by Cara Elliott
Heedless of the danger, Gryff lifted the glass again and filled his mouth with the dark spirits, holding its potent fire for a moment before swallowing.
Trouble, trouble, trouble.
“This seems to be working,” he murmured, teasing his tongue against the inviting little opening. “Shall we try a deeper taste?” He gulped down the last swallow and let the glass slip away.
As he pressed in, urging her lips apart with a probing thrust, Eliza flinched, but only a fraction. Then she drew him inside, enveloping him in a soft, suckling sigh. A dizzying warmth wrapped itself around him, the surge of sweetness far more intoxicating than any wine.
Their tongues teased and twined. She was kissing him—eagerly, exuberantly.
His self-control splintered into a thousand tiny shards.
The thump of glass hitting the carpet was lost in the surging thrum of his blood as he shifted his position, spreading his knees wider. The night breeze wafted in from the window, its sweet-scented coolness curling against the back of his thighs. The rest of his body was afire.
Dragging his mouth down, down, down, he traced the line of her jaw, the arch of her neck, seeking the pulse point in the hollow of her throat. Her skin was throbbing, each wild little twitch sending fresh heat spiraling to his groin.
She gave a tiny cry, hardly more than a whisper.
In answer, Gryff slid his hands over her hips and crushed her close. God, she felt good.
His lips tingling with the taste of her, he couldn’t help himself. The taut fabric outlined the plump, perfect roundness of her breasts, the tantalizing tips of her nipples.
He lowered his head and took the nearest one in his teeth.
Inhaling with a ragged groan, Gryff drew the bud in. Her scent flooding his nostrils, he nibbled and suckled, feeling the point grow hard beneath the damp fabric.
A ragged breath—a rasping sound—slipped from Eliza’s lips. Was it a word? A plea? His senses were pounding with all sorts of conflicting messages—his head was drumming in warning, his heart was thumping in pleasure, his groin was throbbing in lust.
She is a lady, he reminded himself.
And I am a ravening Hellhound.
Her moans were a little louder, the sounds silencing any twinge of doubt. Eliza surged against him, her body speaking clearly that his touch was not unwelcome.
In response, Gryff left off his kisses, and began freeing the tiny buttons of her bodice.
“Oh, please,” she said, her voice slightly fuzzed. “D-don’t stop.”
“No. I won’t,” he assured her, surprised at the waver in his own tone. “Not until you tell me to.”
Her reply was lost in a breathy gasp as the muslin parted and his cheek touched the swell of naked flesh. His fingers hooked the top of her corset and eased it down, baring her rosy aureole.
“Exquisite,” he growled, possessing the rose-pink point with a gentle little nip.
With a heated cry, Eliza undulated against him, sliding her belly back and forth against his rigid erection. The friction of the fabric against his cock was driving every sane thought from his brain. Cloth—all he could think of was removing the cloth that curtained her luscious softness from him.
Licking a slow, teasing circuit around the dusky circle, Gryff glanced upward. Release, and this mad, mad, moment might thud to an end. But what choice was there? His hands danced up her arms, found the ruffled cuffs of her prim gown…
Whooossssh. The light muslin yielded with surprising ease to his tug. Rip, rip. With their seams split, the sleeves fluttered like windblown petals to the carpet.
“Better,” he growled, peeling the remains of her gown down to her waist. The laces of her corset came next, a task he could perform with his eyes closed. But he kept them open, loath to leave off watching her expressive face. “Much better.”
Her mouth parted and she wet her lips.
Gryff sensed that despite being a widow, this was all new to her.
“Try to relax, sweeting, and tell me what you like. Sex is all about both people having fun.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Did your late husband never care about your pleasures?”
Eliza shook her head and answered in a very small voice. “He said proper females weren’t supposed to enjoy the act.”
“Lout,” growled Gryff. “Trust me, it’s the most natural thing in the world for women to take just as much pleasure in sex as men.” He touched his tongue to her nipple. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
He heard her breath rasp into her lungs and smiled.
“I love the shape and the softness of your breasts.”
She cried out as he sucked her tip into his mouth, and the sound sent a surge of savage satisfaction through him. The heat of her skin triggered a scent of spicy florals mixed with an earthier feminine scent that was all her own.
As her body flexed beneath him, Gryff felt his own tension building. He was usually in control of his passions, but a powerful force seemed to have him in its grip, urging him on with an indescribable need…
Her body no longer seemed familiar. Eliza shivered as strange surges thrummed through her limbs, altering them in ways she had never imagined. It felt as if every wicked, wanton fantasy was coming true.
Not that in her wildest dreams she had ever imagined anything like this. Sex with her late husband had been a quick, furtive groping in the dark. Her night rail shoved up, his body shoved down in a few hurried jerks, leaving her wondering. Wanting.
She had wanted to respond to her physical stirring, but her late husband had found her eagerness…distasteful. He had made her feel ashamed of her desires. But Haddan seemed to like it.
“Oh, do that again,” she gasped.
“Gladly.” His teeth closed gently around her aroused nipple, sending a wave of pleasure coursing through her. As she arched against him, Gryff gave a laugh—a deeply male laugh that seemed to echo off the dark walls. “Let’s get rid of the rest of these frills, shall we?” he said. “They are only in the way.”
The crackling of the petticoat was like the sound of a dried husk being peeled away. I am shedding my old skin and transforming…into a new and unrecognizable creature. Dazed, Eliza looked down at her body, pink and taut with pleasure. She was naked, save for a thin pair of lacy drawers.
A surge of primal satisfaction welled up in her throat. She felt every fiber of her being was shamelessly, gloriously alive.
“Ah, that’s better,” murmured Gryff. He ran his palms down her sides, the slightly rough texture of his calloused skin abrading along every indent and curve. “Glorious,” he murmured, settling his hands on the swell of her hips. A hitch drew her close, and suddenly the heat of his erection pressed up against her belly.
Oh, so good, so good.
Eliza arched into him, aware of a mad, pulsing fire building inside her that somehow needed to find release.
“Let’s have nothing between the sensation of flesh against flesh,” Gryff whispered. Her garters snapped, and her stockings yielded with a whispery rip. Air kissed the exposed skin as he peeled off the wisps of silk and tossed them over his shoulder.
An involuntary shiver coursed up her legs.
His hand was now caressing the inside of her thigh, moving higher, higher, higher.
Oh!
Eyes widening in wonder, Eliza bit back a cry as his touch threaded through her intimate curls. Gently, gently, his finger slipped inside her quim and found the tiny pearl hidden within the folds of flesh.
Heat rolled through her. It was good—beyond good.
“Spread your legs, sweeting,” he urged, delving deeper.
Eliza opened herself, feeling wickedly wanton. “Oh, yes,” she said, startled to hear her voice sound so lush, so smoky. “Yes.” She could feel a liquid burning between her legs.
His strokes were growing faster, more demanding.
“Oh, Haddan!” His name trailed off in a throaty moan. “I—I don’t know what I want—”
“Shhhhh.” His mouth teased at the corner of hers. “Of course you know,” he whispered. “Every woman does.” And then he was kissing her, and all further thoughts skittered away.
She moved, pushing again and again against his hand. Heat spiraled up from her core, cresting higher and higher.
“Oh, God,” he rasped. Eliza caught a glimpse of his eyes, gleaming like molten emeralds in the dim light, and was filled with a sense of wondrous power that she could ignite such a look in a man.
His fingers withdrew from her passage and Eliza, feeling suddenly bereft, cried out in protest. “Oh, Haddan, please!”
Gryff’s response was a deep groan. She felt his muscles tighten and his hips hitch…
Then she was filled again, this time with a thicker, warmer blade of flesh, sheathing itself in heat and honey.
She thought she was going to expire with pleasure.
He was moaning, too, thrusting into her hard and fast. Never had she felt so fiercely feminine.
Elation bubbled up inside her, escaping as a throaty laugh. The room began to spin and then all at once seemed to burst into flames. A shower of sparks seemed to scorch her skin, and as she arched in pleasure, Eliza was dimly aware of a cry, covered by his hand.
A groan rumbled in his chest, and an instant later he pulled back and she felt a splash of warm liquid on her belly.
“Annwyl Dduw,” rasped Gryff in Gaelic as he slumped against her body, his arms wrapping around her waist. His sweat-sheened muscles melted to a softer shape, though in the wavering candlelight his broad back was still a stretch of chiseled strength.
He whispered something else, but the words were oddly muffled—all she was conscious of was the feeling of floating on air in some netherworld of spun-silver sugar.
Oh, it was delicious.
Gryff moved, and suddenly her wrists were released. Her body—gloriously boneless—slid into his arms.
Holding her tight, he collapsed onto the bed, their limbs tangling in soft linen and silken laughter. Eliza closed her eyes, savoring the closeness of his big body, redolent with the musky scent of their passion. Breathing deeply, she smiled and sunk into sweet, sweet oblivion.
Chapter Five
Darkness, still and silent, shrouded the corridor. Despite the lateness of the hour, Harry and his friends had apparently not yet returned from their revelries, leaving the rest of the Abbey slumbering in peace and quiet.
Holding her breath, Eliza crept down the unlit corridor and slipped into the servant stairwell, offering up a prayer to every Deity in Creation that no one had witnessed her descent into depravity.
The chill night air licked against her bare arms, stirring a stark horror of what she had just done.
Now that Reason had reasserted its normal place in her brain, Shame swathed her scantily clad body.
“Oh, you wagtail hussy,” she whispered. Her aching loneliness, her longing need were no excuse for such wanton behavior. Clutching her torn gown, Eliza hurried her steps, desperate to escape to the sanctuary of her own rooms. A cautious peek showed the landing was deserted. She tiptoed across the parquet and darted into the dark corridor leading to her quarters.
As if I can outrun my misdeeds.
She was uncomfortably aware that her body was still warm with the heat of him, every inch of her skin redolent with his musky scent and the raw, unmistakable reek of sex.
Sex. Her fingers found the latch to her bedchamber and yanked it open. Closing the door, Eliza slid the bolt into place and slumped against the paneled oak. Surely she would awake in a moment and discover this was all a bad dream. She wasn’t the sort of wild, wanton female who swung nude in smoky boudoirs. But the trace of redness on her wrists said otherwise. Rubbing at the marks could not erase the fact that she had behaved like a jaded harem girl, a sexual sylph luring men to feast on forbidden pleasures.
Me? Seducing the opposite sex? Driving the notorious Hellhound wild with desire for my body?
No, thought Eliza with a shiver of disgust. The brandy had addled her wits. Haddan had simply been drunk. Bored. Randy. In such a state, any female would have suited the purpose of satisfying his lust.
So don’t take it personally.
“I’m p-plain. And p-practical,” whispered Eliza, her mouth curling in self-mocking contempt. “Indeed, I ought to have a tattoo displayed prominently on my person, announcing that fact.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she threw her torn gown to the floor and pressed her palms to her forehead. “ELIZA THE IDIOT, emblazoned in large red letters. That way, every time I glance in the looking glass I could be reminded of my folly.”
After several long moments of silently contemplating her sins, Eliza pushed away from the door and padded over to her bed.
“What’s done is done,” she murmured, looking down at the shredded sleeves. She couldn’t change the past, but she could—she would—control the future.
Not for all the velvet-lined manacles in Xanadu could she allow this strange, frightening infatuation for the Marquess of Haddan to ruin all her plans. Freedom, independence, control over her own destiny…
I must not—I will not—succumb again. And as her innate pragmatism slowly reasserted control over her rebellious thoughts, Eliza realized that there was one surefire way to put an end to any further temptation.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Wincing as pain pitchforked through his skull, Gryff waited a moment, then lifted his right eyelid a fraction higher. His sight was still blurred, but his other senses were slowly coming into focus. Feel—he could feel that he was lying naked, twined in a rumple of sheets. Smell—he could smell the beguiling scent of verbena and cloves clinging to the linen. Hear—he could hear the faint rattle of metal swinging overhead.
Chink, chink, chink.
“What the devil is that infernal noise…” Frowning, Gryff flopped onto his back and forced his other eye open. Bold as brass, a dangling manacle winked back at him.
Satan’s Ballocks. He sat bolt upright as the memory of the midnight hours finally pierced the brandy-thick muzziness wrapped around his brain.
Maybe it was merely a wild hallucination, a figment of fantasy stirred by the demons of drink.
But no—another sniff said her lingering scent was all too real. As was the tiny strip of torn fabric lying atop the bedsheet.
Good God. The sight of the sprigged muslin triggered a rush of heated recollections. Flaming candlelight, burning brandy, smoldering desires. He groaned. Willing flesh, eager passions, yielding secrets.
Sweet, sweet ecstasy.
“Good God.” This time he said it aloud. “How could I have been such a bloody, bloody arse.”
His throat tightened in remorse. Regret. Not for the actual experience…which had been sublimely sweet. But for the shame of taking advantage of the situation. Gryff slumped back against the pillows, well aware that he had no right to castigate Leete for a lack of character.
I can hardly hold myself up as a shining light of gentlemanly honor.
Honor. He swallowed hard, trying to dispel the sickly, sour taste in his mouth.
The door opened quietly, though the sound was like another jab of sharpened steel against his skull.
His valet set down the tea tray and without a word began to straighten up the disarray. His coat and trousers were hung neatly over the dressing table chair…the wrinkled shirt and cravat were bundled and put away in a drawer…a lady’s stocking was unwrapped from around the bedpost…
“Prescott, you will dispose of that discreetly,” he muttered.
“Of course, sir.” His valet cast a curious glance at the sex toy but was wise enough to refrain from comment. Tucking the scrap of silk in his pocket, he went to the windows and opened the draperies.
“And you will begin packing.” Gryff winced as a blade of sunlight cut across his eyes. “Immediately.”
“Will we not be staying for the mill?”
“No, I want to leave this morning. You may tell Leete…” He massaged at his aching temples. “
Bloody hell, tell him whatever you damn well please.”
“Very good, sir.” His valet carefully smoothed a crease from Gryff’s evening coat. “A pressing engagement calls us back to London—I shall take care of it.”
“And Prescott…”
His valet paused.
“Might you inquire of the housekeeper whether Lady Brentford has yet risen this morning? I should like to arrange a private word with her before I go.”
“Actually, I can answer that for you now, milord,” replied Prescott. “The lady left at first light. It seems she is in the habit of paying regular visits to her former governess in Harpden in order to attend the monthly meetings of the Oxfordshire Horticulture Society.”
Gryff propped himself up on his elbows. “And she was slated to depart this morning?”
“No, milord. She decided to leave several days ahead of schedule. But the housekeeper says that is not unusual, especially if the lady has supplies to shop for in town.”
What sort of supplies? he wondered—and then repressed a guilty grimace. A new muslin dress to start with. Along with a pair of silk stockings.
“I see,” he said aloud. Throwing off the coverlet, he swung his bare feet to the floor. “Then there is no need to delay our own departure. Kindly alert the stables to have my phaeton ready within the half hour. You may follow with the luggage carriage at your leisure.”
Prescott nodded. “And will you be wanting pen and paper, sir?”
“What for?”
“I thought that perhaps you would wish to leave a note for the lady.”
Saying what? Oh, how delightful it was finding you trussed up in my bed. I had a lovely time tupping you witless. Indeed, I look forward to shedding my clothes—along with every last shred of gentlemanly scruples—and doing it again sometime soon. Respectfully Yours, the Heinous Hellhound
“No note, Prescott,” growled Gryff. “Just a cup of black coffee, if you please.”
A short while later, Gryff was on the road back to London, jostling along with a spitting rain and his own equally stormy thoughts as company. Reckless. Gripping the reins, he slowed his matched pair of grays through a tight turn. He had been reckless. Heedless of all but the moment of pleasure.
