam is going to work with the horse from now on. I’ve never had to answer to anyone before—I’ll have to get accustomed to it.”
“Yes,” he said. “Starting now.”
Beatrix might have protested his autocratic tone, except there was still a dangerous glint in his eyes, and she understood that he was chafing just as she was. He wasn’t comfortable with any woman having such power over him.
Very well. She would certainly not be submissive to him in all things, but she could yield to him on a few points. “I promise to be more careful from now on,” she said.
Christopher didn’t smile, precisely, but his lips took on a wry curve. Carefully he deposited her on the settee, went to his discarded clothes, and managed to find a handkerchief.
Beatrix lay half curled on her side and watched him, puzzling over his mood. He seemed as if he were back to himself, for the most part, but there was still a sense of distance between them, of something withheld. Thoughts he wouldn’t share, words he wouldn’t speak. Even now, after they had engaged in the most intimate act possible.
The distance wasn’t new, she realized. It had been there since the beginning. It was only that she was more aware of it now, attuned to the subtleties of his nature.
Returning, Christopher gave her the handkerchief. Although Beatrix would have thought herself to be far beyond blushing after what she had just experienced, she felt a tide of scarlet cover her as she blotted the sore wet place between her thighs. The sight of blood was not unexpected, but it brought home the awareness that she was irrevocably changed. No longer a virgin. A new and vulnerable feeling came over her.
Christopher dressed her in his shirt, surrounding her in soft white linen that retained the scent of his body.
“I should put on my own clothes and go home,” Beatrix said. “My family knows I’m here with you unchaperoned. And even they have their limits.”
“You’ll stay the rest of the afternoon,” Christopher said evenly. “You’re not going to invade my house, have your way with me, and dash off as if I were some errand you had to take care of.”
“I’ve had a busy day,” she protested. “I’ve fallen from a horse, and seduced you, and now I’m bruised and sore all over.”
“I’ll take care of you.” Christopher looked down at her, his expression stern. “Are you going to argue with me?”
Beatrix tried to sound meek. “No, sir.”
A slow smile crossed his face. “That was the worst attempt at obedience I’ve ever seen.”
“Let’s practice,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Give me an order and see if I don’t follow it.”
“Kiss me.”
She pressed her mouth to his, and there was silence for a long time afterward. His hands slipped beneath the shirt, tormenting gently until she pressed herself against him. Her insides felt molten, and she weakened all over, wanting him.
“Upstairs,” he said against her lips, and picked her up, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.
Beatrix blanched as they approached the door. “You can’t take me upstairs like this.”
“Why not?”
“I’m only wearing your shirt.”
“That doesn’t matter. Turn the doorknob.”
“What if one of the servants should see?”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Now you’re worried about propriety? Open the damned door, Beatrix.”
She complied and kept her eyes tightly closed as he carried her upstairs. If any of the servants saw them, no one said a word.
After bringing Beatrix to his room, Christopher sent for cans of hot water and a hip bath, and a bottle of champagne. And he insisted on washing her, despite her cringing and protesting.
“I can’t just sit here,” she protested, straddling the metal tub and lowering herself carefully, “and let you do something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.”
Christopher went to the dresser, where a silver tray bearing champagne and two fluted crystal glasses had been set. He poured a glass for her, and brought it to Beatrix. “This will keep you occupied.”
Taking a sip of the cool, bubbly vintage, Beatrix leaned back to look at him. “I’ve never had champagne in the afternoon,” she said. “And certainly never while bathing. You won’t let me drown, will you?”
“You can’t drown in a hip bath, love.” Christopher knelt beside the tub, bare-chested and sleek. “And no, I won’t let anything happen to you. I have plans for you.” He applied soap to a sponge, and more to his hands, and began to bathe her.
She hadn’t been washed by anyone since she had been a young child. It gave her a curious sense of safety, of being nurtured. Leaning back, she idly touched one of his forearms, trailing her fingertips through a froth of soap. The sponge drew over her slowly, her shoulders and breasts, her legs and the creases behind her knees. He began to cleanse her more intimately, and all sense of safety vanished as she felt his fingers slipping inside her. She gasped and floundered a little, reaching for his wrist.
“Don’t drop the glass,” Christopher murmured, his hand still between her thighs.
Beatrix nearly choked on her next swallow of champagne. “That’s wicked,” she said, her eyes half closing as his exploring finger found a sensitive place deep inside her.
“Drink your champagne,” he said gently.
Another head-spinning sip, while his invading touch moved in subtle swirls. Beatrix lost her breath. “I can’t swallow when you do that,” she said helplessly, her hand gripping the glass.
His gaze was caressing. “Share it with me.”
With effort, she guided the glass to his lips and gave him a swallow, while he continued to stroke and tease her beneath the water. His mouth came to hers, the kiss carrying the crisp, sweet flavor of champagne. His tongue played in ways that made her heart thunder.
“Now drink the rest,” he whispered. She gave him a dazed look, her hips beginning to rise and fall of their own volition, churning the hot soap-clouded water. She was so hot, inside and out, her body aching for the pleasure he withheld. “Finish,” he prompted.
One last convulsive gulp, and then the glass was removed from her nerveless grip and set aside.
Christopher kissed her again, his free arm sliding beneath her neck.
Gripping his bare shoulder, Beatrix tried to bite back a moan. “Please. Christopher, I need more, I need—”
“Patience,” he whispered. “I know what you need.”
A frustrated gasp escaped her as his touch withdrew, and he helped her from the bath. She was so enervated that she could barely stand, her knees threatening to fold. He dried her efficiently, and kept a supportive arm behind her back as he led her to the bed.
He stretched out beside her, cradled her in his arms, and began to kiss and caress her. Beatrix writhed like a cat, trying to absorb the lessons he was intent on teaching her. A new language of skin and hands and
lips, more primal than words . . . every touch promise and provocation.
“Don’t struggle for it,” he whispered, his hand stealing between her straining thighs once more. “Let me give it to you . . .” His hand cupped her and pressed. His fingers entered, teased, played. But he withheld what she wanted, murmuring for her to relax, give in, let go. There was both fear and relief in giving it to him, yielding every part of herself without reserve. But she did. She let her head fall back on his arm, her body turning pliant, legs spreading. Instantly the climax welled, her flesh contracting, all awareness distilled to that secret inner place he stroked.
When Beatrix finally recovered, emerging from the opulent haze, she saw a glow of concern in his eyes. He was looking at her naked side, his hand passing lightly over the large purple bruise from her fall earlier in the day.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I nearly always have something bruised or scratched.”
The information didn’t seem to reassure him. His mouth twisted, and he shook his head. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The instruction was entirely unnecessary. Beatrix had no intention of moving. She crawled farther up to the pillows, letting her cheek press into the down-stuffed linen casing. She sighed and drowsed until she felt Christopher join her on the bed.
His hand settled on her hip, his palm slick with some kind of unguent. She stirred as a strong herbal odor drifted to her nostrils. “Oh, that smells nice. What is it?”
“Clove oil liniment.” Carefully he rubbed the balm into her bruise. “My brother and I were covered in the stuff for most of our childhood.”
“I know about some of your adventures,” Beatrix said. “John told them to Audrey and me. The time the two of you stole the plum tart before dinner . . . and the time when he dared you to jump from the tree limb and you broke your arm . . . John said you were incapable of refusing a dare. He said it was easy to make you do anything, simply by telling you that you couldn’t.”
