Hell's Belle

by Annabelle Anders

  She hadn’t realized she’d parted her lips until her tongue tasted the salt of his skin.

  Heaviness settled between her legs, and her heart raced as he skimmed along her teeth, back to her lips, and then back into her mouth again. When he pressed it in farther, Emily closed her lips around him.

  He emitted a low growling sound but continued exploring her mouth with just his thumb. He pushed in and then drew it back out. In again, and then out.

  Liquid heat raced through her, and she could barely hold her head up. The need to be closer to him nearly overwhelmed her. And she wanted more than his thumb to touch her. She wanted his mouth to touch her… everywhere.

  She drew her tongue around him, exploring the sharp edge of his nail and then the thicker skin below it. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see he’d closed his. When she sucked him in farther, he inhaled on a tremor.

  She affected him as much as he affected her.

  Fascinating!

  She reached up her own hand and touched the edge of his lip. Yes, his breathing was faster than normal. His tongue slipped out and moistened her fingertips.

  The driver chose that moment to hit a bump.

  Damn, damn, and double drat!

  Emily dropped her hand from his face. As the carriage settled into its normal pace once again, they simply stared at one another, almost as though each of them was afraid to speak.

  But Emily ached. Her breasts ached; her core ached. She squeezed her knees together in an attempt to ignore the heavy throbbing at her vortex. “I see,” she finally whispered. “What else?”

  Marcus had expected her to try to discuss philosophy with him, or history, perhaps botany. He’d not in a million years expected… this.

  Only, despite his reputation, Marcus had been raised a gentleman. “Tell me about your family.” Admittedly, he’d had his way with widows, married women, and even on occasion in his younger days, he’d utilized a brothel, but he’d left the innocents alone.

  In addition to that, Miss Emily Goodnight was a lady.

  Despite her occasional brash intellectual pursuits into the art of sensual delights.

  His betrothed shifted uncomfortably in her seat and then pulled her feet onto the seat and hugged her knees. As he watched her squirm, he realized he didn’t know all that much about her family, where she lived when not in London—except for the aunt in Wales.

  “Do you have any brothers or sister?”

  She shook her head. “My mother… Um. No.”

  Oh, hell. He suddenly realized exactly who her mother was. Why had he never made the connection before?

  Her mother managed to keep one foot in upper-class society and the other in the demi-monde without drawing the ire of the ton’s highest sticklers. He imagined this might be due to the Goodnights’ marginalized position as it was. Had she even attended a ton event in the last few years?

  Mrs. Goodnight was known for providing a good night’s entertainment. She’d made eyes at him once, but he’d not been interested.

  Thank God! He nearly choked on the thought.

  Although a beautiful woman in her own right, she exuded common vulgarity. And something else: anger laced with an edge of desperation.

  Mr. Goodnight, however, belonged to all the right clubs. A mild-mannered man, he often had his nose buried in some book or another. When he did bother to be sociable, it was usually so that he could argue literature, art, or something equally as boring.

  “You certainly don’t take after your mother,” Marcus said carelessly. When she turned her head away from him, he realized it had been the wrong thing to say. Yes, Mrs. Goodnight was a beautiful woman, but every other aspect of her failed to appeal to him.

  Whereas her daughter had a beauty all her own. Indeed, it didn’t jump up and bite a person upon first meeting, but it was there, hidden behind spectacles and dowdy dresses. And trapped within it, a sharp inquisitive mind.

  “My mother has reminded me of that on multiple occasions. I’ve most of my looks from my father.”

  Marcus laughed. “Your looks are all your own, Emily.”

  She frowned and stared out the window. Perhaps he might pursue this line of conversation at another time.

  Perhaps she’d rather pursue their previous topic.

  “The mouth can bring about all sorts of sensual delights.”

  She glanced back at him sharply. Ah, he had her attention once again.

  Suddenly, he didn’t give a damn if she was a lady. They were about to be married, and she needed a bolster to her confidence.

  Later, he’d reconsider his reasoning. But for now…

  “Emily.” He leaned forward and swept the wisps of hair away from the slope where her neck curved into her shoulders. “You are absolutely perfect.” She shivered at his touch, but he was not deterred. With one hand on the leather seat behind her and the other sliding into her hair, he leaned forward and lowered his mouth to where her pulse fluttered rapidly.

  “Oh,” she gasped and tilted her head so that he could have better access.

  “Are you taking notes?” he asked softly against her skin. He sucked just enough to latch onto her flesh and then nipped gently with his teeth.

  Another shiver. “Did you just… bite me?” He could tell she was making an attempt to chastise him but failed miserably as she turned her head and sighed.

  “I did.” He nipped lightly at her earlobe. “Is that acceptable to you?” And then he exhaled around the shell of her ear. God, but she aroused him. He paused, awaiting her answer. “Emily?”

  “Er… yes. I rather think I liked that.” Her voice rasped just a little. “May, I… ah… may I try?”

  Damn, but he’d gone hard. He shifted in his seat and reluctantly removed his mouth from the curve of her cheek. Her eyelids looked heavy, and her cheeks were flushed. But as he sat back, she gathered her wits and focused her intent upon him.

  Curious but determined hands reached up and began deftly untying his cravat. She didn’t seem nervous, as he thought she might. No, she worked the intricate knot efficiently before unwinding the silk from his neck. She then unfastened the three buttons at the top of his shirt and opened his collar.

  Marcus relished her every move. She’d undressed him as though he were a priceless work of art. His breath caught as the inquisitiveness in her eyes shifted to excitement.

  She met his gaze as though seeking his permission. Marcus nodded.

  Except she was much smaller than him. When she went to climb onto her knees, the carriage bounced, and she nearly slipped off the bench. “It would be easier, perhaps,” Marcus suggested innocently, “if you sat on my lap.”

  Emily licked her lips, placed one hand upon his shoulder, and then eased herself across his legs. “Yes,” she managed to say. “I see your point.” The level of her mouth was now even with his neck.

  She perched so closely that her scent engulfed him. Sweet, clean… pure. She wrinkled her nose a moment and then removed her glasses. “Would you mind keeping them in your pocket?” This simple question crushed him… because he knew. He knew how vital they were to her.

  He slipped them into his pocket and patted it safely.

  As though stalling, suddenly, she pushed some hair away from her face. She tipped her head forward and peered at him closely. “So interesting that you have hair here.” She drew an imaginary line from the top of his chest to his waist. Lower, his mind demanded. Drop that hand lower.

  His muscles clenched when she stopped where his shirt tucked into his breeches. “You enjoy being touched.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not always.” He surprised himself with this answer. But no, he didn’t like the courtesans and widows to explore his body. He liked them to take him into their mouths, he liked to plunge into them from behind, but truth be told, he normally didn’t ever kiss them.

  “But you enjoy me touching you like this?” This time it was a question.

  “I do.”

  She explored in swirlin
g motions with her fingers over the material of his shirt. Although he wanted more from her, she thrilled him equally with her lazy examinations.

  When she located one hardened nipple, God help him, she dipped her head and covered it with her mouth.

  And then circled it with her tongue.

  Breath hissed through his teeth, causing her to stop and look up. “Does that pain you?”

  Marcus couldn’t help it. He grasped both sides of her face and guided her back into position. “No. Keep going.”

  Holy fucking saints in heaven.

  She nipped, she licked, and then she trailed her lips to the other side. All seemingly innocent, both of them completely clothed.

  And her bum rested just out of reach, across his thighs. Marcus took hold of her skirts and fisted the material upward. When he reached the hem, he did the same with her chemise.

  “Marcus?” She paused. “That isn’t part of this particular lesson.”

  If she wasn’t so adorably methodical, he would have groaned in agony. Instead, he released the material to fall back to the floor. She may not have realized it, but she had just given him permission to do some ‘exploring’ for himself.

  He placed his hand over her breast. “But this is.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wow!

  Marcus’ hand, resting atop her clothing on her bosom, sent a scalding pleasure from her chest to her thighs. Her mouth went dry, and she had difficulty speaking. “Ah, yes.” She faltered.

  She’d had her lips on him. She’d bit through the linen of his shirt when she’d felt the hard nubs beneath it.

  What would it feel like for him to do the same? Meeting his gaze, she froze. Was it possible to look inside of a person’s soul? Because it felt as though that was what he was doing to her. He was looking into her soul.

  He squeezed and drew circles with his thumb. More than anything, she wanted him to kiss her as well.

  Except that notion frightened her. It seemed disorganized, muddled. What would she focus on if he wreaked such havoc in more than one place at a time?

  Conflicting wants drifted through her consciousness when his other hand slipped behind her, unbuttoning her dress.

  Ah, yes. madness.

  Chaos.

  He intended to touch her skin.

  She yearned for it. Would it burn? Would she faint?

  Her sleeves loosened, and Marcus lowered one and then the other. His hand hovered over her bodice, and he asked the question with his eyes. God, yes. Please do! Now!

  She nodded with a jerk.

  And then he lowered the material. She knew what he would see. Pale, almost translucent skin set around dusky pink areolas.

  She watched anyway.

  The sight of his dark, masculine hand, holding her, rubbing her, sent sparks shooting into her limbs. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she forced herself to look up.

  She wanted to see his expression. She needed to know he wasn’t disgusted by her.

  He focused intently upon his task, his pupils so large that his eyes almost looked black.

  “Mouth.” She tried to say the word, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Your mouth.”

  He glanced up with a wicked expression. “Don’t rush me.” He touched her boldly, using both of his hands now, lifting, kneading, rubbing. When he pinched her, she could not control her response. She groaned. Her neck could barely hold her head up anymore. She felt heavy… everywhere.

  He’d returned one of his hands to her back, catching her, clasping her, while his other hand continued its perfect onslaught. From under her lashes, she watched his dark head dip. His mouth was on her throat, and then lower… He trailed it between her breasts. Very short whiskers scraped against her skin.

  Emily’s hands settled in his hair. This was nothing like what she’d seen in the library that night. This felt more like a form of worship.

  Worship and exquisite torture.

  Her mind searched to make sense of it. How could torture be so… magnificent, so breathtaking?

  Oh, God. Moist heat pulled at her breast. Laving, testing. And then he tugged at her, harder, longer, deeper.

  White fire exploded behind her eyes, whipping and spinning her into an unknown vortex. The sensation was inexplicable. Unable to breathe, she couldn’t prevent the cries that escaped from deep inside. She jerked and throbbed and whimpered, utterly vulnerable, at the mercy of her own body, until the foreign spasms subsided.

  Marcus rocked her. Shushing her. Reassuring her.

  She buried her face against his chest, clutching at his shirt. What had come over her? Surely, that couldn’t have been la petite mort. She’d read about it but the literature she’d found had indicated such a phenomenon to be rare and requiring a different sort of stimulation, clitoral stimulation.

  It was too much to contemplate right now, though. She’d ask Marcus about it later. She felt boneless, utterly spent. She’d move in a moment. She’d climb off him and return to her side of the bench.

  In a minute, she prodded herself… and then immediately snuggled into his chest and drifted off to sleep.

  His arm was numb, and his legs were cramped but Marcus didn’t want to wake her. He needed to regroup. What had begun as an innocent experiment had quickly gotten out of hand.

  She was a revelation.

  She astounded him.

  She just might prove more entertaining in bed than she was out of it, and that was considerable. Maybe he wouldn’t be so quick to abandon her in the country.

  She snuggled into him and murmured something unintelligible. He ought to cover her, provide her with some modesty while she slept, but that might involve waking her.

  He liked her like this. Quiet and kittenish. With her asleep, he didn’t have to constantly manage the waves of energy coming at him. Waves that consisted of curiosity, sensuality, and… anxiety.

  Glancing down, he studied her. All that pent-up energy had exploded like a flint to gunpowder.

  Would she have been the same with any man? Had she simply been waiting for one of the male species to come along and take care of her needs? This thought irked him.

  He covered her breast with his hand protectively.

  Despite the undeniably tender emotions attacking him, he wasn’t fool enough to believe this marriage would turn out to be anything more than one of convenience. Passions flared, sentiments faded. He’d seen it happen too many times to count.

  But for now—he dropped a kiss on her hair—he’d enjoy her. They could take some pleasure from their circumstances, throw this sham of a marriage in his father’s face, and then live their separate lives.

  Good thing she was such a practical miss.

  He stared out the window and sighed. They had one and a half more days to travel. He wondered if he could keep her virtue intact that long.

  Perhaps he should ride up top with the driver for a spell or two. This sort of proximity to Miss Emily Goodnight’s learning experiments could only lead them further into trouble. And as tempted as he was, he knew they’d best not risk anything until they actually tied the knot.

  Emily awoke to an empty carriage. Instead of his chest, her head rested on a cloth pillow.

  Where had Marcus gone?

  Marcus!

  She’d fallen asleep on him after… She shivered and then clasped her arms. Maybe she could pretend that nothing had happened. Maybe he’d be gentleman enough to go along with such a plan.

  Emily knew she’d broken just about every rule there was to break. Even though they were to wed, she’d allowed the experiment to go too far. If she could fool herself enough into believing that’s what it had been. Learning. Testing.

  She wasn’t sure she could even remember all of it, let alone document it.

  Glancing out the window, she could see the sun starting to set as the carriage bounced along. He must have decided to ride with the driver.

  He probably just needed some air.

  He needed to be o
utside, take in a bit of the sun.

  Get away from her.

  She needed to learn decorum. She needed to learn how to not allow her curiosity to get the better of her. But then she remembered his expression when she’d touched his chest. And she understood it a little better.

  Exquisite torture.

  Such an intensity of physical sensation, it ought to be enough, and yet it demanded so much more. She’d seen similar expressions in art. She’d read of it in literature. But until this afternoon, she’d never come near to understanding it.

  The sound of male laughter could be heard over the crunching of the wheels along the road. Something warm unfurled within her.

  That man out there. That elegant, charming, devilish man was going to marry her.

  Rhoda was going to kill her! Surely, she would have changed her mind upon reconsideration of her situation. Was she even now waiting at Eden’s Court, expecting them to return so that Marcus could save her reputation?

  What kind of friend was Emily turning out to be? Running away like this?

  Moments such as this caused her to second guess the decision she’d made yesterday morning. She could hardly even remember why she’d thought it would be acceptable to say yes to Marcus’ ridiculous proposal.

  Oh, yes. Because Rhoda had told Sophia she’d changed her mind.

  And trusting soul that Sophia was, she’d sent Emily to tell Marcus that Rhoda wouldn’t be meeting him that night. She’d not told Emily to run off and elope with the man herself.

  Emily dropped her head into her hands and moaned. And poor Lord Carlisle! What must he think of her now? Good God, and Prescott!

  Turning her head side to side in guilt, she inadvertently realized that although her dress had been adjusted to cover her properly, it hadn’t been buttoned up again as it ought to be. She twisted, arched, and eventually managed to put herself back together.

  Marcus had undone those with surprising ease. Almost as though he’d done it dozens of times before.