Heather didn’t know whether to grin triumphantly or just feel vindicated when she felt the bed dip at her back. Sliding her hand over the edge of the mattress, she clutched to hold herself in place as he settled . . . then realized she’d have to keep clutching if she didn’t want to roll back into him.
Regardless, all but immediately she felt the temperature rise.
Telling herself she could now go to sleep, she closed her eyes.
Waited for her senses to subside.
To calm.
They didn’t. Her lungs remained tight, her breathing too restricted for her to possibly succumb to slumber.
Her skin prickled, acutely aware. Her mind refused to let go of the information that he’d undressed before lying down.
She’d seen naked men before—her younger cousins and their friends swimming when they hadn’t known she and her sisters had been near.
Instinct warned that what she’d seen then would be significantly different to what lay stretched out in the bed behind her.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t for her.
Determinedly closing her eyes, she lay still and willed herself to sleep.
Dreams came even though she remained awake. Haunting, tempting thoughts of what it might be like. With him. To lie with him, to touch and be touched. . . .
As her life now stood, she was never going to lie with any other man. She wasn’t going to marry, was never going to need the virginity she still possessed, was never going to gift it to any man . . . so what use was it now to her?
Was she really going to let the opportunity to be made love to by the ton’s foremost rake slip through her fingers?
Especially when the alternative was to remain a bitter old virgin to the end of her days?
Especially when she knew that he was as attracted to her as she was to him, attracted in a purely sexual way. They’d never really liked each other, so what else could it be but sheer lust?
And she didn’t think him so arrogant and insensitive, so distant, hard, and ungiving now, not after the last days.
The notion of sharing a brief, passionate liaison with him before commencing the rest of her lonely life held serious appeal.
Of course, she’d have to make the first move, and knowing him, he’d make her spell out her wishes, possibly even make her beg. . . .
She inwardly sniffed. She wasn’t that innocent, or at least not that naïve. If he lusted after her . . . perhaps she might make him beg?
That idea held significant appeal.
But how?
It didn’t take many minutes to decide that that was one of those questions that the longer one thought about it, the less easy finding an answer became.
So . . . first step. She released her grip on the mattress.
She turned over and even without trying found herself rolling into him.
He was lying on his back; her hand came to rest on his chest. He was still wearing his shirt and was lying on top of the sheet, not under it, as she was.
He’d been staring upward. Slowly he turned his head, and through the moonlight that poured through the window above them met her gaze. Then he arched one faintly supercilious brow.
She cleared her throat. “I . . .”
When she couldn’t find suitable words, that damned brow arched tauntingly higher.
She glared into his eyes.
Then she pushed up, slapped one palm to his bearded cheek, bent her head, and pressed her lips to his.
There was nothing tentative about her kiss—it was full of fiery purpose and determination.
Even less uncertain was the response that surged through him, then raged into her.
Passion.
Unleashed, searing. Relentless.
For one dizzying moment it ripped her from the world, cindered her senses and left her reeling . . .
Then he reined it in. Ruthlessly, with an ironclad will he drew the heat and the tempestuous fury back in. Until he held both in the palm of his hand.
But he didn’t break the kiss.
Instead, with that same ironclad, utterly unopposable will, he took control of the exchange. Until he was kissing her with slow, drugging intensity. Long, unhurried kisses that supped and tasted, that kept the heat within her simmering. Kisses laced with promise, with a leashed hunger that spoke of desire, and passion, and intimacy, and tantalized her. Mesmerized her. Made her want.
Made her ache with that wanting.
Then he surged up, rolled, and she was on her back.
Her lips parted on a gasp as she sensed him so close, sensed the heated hardness of his muscled chest a mere inch from her breasts.
Breckenridge took advantage to sink deeper into the kiss, to send his tongue gliding past her luscious lips into the honeyed sweetness beyond. He found her tongue and stroked, inwardly smiled as he set himself to tempt and taunt her into playing, into learning to engage with him in the more intimate exchange, one he knew she’d never shared with any other man.
She’d never taken a lover, but she was going to take him.
And he was going to take her, slowly, elaborately, and very thoroughly.
His hips lay alongside hers, separated by the tangled sheet. Propped on one elbow, he held his chest above hers, hands locked about her wrists, pressing them into the pillow on either side of her head as he slowly, thoroughly, ravaged her mouth, claimed every silken inch.
She was panting and heated when he at last raised his head.
He waited for her lids to rise, from a distance of mere inches looked into her stormy eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
She stared into his eyes, then the tip of her tongue slid over her lower lip and her gaze lowered to his mouth. “Do you?”
His laugh should have been supremely confident, but to his ears it was a trifle ragged. “I’ve been down this path before.”
Her eyes returned to his, open challenge darkening the blue. “Not with me.”
That was undeniable. He’d never seduced a woman with any serious intent before. He’d never had to exert himself as he intended to exert himself that night. “Which brings me to my next question.”
“I didn’t know interrogation would form such a large part of your play.”
“And I didn’t know you would want to play at all”—he caught and held her gaze—“and I still don’t.”
She didn’t look away. “I would have thought I’d made my wishes plain.”
“Tell me in words.”
Her eyes flared. She drew in a deep breath, stopped—cut it off—when her breasts brushed his chest. She hesitated, but then didn’t draw back, instead left the crests of the pert mounds teasingly touching, shifting the linen of his shirt against his skin.
It took considerable effort not to react.
“I want you to make love to me.” She uttered the words clearly, deliberately. Her eyes remained challengingly locked with his. “I want you to be my lover.” And as if that wasn’t inducement enough, she added, “My one and only lover.”
Beyond his control, his lips curved, not with humor, with intent. He would be her one and only lover; that was his aim, his goal. But he intended to claim the position forever, not just for a night. “If I oblige”—looking down at her, he sensed the will behind the delicate curve of her jaw—“we’ll do it my way. No demands, no directions. You follow my lead.”
She shrugged a bare shoulder. “You’re the expert.”
“Exactly. So you agree?”
She studied his eyes, clearly sensing there was some motive behind his request that she didn’t understand. She would soon enough.
Drawing in a tight breath, she nodded. “All right. Your way.”
He smiled even more intently, then lifted over her, and slowly lowered his body to hers. The sheet formed a barrier from waist to feet; his shirt a
s well as her flimsy chemise screened her breasts from his chest.
She stopped breathing, stiffened slightly, but the widening of her eyes, their glazing as her distracted senses slid away to explore, and the sudden leaping of her pulse beneath his fingertips assured him she wasn’t about to change her mind and resist.
Releasing her wrists, his weight still partially on his elbows, he slid both hands into the silk of her hair, framed her face, then held it, tipped it to him, and kissed her.
Deeply, more intently, than before. Arousingly, with just a hint of urgency. Using every ounce of sensual guile he’d ever learned, he probed, caressed—there, and there—stroking the spots where she was most sensitive, the places within the succulent heaven of her mouth that most powerfully evoked her nascent passions.
They rose to his call. Slowly, steadily he drew them up, to him, until he could send them, all elemental want and smoldering heat, sliding through her to sink beneath her skin. And melt her.
He didn’t rush, saw every reason not to. He took his time, until she was shifting, instinctively searching, her body rising, surging evocatively under his. His weight kept her pinned, held safely immobile so she couldn’t exert any undue influence.
Only then did he break from her lips and send his own questing. Over the delicate, so feminine line of her jaw, down the long, arching line of her throat.
Heather caught her breath when he licked the pulse point at the base of her throat, then placed a scorching, openmouthed kiss over the spot, then suckled lightly. Teasingly.
He seemed to know exactly where to kiss, where to touch. How to touch.
She’d expected—hoped for—nothing less.
His hands slid from her hair, from her face as he shifted lower in the bed. His retreat freed her forearms, her hands. Lids still lowered, seeking by touch, she brushed his cheek, his jaw, then ran her fingers back into the dark bounty of his hair, gripped lightly as his lips traced a path from her collarbone across to the ribbon strap of her chemise.
At least he hadn’t suggested she’d been swept away by his kiss, that because of it she didn’t know what she’d asked for.
She had been swept away, into a sea of pulsing passion unlike any passion she’d ever dreamed existed. Just that short exposure had been enough—to addict her, to make her yearn. After that . . . stating that she wanted him as her lover hadn’t been so hard. She would have given him whatever words he’d wanted for another taste of that drugging delight.
Forcing open her suddenly heavy lids, she peeked down, watched as, having paid homage to the curve of her shoulder, he caught the ribbon tie with his teeth, tugged until the tiny bow unraveled.
Then with his cheek, his jaw, he eased the fine material down.
His beard brushed her skin, just the lightest abrasion.
She gasped, felt her spine arch, pressing her upper breast to his lips. Her lids fell as she felt those wicked lips curve against her skin, then shuddered as they artfully traced, tantalizing her with their touch. With caresses that caught and held her senses, then led them on a slow exploration.
Of her own body. She’d never known her skin could be so sensitive, that her nerves could spike with such sharp sensation. Had never known that the mere brush of his lips over her bare nipple could make it tighten to such a degree that she felt real pain.
Pain he drowned beneath sensation as he laved, then drew the damp bud into his hot mouth. Suckled slowly, gently, then increasingly powerfully.
She arched on a strangled gasp.
He released her tortured flesh instantly—and she immediately wanted him back.
Hands gripping his skull, she tensed her muscles to direct him, but his bearded chin brushed across her chest to her other breast. . . .
Sensing her hesitation, knowing its cause, with a mental smile Breckenridge settled to repeat the long-drawn process of educating her senses as to how much she could feel, how much fascinating sensation he could press on her solely with his lips, his tongue, his mouth, caressing and sampling her sumptuous breasts.
He hadn’t realized they would be quite so distracting, so absorbing. He’d expected to have to force himself to go slowly, but instead . . . uncovering her, discovering her, was proving to be a delight all its own, unexpectedly compelling.
Her breasts weren’t large so much as perfectly formed. Her skin was more satin than silk, fine and smooth and thoroughly caress-worthy. Her pert nipples, now ruched into tight buds, were exquisite.
He was an expert; he knew. Knew the scale of feminine allure to the last degree.
She rated very highly.
To his senses she topped the scale.
Not what he’d expected, not at all, but a revelation powerful enough to completely focus every male instinct he possessed.
On her.
Even as he drew the fine silk of her chemise further down, exposing more of her delicate skin to his lips and tongue, even as he slid lower in the bed, beneath the covers, to continue her education and his, he was conscious of the slowly escalating thud of desire in his veins.
Not demanding yet, nowhere near commanding yet, but it was there, assuredly there.
He wanted her, and he always had. As his fingers tangled in her rucked chemise and he drew the silk down below her waist, uncovering her navel, he could admit that, embrace that. It didn’t matter now that he had her in his arms, all but naked.
He drew back, pushing up in the bed to look, to examine. Shifting to settle alongside her, the covers held back by his shoulders, letting the moonlight fall in a pearlescent wash over her smooth skin, highlighting her curves, casting mysterious shadows, he set his other hand on her breast, carefully cradled the flesh, then shaped it, stroked, caressed.
Learned by a different sort of touch.
Felt her gaze on his face as he possessed her flesh by gentle degrees. Then he closed his hand and kneaded. Knew when her lids fell; heard her breath catch.
She stirred, but he kept her there, his to savor in the moonlight.
His to examine until he’d had his fill, until he’d filled her senses with his knowing.
Lips were more intimate than hands; touch, caresses, usually came first, but with her he’d instinctively known that starting with touch would have been too mundane, that it wouldn’t have surprised her senses sufficiently to capture them.
Not as he’d wanted them caught.
Caught so that he held them, wholly his to command. His to lead, as he’d told her.
He bent his head and kissed her, took her lips again in a long foray into pleasure while his hand firmed on her breast, then he found the pebbled nipple and rolled it, then squeezed.
Drank her shocked gasp, sensed the moan she fought to hold back.
And was content.
She was no longer in danger of taking a chill. When he finally lifted his head, released her breast and slid down in the bed once more, her lips were swollen, her skin rosy, her breathing harried, edging toward a pant, yet still she watched him from beneath her long lashes, waiting for his next lesson.
Lips and tongue first; touch could come later.
He held to that principle, licked and laved his way over her tensed midriff, down past her waist to nibble unexpectedly at the edge of her navel, surprising her into a choked laugh.
He looked down at her quivering belly. At his fingers, long and tanned, spread over the ultrafine skin. “Ticklish?”
It took her a telling moment to find breath. To reclaim her tongue. “No . . . your beard.”
“Ah, yes.” Tactile abrasion, a useful addition to his sensual armory.
He looked down to where the near diaphanous folds of her chemise inadequately screened the soft brown curls at the apex of her thighs.
Sensed the expectation that sank talons of anticipation into her flesh, let it grip her, then calmly turned his attention elsewhere, to
her long legs.
Reaching down, he found one foot, traced the arch, then slowly trailed the pads of his fingers up and around, over her calf, circling her knee, then traced, barely touching, up the sensitive inner face of her thigh, stopping a bare inch from those mesmerizing curls and the infinitely softer flesh they concealed.
She’d stopped breathing again, sucked in a desperate breath then held it as he repeated the long, lingering caress from the sole of her other foot to the top of her inner thigh. This time he let his fingertips continue upward, blazing what he knew she would feel as a line of fire up her hip, over her waist to circle her breast, then rising as he surged higher in the bed to frame her face, and kiss her.
With a great deal more passion than he’d allowed to show earlier. A hint of the potent passion she’d originally unleashed with that first bold kiss.
As he had with all the women he’d ever bedded, he kept a sure hand on the reins, sank into her mouth and claimed, then fed her desire, and fire, and flames.
Waited until she was burning, until she arched into him, desperate and wanting.
Then he realized her hands had gone to his waist, slipped beneath the shirt to rise, skating over the sides of his chest.
Her touch distracted him.
Enough for her to pull back from the kiss and gasp, “Off—off! I want to touch you.”
So much for no demands. He hesitated, but she was determined, bunching the fabric and struggling to haul it up.
He growled, then drew back; rolling to her side, he seized the bunched hem and, half sitting, hauled the shirt off over his head.
He hissed as her hands, small, scorching, demanding, found his chest.
Even as he wrestled to free his arms from the sleeves, she greedily spread her palms and caressed. A quick glance showed him her face, delicate features limned in silver moonlight—and then he couldn’t look away.
Could only prop there, brace his senses, and let her have her way.
She met his eyes only briefly, but sensing his acquiescence, her lips lightly curving she embarked on an exploration, touching, tracing, learning each and every line of muscle, circling his flat nipples, then pushing her hands wide over the heavy muscles defining his upper chest, then sliding her palms higher to stroke the firm muscles and heavy bones of his shoulders.
Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Page 20
