His chest had always fascinated her—the sharp contrasts of smooth, lightly tanned skin and crisp black hair, the palpable weight of muscle and the heavier, harder curves of bone. Fingers splayed, she pressed, glorying in the resilience of muscle, the solid resistance of bone. Then she softened her touch and went searching, caressing lightly, then lovingly, across the broad muscles, down over his ribs, across the ridges of his abdomen. Only her position stopped her from reaching further, but she had all night.
“None of your chest was burned.” Her sighing comment reeked with satisfaction.
“No real burns. Just the backs of my hands got scorched.”
She examined his hands as he held them up. “Do they hurt?”
He skimmed his palms down her back. “Not enough to stop me from touching you.”
She responded to the long, artful caress with a low, murmurous moan.
Of their own volition, her hands stroked upward again to cover his flat nipples. She let her fingers tease and draw, then circle, roll—until his nipples were as tight as hers.
That seemed fair. She smiled and leaned forward, remembering what else he liked to do to her. And how much she liked his doing it. Presumably the same actions worked in reverse. The way he stiffened even before her tongue touched convinced her that was true. She licked, laved, then nipped lightly. That last made him jerk. His hands gripped her hips, fingers sinking in, but he made no effort to stop her.
So she played, fingers firm on one bud while she tortured the other with lips, tongue, and teeth. Then she switched hand and head, trailing wet, openmouthed kisses across his chest on the way. She settled to her task and thought she heard a low moan. He was burning up beneath her, his skin fire-hot everywhere she touched.
A wicked thought occurred. She pressed her body lower, so that her breasts caressed his lower chest and the backs of her thighs moved against his hips, the hot, wet, aching flesh at the juncture of her thighs a bare inch above his flat stomach. Just out of reach of the ultimate prize.
Then she moved. Sliding her body from side to side, she caressed him.
He sucked in a breath; his body tensed beneath her. She sensed his struggle to lie still. His fingers flexed on her hips, tightening before he forced them to relax . . . she felt their touch drift upward, over her shoulders. She suckled one nipple lightly, then tightly. He arched beneath her. His fingers tangled in her hair, clutched—then he drew her away, turning her face to his.
He swooped—his lips closed on hers in a searing kiss so full of heated passion it stole her breath. The kiss went on and on. He started to turn, to roll her beneath him. She pulled away, hand on his shoulder pressing him back. She shook her head, then found her voice, a little hoarse, like his. “Not yet.”
He was tempted to disobey—the tension in his body told her that—but after a fraught moment, he eased back to the bed. His eyes, dark in the night, watched her; his gaze held a heat all its own. His chest rose and fell beneath her hands. “All right. For now.”
She smiled and made the gesture beatific, then ducked her head to lick first one aching nipple, then the other. Then she shuffled her legs, her hips, farther down his body, lifting slightly to accommodate the hard shaft of rampant flesh that thrust upward so aggressively from its thicket of black hair, then lowering again so she caressed it, too, sliding the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs down from its broad head all along its ridged length.
A heartfelt groan was her reward; his body bowed, head and shoulders pressing back in reaction. “Dammit! You’re an innocent—I know you are.”
“Hmm.” Innocent she might be, but she had a few ideas.
She put them into action. Her body and mouth moving on him, over him, slowly and in concert, seemed almost more than he could stand. His fingers gripped her shoulders, then tightened about her head—even then, he remembered and avoided the bump on one side. She’d started the evening with a mild but persistent headache. It had disappeared the instant their naked bodies had touched.
She wasn’t about to let a few bruises stop her learning all she wanted to know. Only her breathing was still a restriction, and even that was easier now. Shallow little breaths. A little panting. All that she could manage.
Her hands continued their exploration; her mouth followed them down his body. She shifted lower, lower, until her swollen breasts brushed his rock-hard thighs.
The sheet was pushed behind her, leaving him fully exposed so she could worship by starlight. Resting her cheek on his hip, she traced, circled, then closed her hand around him. She’d done that before—it wasn’t that which made him so tense. It was the anticipation that where her fingers went, her lips, her mouth, would follow. Lips curving, she let her fingers play.
Lucifer lay back and tried to think of England. The only part he could remember was a certain bed in Devon. His fingers sifted through Phyllida’s hair, sliding through the sable silk, tracing her skull—tightening when he couldn’t help himself. Her touch wasn’t so much artful as wondering, naive, enthusiastically natural. His body reacted, helplessly in thrall.
She was a warm, supple, rounded weight lying across his thighs. Her head lay heavy to one side of his groin, her hand cupping, her fingers gliding over her current obsession. He felt possessed, as if in permitting it—letting her have her way—he’d somehow surrendered to her.
He had. He just hadn’t told her so in words. Only groans.
Then she shifted and he felt her breath on him, an insubstantial warmth brushing him to even more painful erection. She was going to kill him, not with need, but through the violent clash of powerful emotions—the gut-wrenching desire to have her take him in her mouth, the fear she wouldn’t, the suspicion she had no idea she could, and the nearly overwhelming, protective urge that insisted that she shouldn’t. It was enough to drive a man insane.
Then she raised her head, not moving closer but over. Her fingers traced his throbbing head again, fascination very clear in her touch. Then she bent her head.
Every muscle in his body locked tight at the first touch of her lips; she trailed openmouthed kisses around, then down, then licked, gently, then more firmly, as if she liked his taste. Then her tongue went questing and he thought he might die. His chest hurt—he dragged in a quick breath—
Without warning she took him into her mouth, closed that hot, wet sweetness around him, taking just a little, then, deliberately, more. For a definable instant, he lost touch with the world and floated in a sensual heaven. He felt her tongue curl, around, then about. He slumped back, easing muscles he hadn’t known he’d tensed. He was breathing raggedly and they’d only just begun. He knew that for a fact; it made him feel light-headed. His hands sifted through her hair, caressing, tensing responsively as she tightened, sucked, kissed, then went back for more.
He was clinging to sanity by his fingernails, guiding her, just a little—it was too much, too precious, to break the moment, but . . . she was wearing him down.
Tightening his stomach, he half sat and reached down and around to grasp her hips. “Enough.” He barely recognized his voice, so rough, so low. She looked up, releasing him; the loss of her wet heat was almost painful. She slid her palms to his chest, bracing to push him back down. He gathered her in his arms, lifted her to his chest, then rolled and trapped her beneath him.
One hand on his shoulder, she met his gaze. Her eyes were dark pools, wide and lustrous. That was all he could see in the starlight. But he could sense something else in that dark gaze, a weight of instinctive feminine knowledge, of innate womanly need.
“I haven’t finished yet,” she murmured, and the sound was close to a purr. Her gaze lowered to his lips as she spoke. She licked hers.
The knowledge that she was responding instinctively didn’t help at all. “No,” he agreed, “but it’s my turn now.”
He bent his head and took her lips, and she surrendered her mouth readily. Sliding her arms around his neck, she leaned back against the bank of pillows. Her body softened under h
is.
His turn. His turn to worship, to visit pleasure on her heated flesh. To lave and lick and suckle until she gasped and arched beneath him. When her breasts were swollen and aching, he moved lower, anointing the skin over her ribs, past her waist to her navel, then lower still, over the flickering tautness of her stomach to the thatch of dark curls at its base.
Her fingers sank into his shoulders at the first delicate probing of his tongue. Hands trailing down from her hips to grip her buttocks, he kneaded, then slid his palms even lower, over the backs of her thighs. Grasping gently, he urged them wider. She hesitated, then, with a gasp close to a sob, she parted them. Gripping her hips again, he bent his head. He licked, and her fingers clenched in his hair.
She was a delight—wanton in her passion, open and eager in her desire to be his. All his. He claimed every last slick inch, tasted every soft fold. Her essence swirled through his senses and sank deep.
He wound her tight, then tighter, calling on experience to further her horizons, ruthlessly sending her spinning, then reeling her back the instant before she went over the edge.
Some primal need drove him. She’d come to him, offered him all she was, knowing what his demands would be—not just of the flesh but of the soul. Her own actions made it clear she wanted to plunge headfirst into their new life; that was so much like her, so much a reflection of the directness he prized in her, that he was more than willing to teach her how to fly and extend himself to be her safety net, at least in this arena.
For the rest—the emotional adjustments, the more subtle changes—whether he would teach her or she him was moot. Perhaps they’d learn together. But for tonight, she’d chosen to open her arms to passion. His, and hers.
He stoked both and let her feel the power rise, the insatiable hunger, the greedy need, the hot urgency that poured like molten gold down their veins.
And then he joined with her. Bracing his arms, he held himself above her and filled her with long, steady strokes. Eyes closed, he concentrated on the rhythm, concentrated on the hot embrace of her body, on their pulsing, driving need. He felt her hands, fingers extended, trail down his chest. Cracking open his lids, he looked down. Eyes shut, head thrown back, pressed into the pillows, she was lost in their union. Caught in the sensual waves that rolled through him, through her, she surrendered and rode the tide. Every thrust lifted her, rocked her breasts, her hips, shifted her head against the pillows. Her dark hair rasped softly, silk against linen, again and again.
Her breath came in little pants. She lifted her hips and met him, took him in, accepted him deep, then let him ease back so he could love her again.
They were drowning in each other, drowning in a sea of desire so intense it was close to rapture. Then that, too, swirled into the mix, into their bodies, into their blood. And took them.
He felt her shatter beneath him, felt her hands clutch, her body cling. Then she eased, her heated softness rippling about him in the ultimate caress. Head back, eyes shut, he clung to the moment; then his own release swept through him. He shuddered and filled her, then slowly collapsed, turning, taking her with him, holding her close, wrapping her limbs about him.
He would never let her go.
On the cusp of oblivion, Phyllida felt him within her, hot and liquid at her core. With her hands, her arms, her body, she held him tight. If she was his, then he was hers. And he’d definitely lived up to her dreams.
She woke to find herself high in the bed. His head against her breast, his arms wrapped around her waist, he was a warm, solid mass of muscle trapping her mostly beneath him.
She was curiously comfortable and not in the least sleepy—presumably the afternoon’s rest had been enough. She felt relaxed. No specter of death could possibly haunt her, not in his bed. Raising one hand, she lifted a dark lock from his forehead, smoothing it back amid the rest.
He stirred, tensed for an instant, then, eyes still closed, hugged her and placed a deliberate kiss on the nipple all but against his lips. “Very nice.”
Phyllida laughed. He sounded like a very large human cat, purring with masculine satisfaction. Shifting, he freed a hand from beneath her, then settled back, head cradled on one breast, his hand on the other. He touched her gently, soothingly—not so much with desirous intent as for sensual comfort. She had no difficulty making the distinction.
Content, she lay back, luxuriating in the warm caresses, in the golden glow of the moment that still held them. Fingers stroking his hair, she set her mind free—free to feel, to think. To wonder. “I think I love you.” It had to be that, this golden feeling.
The lazy drift of his fingers ceased. “Why aren’t you sure?”
She answered truthfully. “I don’t know what love is.” Lifting her head, she peered at his face. “Do you?”
He met her gaze, eyes dark, mysterious. Then he looked at his fingers, lying on her breast, and started to gently stroke once more.
She smiled and leaned back on the pillows, her gaze lost in the shadows of the canopy above. She didn’t press for an answer. If she didn’t know, why would he?
Then again . . . “Do you love me?” She didn’t look down but she felt him look up.
After a moment, he said, “Can’t you tell?”
“No.”
She waited. He shifted, lifting his head, moving back just a little. She felt his gaze on her face; it lingered for some time, then swept down, over her breasts, over her waist, over her hips, down her long legs. It returned, but stopped at the top of her thighs. The hand at her breast firmed. His touch changed.
“I’ll have to demonstrate, then.”
“Demonstrate?”
“Hmm. Cynsters are better with actions than words.”
He proved it. The night became a heated odyssey through realms of passion, desire, sensation, anticipation, hunger, and need. He drew from them both and created the landscape, then guided her through it, ever onward to peaks gilded with ecstasy.
Each touch became invested with more than just feeling, each joining with more than the physical fact. Sensations battered at them, emotions drove them, onward, upward, to impossible bliss.
At the last, she shattered and drank it in, and felt it sink into her bones. A heartbeat later, he joined her. They clung, and the wave washed over them, through them, then the tension slowly drained. Her lips curved. She leaned her forehead to his. He traced her face, then touched his lips to hers in a chaste, final kiss.
Their pact was sealed.
Giddy with release, relaxed beyond this world, they slumped together, drew the sheets up, and slept in each other’s arms.
At ten the next morning, Lucifer left the Manor and set off for the old Drayton cottage. The night had given him more than he’d thought he’d ever have, but it had also left him with much to think about. Possessing for such as he always entailed a certain responsibility—the obligation to take due care. How much did he care for Phyllida? There wasn’t a word to encompass the reality.
He strode out, drawing the morning air deep, letting it clear his mind. He’d been up since dawn when he’d lifted Phyllida, still asleep, from the cocoon of his bed and carried her to her own. She’d clutched at him as he’d placed her between the cold sheets. He’d stayed with her, sharing his warmth, until the first sound of his awakening household had sent him back to his bed.
His extremely rumpled, storm-tossed bed. God only knew what Mrs. Hemmings would make of it, but he was quite sure she wouldn’t imagine the truth. Or, at least, nothing like the whole truth. That was hard enough for even him to believe.
Underneath her serenely decorous facade, Miss Phyllida Tallent was a wanton in disguise. He now knew that for a fact, and very comforting it was. He’d strolled into her room after breakfast, having been informed by Sweetie that her erstwhile charge had agreed to rest quietly for the morning but was suitably attired to permit of a visit. So he’d visited and with just one look, one wicked, suggestive grin, had sent a wave of heat rising to her cheeks.
&n
bsp; She’d glared, then had to hide it as Sweetie bustled in. He’d stayed long enough to assure himself that Phyllida was indeed well; with carefully worded replies, she’d given him to understand that she was suffering more from sexually induced lethargy than from fire-induced trauma.
He’d been careful not to smile too triumphantly, or to show his relief. He’d explained where he was headed and why, then left her sewing on the buttons he’d sliced off the week before.
Striding along the tracks, he followed the acrid smell of burned thatch. The day was cool, so peaceful, when yesterday had held so much panic.
And resulted in so much being resolved.
In actions, at least—intentions declared but not stated. He understood what Phyllida had meant to tell him—at least, he thought he did. What he was far less sure about was why she’d made her decision.
Who knew what went on in the minds of women?
After all these years, he really ought to have a clue.
She’d asked whether he knew what love was. He knew what he felt for her—the compelling need to know she was well, safe, and happy, the joy he felt when she laughed, when she smiled. He knew how his gut knotted when she was in danger and how his nerves flickered when she was away from his side. He knew the pride that warmed him as he watched her going about her daily round, so competent, so caring, so giving in that managing yet selfless way that was so uniquely hers. Knew, too, the overwhelming impulse to cosset her, to protect her emotionally and physically, to care for her. To meet her every need, to give her all she could ever desire.
So, yes, he knew about love. He loved her and always would. She loved him, too, but didn’t know it—couldn’t see it—even though she wanted to see, to know.
Could he teach her what love was?
He could hear fate cackling in the wings, but he shut his ears and set his jaw. If that was what Phyllida wanted, someone to show her, to point out the truth in such a way that she could see it, too, then . . . if he wanted their marriage to be what it could be, it behooved him to do it.
All About Love Page 33
