by Liz Carlyle
“Do you desire me, Napier?” she whispered.
He felt his entire body shudder with long-suppressed lust. A knowing smile lifted one corner of her mouth. He kissed her there, slanting his face to take her lips as his fingers slid around her cheek, then into her hair at the nape of her neck.
But again and again, Napier felt the pull of those eyes drawing him, forcing on him a truth he would as soon have evaded. Those odd, startling eyes that, first seen, had blazed turquoise hellfire upon him. The eyes that had followed him like some pale Mona Lisa’s gaze, as he’d moved across that Greenwich garden.
Napier had more knowledge of women, perhaps, than an unmarried man had a right to. And in his experience, women shied from eye contact when making love, preferring to kiss, or to simply put out the lamps when possible. But as he slowly undressed Lisette, he held her gaze as she held his. Even as he pushed the dark blue silk off her shoulder, and fumbled awkwardly to unfasten her clothing.
Because the eyes were the window to the soul, and he wondered if he might see hers.
“Napier.”
With lips like warm satin, Lisette kissed him. His mouth. His faintly bristled cheek. Even the turn of his neck. She stood on tiptoes in nothing but her shift and whatever lay beneath, tempting him, entwining her tongue with his until their breath began to come fast and his cock began to thicken and throb impatiently.
Eyes a little feverish, she rolled back down on her heels, her pale, slender fingers furious at the buttons of his silk waistcoat. “There is a bed,” she said hastily. “In the back room. But myself—I favor this red carpet by the fire.”
“And I,” he said, dipping his head to nuzzle her throat, “have always favored red anything.”
Her fingers caught a moment in his buttons, then awkwardly finished. On a soft sound of impatience, she pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders, and looked up, eyes glowing. He finished the job, ripping loose his stock, then yanking out his shirttails. That done, he dragged the shirt over his head and flung it aside.
Lisette’s small, clever hands were already tugging at his trouser buttons. First the top, then the next, fell open. Blood surged southward, hot and pulsating, until he was blatantly swollen and hard for her.
Suddenly her fingers stilled, and his heart stopped with them.
Hesitation hung in the air, heavy as coal smoke.
Please, please, please, he prayed.
“Napier,” she said hoarsely. Her eyes—and her fingers—were still fixed near the bulge beneath his fly.
After exhaling with slow deliberation, he tipped up her head and dredged up his willpower. “I understand, Lisette,” he said. “The rain will let up. We can go soon—now, if you wish.”
“No,” she said, lifting her gaze to his a little warily. “It’s not that.”
“Then . . . what?”
“It’s just that you’re awfully . . . or that I should probably say . . .”
Her cheeks had turned a pretty shade of pink. It lit her opalescent skin, warming her entire face. And suddenly, he knew. Should have known, he realized, all along.
He let his hands fall, disappointment crushing him. “You’re a virgin?”
She nodded, the merest jerk of her head.
Dear God.
But what had he imagined? She’d already told him she was an incurable romantic. That she deserved something better than regret. She was bold, yes, and mendacious when it suited her purpose, but save for the rash, desperate offer she’d made him all those months ago, nothing about Elizabeth suggested she was fast.
On an audible sigh, he lifted her hands from his trouser buttons, and carried them to his lips in turn.
The gesture didn’t appease her. “And that’s it?” she said accusingly. “You mean to turn honorable and patronizing on me now? And I’m to have no say?”
“Lisette.” He drew her hard against him, sliding one hand into her hair as he held her. “Oh, Lisette. Think what you’re doing.”
“I’m doing, I think, what I’ve wanted to do for some days now.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “And you are not romantic, remember?”
“No, but you are,” he said. “And I hope I know the value of a woman’s virtue.”
“It’s of no value whatever to me,” she replied a little tartly. “I find the very word demeaning. I’m twenty-seven years old, Napier. Even if I meant to marry, a man who valued virtue over what is in my heart would not be worth my time.”
She had a point, he realized.
But more cogently, she had a hand on his cock.
She eased her fingers firmly down the front of his fly and Napier’s breath seized. Before he could think better of it, he’d shucked the last of his garments, easing off stockings, drawers and trousers as one, and letting them fall in an awkward heap.
Eyes widening, Lisette stepped back, her hands tugging up the hems of her shift. He caught it, and she shimmied out of it to unveil a pair of small, perfect breasts, and hard nipples the color of ripe peaches.
Later, he had only the vaguest of memories as to how the rest of her clothing fell away, or how they ended up on the carpet with Lisette beneath him. Driven by desire, he knew only that time was of the essence; that if he delayed, good sense would overcome him.
His mouth sought hers, and he kissed her exultantly. All his good intentions had flown, taking his doubts and his hesitance with it. She was Elizabeth, and his desire for her had simmered, he realized, for months.
He would as soon not think of the folly of that.
But he was going to have her. He was going to give her the pleasure she’d begged for with those expressive, all-seeing eyes. He pinned her to the carpet with the weight of his body as the firelight danced over her creamy skin. Lisette was perfection: long and lithe, with a dancer’s body. And, he sometimes thought, a warrior’s heart.
She opened to his kisses, granting him every liberty, and tasting him thoroughly in return and her hands roamed restlessly, and a little artlessly, over him. When at last he pulled away, he let his gaze drift over the fine oval of her face. Over that slender nose and high, aristocratic forehead. Over her eyes, widely set and faintly almond shaped, and a chin that should have been too sharp and yet was perfectly her.
“God, Lisette. I think I’ve wanted you since the moment you strode into my office.”
“I gained a stone,” she whispered, “and hacked off my hair.”
He dipped his head, and flicked his tongue over the hard bud of her nipple, causing her to gasp. “That stone went to the right places,” he said. “And that hair—God, you must know what it does to me.”
“No,” she whispered, “not really.”
But he made no answer and instead let his lips slide down the swanlike turn of her throat, breathing in her scent. Lisette smelled . . . right. Soft and welcoming. Sensual and comforting. Like every true and perfect thing a man might yearn for in the long blackness of a winter’s night.
And if she wasn’t entirely true—if she was not what he believed and hoped—then that was trouble for another day. This stormy afternoon was for loving; even, perhaps, for pretending. That this was something more. Or that they were different people, meeting under different circumstances.
His mouth found her breast and captured it, suckling hotly. Lisette cried out, arching up against him. In response, Napier circled the tip with his tongue and felt it harden to a nub. Then ever so gently, he eased a hand down between them. Shifted his weight, he stroked one finger through her soft thatch of cinnamon curls.
She shuddered in his embrace and Napier lifted his head, still rubbing her gently. In the hearth some feet way, a bit of coal sheared, sending up a shower of hot sparks that cast her in a glow. But the heat that burned in her eyes had nothing to do with the fire.
Later he might wonder if it was all just another charade, but in that moment her need felt more real than his own flesh and blood. The soft warmth in her eyes, he decided, said she knew what she was doing. What she was surrendering.<
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Gazing down, he cupped one hand around her cheek, and drew his finger deeper between her legs, teasing at, but not quite touching, that sweet center. Her hips rolling restlessly, Lisette drew in her breath on a sort of sigh, then turned her face into his hand, her mouth a little open. Lightly, he ran his thumb over the full swell of her lush bottom lip and to his shock, the pink tip of her tongue flicked out, stroking wet heat across the ball.
His every nerve ending jolted.
It was just a thumb, for God’s sake.
But when a soft moan escaped him, Lisette caught his thumb between her lips, sucking hard. Hot need drew through him like a rope pulled taut, making his cock throb. She let it pop from the wet warmth of her mouth, and swiveled her head back to look at him, mischief glittering in her hot green eyes.
“Wicked girl,” he whispered, and stroked his finger deeper, rubbing hard over her clitoris, savoring her thready cry.
Lisette felt her whole body tremble at Napier’s touch. Need surged and her hips bucked. Again and again he stroked, sliding deeper into the damp folds between her legs. She was not a complete fool; she had lived a worldly life. She knew what men did to women.
Sort of.
And having it done to her—by him—dear God.
“Napier,” she whispered urgently. “Can we—”
“No,” he said sternly. “Not yet.”
Then he dropped his head, his straight, heavy hair falling forward like a curtain of black silk, his mouth capturing her breast again. Hotly he suckled her, his tongue mimicking the stroke of his finger. And then two fingers.
When he slipped one fully inside her, Lisette gave a soft, startled cry.
“Shush, love,” he cooed, making her stomach bottom out.
And then ever so gently, he bit down on her breast, and the ache shot through her—all the way from her breast to her belly and then to the wet place he was touching. Lisette felt a strong throb beneath his finger.
It was too intense to be borne. “Stop,” she cried. “Oh, God. Napier, stop and—and do . . . something.”
Though her eyes were closed now, she felt him shift his weight, and felt the stubble of his lean, hard cheek brush over hers. “Lisette, if I do . . .”
“There is no if!” Her eyes flew open. “Oh. I can’t bear it.”
“You need to let me worry about the when,” he said firmly, brushing his lips over the end of her eyebrow. “It’s going to hurt.”
“It hurts now. I ache for you from the inside out.” In the gloom, she could hear her own breath coming fast. “Please.”
He let his full weight come over her then, bearing her down into the softness of the rug. He kissed her deep and hard, then pulled away. “You, my dear minx,” he murmured, “are too much accustomed to having your way.”
“Napier—” she gritted.
“No.” He kissed her hard, capturing her hands in his. But when she sobbed again, he took mercy and wedged one thickly muscled thigh between her legs to gently nudge them apart. She felt the weight of his erection rest heavily between her legs. She wanted to touch it, yet felt so uncertain.
Napier eased his fingers inside her again, then his thumb found that aching spot between her legs and began to stroke small circles. “Ah,” she whispered.
And then it was as if something inside her gave way, as if some dam inside her burst, breaking into shards of light. His touch became fleetingly a part of her as something powerful washed through her, wave after wave of a pleasure indescribable.
He was going to break her heart.
That was her next clear thought. And on its heels was the knowledge that this—yes, this feeling—would be worth the pain.
When the flood abated and she came back to the world, it was to see Napier kneeling between her legs, looking dangerous and deeply pleased with himself. He was, she thought, the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Not beautiful, no, but thoroughly male, with wide shoulders, his arms layered with muscle and corded with tendons.
And as with everything he did in life, Napier looked deadly serious. A shock of heavy, dark hair had fallen over one eye, and his manhood rose up between them, unmistakable and a little daunting. Tentatively, she captured it in her hand, amazed at the silken weight of it.
He bared his teeth an instant, his breath seizing. Lightly she circled her thumb over the swollen head, mimicking the gesture he’d employed to such delightful effect, and a tiny bead of moisture welled up.
“Umm,” he moaned.
Then he pulled her up a little from the rug, dragging her into his embrace, the weight of his manhood pressing hard against her belly. His fingers sliding into her hair at her nape, he stilled her head to a kiss that was beyond sensual and into something she had no words for. It was a thorough possession, leaving her his to command. Lisette’s body began to thrum again, and she felt the throb between her legs commence anew.
Beyond the little cottage, the rain hammered down now. A crack of thunder rent the sky, and the room lit up. She could feel Napier’s heart beating against her chest as they kissed—and hers, too, faster and faster. As his skin heated up, Lisette’s senses were flooded with the scent of lime shaving soap and thoroughly aroused male.
Acting on pure feminine instinct, Lisette thrust her tongue along his, parrying his deep thrusts. Napier shuddered against her, and jerked his mouth away.
“Now,” he said, urging her down onto the rug. In one smooth motion, he crawled over her, the muscles in his arms rippling almost predatorily. The weight of his erection settled between her legs, and Napier guided it deeper with his hand.
Instinctively, she drew up her feet and widened her legs. A hot hardness pressed into her, then slid inside an inch, invading her. She jerked a little, then forced herself to still, and then to relax. Napier bore his weight on one arm, hard tendons cording the length of it, his eyes squeezed shut. Experimentally, Lisette rocked her hips.
“Wait,” he growled. “Christ Jesus.”
She could hear her own breath in the gloom. “You’re very dictatorial when you make love,” she managed. “But then, I wonder I’m surprised.”
He laughed, and let his forehead tip forward to rest on hers. “Lord, Lisette, you’re too tight,” he said. “I’m going to hurt you. I can’t bear it.”
“I can.” Lisette exhaled slowly, and tilted her hips upward to take him. On a harsh grunt, Napier slipped deep and the pain was like the sharp stab of a knife. She must have cried out. His eyes flew open, hot and a little angry—angry, she realized, with himself.
A questioning gaze swept over her. Lisette caught her lip in her teeth and rocked again.
“Aah—” he whispered.
Drawing up her knees another inch, Lisette let her hands skate around to the sculpted muscles of his hips and urged him fully between her legs. Napier pulled back a little, and pushed inside again, this time deeper.
His gaze caught hers and searched her face, questioning the pain.
Questioning, perhaps, everything.
“Yes,” she said.
He thrust home on a groan of male triumph, claiming her, a sound so pure her heart ached. Oh, she longed for this. Not a longing for sex—though God knew she felt that, too—but for the intimacy of two people thoroughly drowning in each other.
Longing, really, for him.
She let herself drink him in, tucking the memory away in the hidden corners of her heart for another time—and another place—when all this would be over.
Napier let his head fall, bearing his weight forward on powerful arms as he set a steady pace, sliding deep, brushing the sweet spot between her legs. Lisette felt her passage slicken as his flesh pulled at hers. His thrusts sped up, his tendons cording with the strain.
She felt herself open like a flower welcoming the sun’s heat, her need matching his, stroke for stroke. Soon that glorious sensation edged near again. The fleeting moment of pain was forgotten and only that white-hot pleasure remained, tantalizingly beyond her reach. She felt herself rising
up to meet him as she shuddered, their bodies coming together as one. And then the light shattered again, and this time it was as if something inside Lisette broke away and flew to him—taking her heart with it.
She cried out softly beneath him, then felt her every muscle flood with pleasure. Napier thrust again, his head going back. Every sinew in his neck strained with his efforts as a molten warmth surged inside her, sweet as the pleasure itself. Twice more he drove inside her, then his head tipped forward, his intense dark eyes burning into hers.
Then he cursed softly beneath his breath, and collapsed.
They must have dozed for a while, for when she stirred it was to find one of Napier’s heavy legs thrown over hers, and his head nestled upon her breast.
It was, she could not but notice, a long, well-muscled leg, sprinkled with dark hair that curved into a beautifully shaped buttock so fine it might have been carved by Bernini. That perfect, semicircular globe was going to warrant a good deal of further attention once she knew more what she was about with this lovemaking business.
But that assumed a future they likely didn’t have, and Lisette had learned long ago to steel herself to disappointment. Nothing had changed between them. Even if Napier found a way to forgive who she was, he was not apt to forget what she’d done.
On an inward sigh, she turned her face toward the window. Though the sun wasn’t out, rain no longer hammered at the glass, so perhaps the worst was over. Lisette stretched experimentally to find certain parts a little sore, but in a deliciously wonderful way.
At the faint movement, Napier opened his eyes, watched her intently for a moment, then lifted his head to kiss her with exquisite gentleness.
“Dear God in heaven,” he groaned, falling back onto the rug, and taking her with him. “I knew you were trouble the instant I laid eyes on you.”
“And you said you weren’t romantic,” she purred, sprawled over his chest.
His laugh rumbled deep. “Ah, there’s my ineloquence again.”
But almost at once, a pensive look passed over his harsh countenance, and he lifted a hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “But Lisette, for you . . . for this glorious feeling . . . perhaps even an old dog could learn a new trick?”
