What a Wallflower Wants

by Maya Rodale

  Then the kiss deepened, like little sparks starting to smolder.

  This was a delicate give and take, in which she tasted him as much as he did her. She worried, fleetingly, about knowing what to do, then she just followed his lead, finding the rhythm, sucking his bottom lip after he nibbled on hers, and sighing every once in a while because this was happening and it was beyond what she’d ever dreamt of.

  After all, how was she to know that a kiss could be so gentle, yet seem to stoke the fire in her belly? How was she to know that a good kiss could make her feel alive again?

  Prudence, now either losing her wits or growing bold from the pleasure coursing through her, dared to touch him. It seemed absolutely imperative that she feel the firmness of his chest or thread her fingers through his hair.

  Without realizing it, she opened her palm and dropped the knife. It fell with a thud on the carriage floor. She opened her eyes to see John watching her—what was she going to do?

  Would she pick up the weapon and put the sharp blade between them? No. She was going to do what she really wanted. Prudence threaded her fingers through the soft strands of his hair, pulling him close to continue. He turned slightly, to press a kiss on her inner wrist, and murmured her name, his voice heavy with desire. “Prudence.”

  His mouth collided passionately against hers.

  Prue allowed herself to get lost in the surrounding birdsong, her occasional sigh, and the sound of their breaths. She felt the warmth of the sun, the softness of his hair, and the firm line of his jaw under her palm. She felt him, tasted him, fell a little bit in love with him and this pleasure. God, she could do this for hours. God, how long had they been on this road, kissing like wild young lovers? Time seemed to have stood still.

  Castleton seemed to have the same thought; he pulled away, then pressed one last kiss on her lips and whispered, “We should keep going . . . and continue this later.”

  Prudence nodded. Her heart started drumming in anticipation of what would happen later, once they reached the next inn. Something would have to happen, because that kiss made her want more.

  Chapter 18

  The George & Dragon Inn

  Maidenhead

  FOR THE FIRST time, Prudence wanted more. She had first felt the sparks when their lips had touched. Next, the slow burn as the fire had started to catch. She’d felt positively smoldering all day. Simmering. Waiting. Wanting. More.

  Things had been tense and awkward over supper in a private parlor. Did he also feel things had only just started? Prue had only just begun to have these feelings; she still lacked the vocabulary or courage to speak of them. Thus they’d made idle conversation about how much longer until London (one day, two at most), what they would each do upon arrival (how they delicately avoided conveying expectations of the other!).

  Then they ascended the stairs to their separate bedchambers. This would be the inn that had two rooms available, one for each. Gone were her hopes of somehow having more without having to explicitly invite him into her bedchamber. If something happened, she was curious and desirous enough to explore, but she didn’t possess the courage to invite him into her bed. Yet.

  Later that night, she lay in her bed alone and unable to sleep. She strained to identify all the sounds of the inn: the low rumble of voices in the parlor, the footsteps in the hallway, the occasional burst of a woman’s laughter. Occasionally she feared she heard Dudley’s voice—he was out there somewhere, wounded and angry, and she couldn’t quite forget it completely. She was glad to have Castleton’s protection for the return journey to London. Now that she thought about it, what would she have done if they hadn’t happened upon each other?

  It was a fate too awful to contemplate: Dudley, finding her alone, no one to save her.

  What would happen in London? She would return to a life with Lady Dare and her two friends, who were revoltingly happy in love. Would she still see Castleton?

  Or would she return to the wallflower corner, anxiously avoiding Dudley and dreaming of this wild week in the countryside when no one knew where she was or even who she was.

  Except for Castleton, who already knew her better than anyone else did.

  Castleton, who had almost but not quite proposed to her this morning.

  Castleton, whose kiss brought her back to life.

  In the dark, Prudence touched her fingers to her lips, savoring the memory. Over and over she played in her mind the first sensation of his lips upon hers. Over and over she recalled his warmth, his taste, his gentle touch. Over and over she remembered the way a kiss, lips against lips, could be felt all over.

  That kiss had started something.

  Something that hadn’t been finished.

  Something she wanted to finish. Or start. Prue wasn’t sure if another kiss would be the beginning or the end, or the beginning of the end.

  It was just a kiss.

  But it wasn’t, or it wouldn’t be, if she had the gumption to slide out of this bed and knock on the adjoining door to his room.

  To her surprise she did just that.

  Her bare feet hit the cold, hard floorboards. The night air was cool against her skin, and the flimsy chemise she wore offered little coverage.

  What was she doing? This was madness. She ought to get back into her bed and be thankful for a room of her own with locks on the doors.

  Instead she knocked on the door adjoining their chambers. This desire was thrumming through her veins now, fire where there had once been ice. The sparks that had started earlier had given way to a slow burn, smoldering all afternoon and evening. Now conditions were just right for the bright embers to explode into roaring flames.

  A MAN COULD dream. A man could dream of a woman in his bed, lips plump from his kiss, her hair unbound and splayed across his pillow. A man could dream of his hand on her hip, easing into her, losing himself completely as he discovered her.

  A man could dream that Prue knocked on his door.

  John stirred from his half-waking, half-sleep state, roused by the sound of her little knuckles rapping lightly on the wood. He lay in bed for a moment, telling himself he had to be dreaming. Prue could not possibly have been knocking on his door; even he was not this lucky.

  But he was.

  John leapt out of bed, pulled on a shirt, and strolled over, opening the door to see her standing there in just her chemise. His mouth went dry. God, she was tempting him. He fought, and lost, the battle to avoid stealing a glance—his gaze traveled from the flimsy straps to her breasts, lower still to the fabric clinging to her hips.

  “Are you all right?” John asked, his voice rough.

  “Yes,” she said. Then, “No.”

  “What is it?” His pulse had chosen this moment to start pounding.

  “I want to kiss you.” With those softly spoken words, his heart stopped. His breath caught. Aye, a man could dream. And sometimes a man’s dream could come true.

  John reached for her and placed one hand on the span of her waist. He took a step closer to her. She stood on her toes, rested her palms on his chest, leaned in, and tilted her face up to his.

  Just this kiss, just this kiss, just this kiss. With his pulse beating wildly and his body demanding more, John kept repeating those words to remind him. Just this kiss, just this kiss.

  He claimed her mouth with his.

  WITH THEIR LIPS locked, Prudence felt, strangely, as if their souls were connected. It was impossible to feel lonely when her soul was connected to someone else’s. It was so intimate the way his tongue tangled with hers. Every move, every breath, every stroke of his tongue or hers only made her want more. And the taste of him . . . she could not believe she knew the taste of him.

  Strange how she could feel a kiss everywhere, all over, inside and out, even though they weren’t really touching anywhere else.

  Minutes passed, perhaps hours, in which her world began and ended with kissing this man in the dark.

  There was more after the kiss; she knew that. For the firs
t time she yearned to experience it. From his every kindness to this long, leisurely kiss, she just knew that with John, it would be different. It would be good.

  Still, she was nervous, unsteady on her feet and not quite certain of how to get from here to complete bliss.

  “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, and it was possibly the most romantic thing he could have said.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Tell me what you want.” His voice had deepened.

  Tonight, Prudence knew what she wanted.

  “I want to feel everything like it’s the first time,” she whispered. “A good first time.”

  HIS BREATH HITCHED in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. For a moment, John couldn’t move. God, he wanted that more than he wanted anything. Anything. He wanted to be the man that kissed her sweetly, held her hand, showed her such passion and pleasure that everything bad before was gone, forgotten, washed away.

  It was an honor, this. More than he deserved. The trust she had placed in his hands was humbling. He was terrified of breaking such a lovely, fragile thing.

  “I want to feel what I felt the other night,” she whispered. In the dim light, he could see a little blush stealing across her cheeks. “I want you to touch me.”

  Once he touched her, there would be no returning to before. Whatever they had already become to each other, they would be more. It would be impossible to leave Prudence once he made love to her, but that would mean giving up his other dreams.

  He paused at that thought.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  “I know. You won’t.” She smiled so sweetly. He was helpless to resist. Besides, a gentleman honored a lady’s wishes. . . .

  John pushed a wayward strand of hair away from her skin, his knuckles grazing her cheek. Soft, so soft. She turned her cheek into his hand, pressing her lips to his wrist. He cradled her face and kissed her deeply, drinking her in, like he would never get enough.

  Prudence stood still, experiencing the fireworks again, and this time she enjoyed the hot, shimmering, sparkling explosions that left her breathless and entranced.

  John pressed a kiss on the soft spot where her neck curved into her shoulder. She sighed, a dreamy smile on her lips, asking for more with a tilt of her head that gave him more access. He pressed kisses along her shoulder—she felt a series of hot little sparks.

  Taking her by the hand, he led them to her bed. He sat on the mattress, she stood facing him.

  She gazed into his darkened eyes. He was asking her for permission, asking her to be certain.

  “Kiss me. I want you to kiss me how you described.”

  His hands were clasped on her shoulders, and his fingers slid under the straps of her chemise, easing them off.

  John kissed her . . . a dozen little kisses . . . all along the edge of the chemise at just the spot were the fabric gave way to her skin. Aye, she felt a dozen sparkly explosions. His lips, soft and warm against her skin.

  Prue threaded her fingers through his hair, as she had been wanting to do. It was no small thing, wanting to touch someone and being able to.

  “Prue?” he asked, her name a question. As was the way he started to slowly tug down her chemise.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  THE WHISPER OF her yes was more fuel to the fire of his wanting. He had fantasized about this moment, wanting to see her unclothed, wanting to touch her with nothing between them. He gazed at her, hair unbound, breasts uncovered and her skin glowing in the candlelight.

  “You’re beautiful, Prue.”

  She sighed, smiling faintly, another pink blush blossoming across her skin.

  He had wanted her and fantasized about this. Wanted her and restrained himself. Wanted her and told himself it was impossible, then he’d kept on wanting. This moment, this vision of her, was an image that had kept him up late, was what he’d thought about in that liminal state between waking and sleeping.

  Now the moment was real and here, and he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

  He ducked his head to her breasts, tentatively pressing his mouth.

  Prue gasped. Her fingers, threaded through his hair, tightened.

  This was real. A faint smile tugged at his lips. He dragged his gaze up to her face.

  “Don’t stop,” she said impatiently. “I want you to do that again.”

  And again and again and again.

  EVER SINCE JOHN had wickedly suggested this, Prue’s mind had drifted to it, imaging him and her and his mouth there. Now it was real and it was beyond, just beyond what she had imagined.

  She stood before him weak in the knees, with his hands clasped around her waist as he kissed her breasts, his warm mouth teasing the dusky centers until they were stiff peaks. The sighs and the moans she heard . . . oh, that was her . . . this feeling . . . more of those shimmering, sparkling explosions, lighting up the sky.

  Eventually she was truly weak in the knees and light-headed from all those little shallow breaths. The bed was just there. . . .

  Did she dare?

  Prue reached out and placed her palm over his heart. She felt it beating wildly. It soothed her nerves knowing he was as nervous and desirous as she. Then she clasped a handful of fabric and tugged. It wasn’t fair that he should remain so clothed when she wasn’t.

  He grinned. Oh, she felt that, too. Then he removed his shirt and oh . . . she wanted to feel him. Run her fingertips along the planes and ridges of his muscles, the slight dusting of hair on his chest, feel his hot skin under her palms and perhaps tease him with her mouth the way he had just done to her.

  Prue leaned over, pressing one little kiss on his chest, then gazing up at him. His eyes were closed, lips parted.

  “Don’t stop,” he whispered. She didn’t. One thing led to another, and she was so overcome with desire that she forgot to be afraid. It seemed so right, so inevitable that they should come to lie on the bed together, side by side, kissing as if they had all night and the rest of their lives, too.

  “I want to feel what I felt last night,” she whispered.

  “Which part?”

  “The best part.”

  His hand caressed the length of her side, moving slowly down to touch her where she was most sensitive. His touch was feather light, so light she wondered if she was truly feeling it. Oh, but there was no denying it: the pressure within her was building and the heat she felt was intensifying. Her hips started to move in an instinctive rhythm against his hand.

  And then he stopped.

  “Don’t stop.”

  John shifted their positions so that she lay on her back as he slowly pressed kisses across her belly and down to where his fingers had just been bringing her to heightened sensations of pleasure.

  She remembered something John had whispered that night: One day, I’ll press my mouth there. I will do with my tongue what you are doing with your fingers.

  And then, oh God, he did. He expertly moved his tongue in slow, lazy circles around the bud of her sex.

  At first Prue could not quite believe this was happening, that she was allowing it and then that she was so desperate for it to continue that she thought she might die if he stopped. The relentless, teasing touch was stoking that fire that had been smoldering inside. Flames, flickering. Her breath, catching, shallow. The pressure building inside. And the more he satisfied her desire to be touched, the more she wanted.

  To her surprise, Prue found herself wanting, aching to have him inside her. It was a deep and primal want for this moment, with this man. But how to find the words to tell him?

  “I want . . . ,” she gasped. “I want you . . .”

  She wanted to say more. But then came the fireworks: the scorching, sparkling, shimmering explosion of pleasure that had her crying out and nearly lifting off the mattress with the force of it.

  GOD, WHAT SATISFACTION that was, to hear her cry out with pleasure, calling his name and God’s. He didn’t think his heart would ever return to a normal beat.

&
nbsp; Especially with what she said next.

  “I want . . .”

  “Tell me what you want,” John said, his voice a rough whisper.

  “I want to feel you inside of me,” she said softly.

  His heart began to pound. But he didn’t feel that as much as other parts of his anatomy demanding attention.

  “Prue . . .” She didn’t have to do this. He needed her to know that. Because if she didn’t want to do more, he had to know. Now.

  “I want new memories. I want to feel you. I want—”

  “I want you, Prue.” It was all he allowed himself to say. John didn’t want to scare her with how badly he desired her. He was harder than he’d ever been, her every little sigh and moan making his cock throb.

  Everything in him—nerves, instincts, whatever—wanted to claim her. Sink into her warmth and move until he lost his mind and spent himself inside. He bit back a growl from the back of his throat. He wanted Prue in such a primal way.

  She kissed him sweetly. Then she whispered yes. And he whispered yes.

  Her heart was beating wildly as she straddled him. In this position, she could be in control. Prudence was a little nervous, as if this was her first time. What if it wasn’t better than before? What if it was too much? Her body craved this, but her memories . . .

  “Tell me to stop,” he said.

  “Don’t stop.”

  She felt his hot, hard length at the vee between her thighs. Prue tensed, remembering . . . then he stopped. His hands still grasped her hips, but he didn’t enter her. She hadn’t said stop. But he was so attuned to her that he just knew. And he listened.

  Prue knew she could trust him, allow herself to take pleasure in this, finally, feeling whole and feeling in love.

  It was a slow torture for them both as he slowly, so slowly, pushed inside, giving her every chance to say no. . . . She said yes.

  God, she said yes.

  Slowly, so slowly, their bodies joined together and he began to move inside her, finding a steady rhythm. Her hips rocked against his. He felt her hands caressing his hot skin.

  There was only this moment. The past was gone, over, couldn’t hold a candle to this moment when they were in love and they were one. She wasn’t the only one to feel that pressure building intensely, more and more with each controlled thrust. Prue wasn’t the only one to finally feel whole, and right, and in the midst of one perfect moment.