A Rogue's Proposal

by Stephanie Laurens

  Demon drew breath and looked into her eyes, and saw tears welling bright against the blue. He inwardly quaked, unsure if they meant victory or defeat. He swallowed and asked, his voice barely audible, “Have I convinced you?” She searched his face, then smiled—glowed.

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” His hands, one at her waist, the other at her hip, tightened—he forced them to relax. Disappointment welled, but . . . she seemed happy. Deeply content. If anything, her glow had reached new heights, new depths.

  He studied her eyes, hard to read in the silvery light, then forced himself to nod. “I’ll call on you midmorning.” He raised her hand and pressed an ardent kiss to her palm. If he had to wait, that was all he dared do.

  Steeling himself, he eased his arms from her.

  Instantly, she clutched—her eyes flew wide.

  “No! Don’t go!” Flick locked her eyes on his. “I want you with me tonight.”

  She didn’t want to tell him her decision in words—she could never match his exposition. She intended telling him in a more direct fashion—in a manner she was sure he’d understand. Words could wait until tomorrow. Tonight . . .

  He grimaced lightly. “Flick, sweetheart, much as I want you, this is my parents’ house, and—”

  She cut him off with a kiss—the most potent one she could muster.

  Long before she stopped for breath, Demon had forgotten the point of his argument—he’d lost the reins of their carriage long ago. The only point he was capable of contemplating lay at the juncture of her thighs, but . . . deeply ingrained honor forced him to pull back, catch his breath—

  She touched him.

  Inexpertly, not firmly enough—but she was learning. He shuddered, groaned—and caught her hand. “Flick—!”

  She wriggled—he had to move quickly to catch her other hand before she reduced him to quivering helplessness.

  “Dammit, woman—you’re supposed to be innocent!”

  Her warm chuckle was the very opposite. “I gave you my innocence at The Angel—don’t you remember?”

  “How could I forget? Every damned minute of that night is engraved on my brain.”

  She grinned. “Like an etching?”

  “If an etching can convey sensations as well, then yes.” The memories had warmed him, tortured him, for weeks.

  Her grin widened. “In that case, you must recall that I’m not a sweet innocent any more.” Her expression softened, and glowed. “I gave you my innocence. It was a gift—won’t you accept it?”

  Demon stared into her lovely face—he couldn’t think.

  She dropped her gaze to his lips. “If you won’t stay with me here, I’ll come back to your lodgings.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll follow you—you can’t stop me.” Her lips curved; she met his eyes. “I want to see your etchings.”

  Demon looked down into eyes so blatantly full of love he wondered how he could have doubted her answer. She loved him, and always had, regardless of whether he loved her. But he did love her—desperately. Which meant they’d marry soon. Why was he holding her away?

  He blinked. The next instant, he released her hands, wrapped his arms about her, and pulled her hard against him. “God, you are so stubborn!”

  He kissed her—powerfully, passionately, deliberately letting the reins go—feeling her tug them from his grasp and fling them aside.

  At some point in the subsequent heated exchange, they surfaced long enough to turn the corner of the gallery and find the door to her room. Once inside, he leaned back against the door—and let her have her way with him. It was a new experience, and oddly precious—to have a woman so wantonly, ravenously, set on ravishing him.

  He reveled in it, in the hot kisses she pressed on him, in the greedy clutch of her fingers on his naked chest. She’d wrecked his cravat, crushed his coat and waistcoat—his shirt had lost buttons. When she hummed in her throat and reached for his waistband, he summoned enough strength to back her to the bed. “Not yet.” Catching her hands, he stayed her. “I want to see you first.”

  Despite having had her more than once, he hadn’t, yet, had a chance to sate his senses as he wished, and view her totally naked. He wanted that—and he wanted it now.

  She blinked as he sat on the bed and drew her to stand between his thighs. “See me?”

  “Hmm.” He didn’t elaborate—she’d catch on soon enough. At The Angel, he’d seen her naked back, but not her naked front—not in any degree of light. Her male attire made undressing her easy—he had her clad only in a whisper-fine chemise in less than a minute.

  By then her eyes were round.

  He stood. She stepped back, swiftly scanning the room, noting the lighted candles on her dresser and bedside table, the flickering glow cast by the fire. Dispensing with his coat, cravat, waistcoat and shirt took a minute—his boots and stockings took one more.

  Then he sat on the bed again, thighs wide. She turned to look at him, then shyly smiled. All but swaying with the force, the steady pounding, of desire, he went to move—to reach out and draw her to him—

  She moved first.

  With that same, shy smile on her lips, she grasped the hem of her chemise, and slowly drew it off over her head.

  His chest locked—if his life had depended on not looking at her—not visually devouring her—he’d have died.

  He wasn’t sure he hadn’t—he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—he certainly couldn’t move. Every muscle had seized, poised, ready It took enormous effort to drag in a breath, to drag his gaze upward from the lithe sweeps of her thighs, from the golden nest of curls at their apex, over the smooth curve of her stomach, up over her waist—one he could span with his hands—to the swells of her breasts, high, pert, and tipped with rose.

  Her nipples puckered as his gaze touched them; he felt his lips curve, and knew his smile was hungry.

  He was ravenous—aching to have her, to haul her into his arms and possess her, sink his throbbing staff deep into her softness, to ride her into sweet oblivion.

  She still held her chemise in one hand, but she didn’t clutch it close, didn’t try to hide from his hot gaze. She shivered, but let him look his fill; when his gaze reached her face, she met his eyes.

  There was no mistaking her glow—it was invitation and known delight—it held a siren’s allure, and the confidence of a woman well-loved.

  If she ever looked at another man like that she would break his heart. The vulnerability washed over him—he acknowledged it, accepted it and let it pass. Reaching out, he took her chemise from her, let it fall to the floor, then curved his hand about her hip.

  He urged her to him and she came—shy but not hesitant. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders; he slid his about her waist and held her, sensing the supple strength of her, then he looked up, trapped her gaze, and slid both palms down, over her hips, over the firm spheres of her bottom. He spread his fingers and cupped her, caressed her, kneaded gently—within seconds, her skin dewed and heated. Her pupils dilated, her lids half lowered; she caught her breath and tensed slightly.

  Holding her gaze, refusing to let her break the contact, he left one hand evocatively fondling, tracing the smooth curves and hidden valleys, brushing the backs of her thighs. His other hand he placed palm flat on her belly. She sucked in a breath, and tensed even more. Ruthlessly holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hand up, brushing the sensitive underside of one breast with the backs of his fingers, then closing his hand about the firm mound.

  She gasped softly; her lids fluttered, then fell. He smiled and kneaded, stroked and tweaked, all the time watching desire flow across her face. Her lips parted. Her tongue slipped out to moisten them; her breath came in little rushes, not yet pants, but with urgency building. Her lashes fluttered as she felt him learn her, explore her.

  With a wolfish smile, he bent his head.

  Her shocked gasp rang through the room. She clutched his head, fingers gripping tight as he rasped his tongue over the nipple he’
d suckled, torturing it even more. She was soon panting in earnest, the sound sweetly evocative.

  He drew back. Desire had flooded her, changing her skin from flawless ivory to rose. Sliding his hand down over her waist, he watched her face as he gently kneaded her taut belly, then reached lower, spearing his fingers through her soft curls, pressing into the soft flesh behind.

  She was already wet, swollen and ready—he stroked, and she shuddered. And leaned against one thigh, caught his shoulder for balance.

  Before he could blink, she hauled in a breath, opened her eyes, and reached for his buttons. Her nimble fingers slid them free; she reached in—

  He closed his eyes and groaned.

  She closed her hand and he shuddered. His hands fell from her; head bowed, hands fisted, he endured as she eased her hold and went searching, exploring.

  He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to open his eyes—his lids still lifted, just enough so he could see her slender arm, wrist-deep in his open breeches, fine muscles flexing as she stroked and squeezed.

  Then she reached deep.

  The groan she ripped from him was one of real pain—he was achingly hard, throbbing fit to explode.

  Her other hand pushed at his chest.

  “Lie back.”

  He did, falling flat on his back, chest heaving as he struggled for breath—control was far beyond him. Her hand left him—he cursed the loss of her touch.

  “Just a minute.”

  In disbelief, he felt her tugging at his breeches. This was nothing like what he’d had planned, but . . . with a defeated groan, he lifted his hips and let her strip them from him. She got them halfway down, then froze.

  Only then did he recall she’d never seen what she’d so successfully accommodated four times thus far.

  Oh, God! He levered his lids up—she was standing between his thighs, completely naked, staring, absolutely mesmerized, at his groin. At his rather large member, thick as her wrist, which was presently standing at full attention out of its nest of brown hair.

  Stifling a groan, he tensed to sit up, to grab her before she jumped away—to calm her, soothe her, reassure her—

  In that instant, the stunned look on her face dissolved into a glorious smile—a wicked, purely sensual, blatantly eager light danced in her eyes. Releasing his breeches, she reached for him—

  “No!”

  Chest heaving, he lay on the bed and gazed at her in absolute horror. Her fingers had stopped mere inches from his staff, which was growing more painfully rigid by the second. He glanced at her face.

  She opened her eyes wide and raised her brows back. She didn’t get close to looking innocent—it was pure sensual challenge that flashed in her eyes. When he didn’t immediately respond—just lay there looking at her, stupefied and at her mercy—her chin firmed.

  He hauled in a breath. “All right—but for God’s sake get these off me first.”

  She chuckled wickedly and did, quickly easing the tight breeches down his long legs, then hauling them off his feet.

  He used the moment to gather his strength—she was going to kill him.

  His breeches hit the floor; the next instant, she clambered eagerly onto the bed—and surprised him again. He’d assumed she’d come to his side—instead, she climbed up between his thighs, settling herself on her knees directly before what was clearly her present obsession.

  He sucked in a breath—it got trapped in his lungs; they seized as she seized him. Too gently. On a groan, he reached down and closed his hand about hers, showing her how much pressure to exert. As in all things, she learned quickly. After that, all he could do was lie back and think of England. Of Lady Osbaldestone—of anything that might distract him. Not that anything did—it was utterly impossible to detach himself from her touch, from her increasingly explicit caresses. With the fingers of one hand wrapped about his rigid length, she reached to his chest, running her warm hand over taut muscles that tensed and tightened even more.

  Then she leaned over him—she couldn’t reach his mouth—she did reach his flat nipples. When he jerked, she chuckled—when he moaned, she only licked harder. With gay abandon, she spread hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, then nibbled her way down, over his ridged abdomen.

  He went rigid when she nuzzled along the trail of hair leading down from his navel—

  And nearly died when she closed her hot mouth about his head.

  He caught her, gripping her arms tight, fighting a desperate battle not to buck and push himself deeper. Dizzy, almost faint, he clenched his jaw, and hauled in three deep breaths, even while he gloried in the intimate caress.

  Then he slid his hands further, gripped and lifted her.

  Her eyes went wide as he held her briefly above him while he brought his legs inside hers.

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  He met her gaze briefly. “Too much.” He bit the words off—he wasn’t up to talking. He set her down astride his hips. “I need to be inside you.”

  He was nudging into her as he spoke, muscles bunching, flickering, veins cording as he fought to be gentle. He should have readied her more, eased her more, but . . .

  He glanced up—she met his gaze, studied his eyes fleetingly, then she smiled, gloriously wanton, and gave her wicked little chuckle. Setting her hands on his chest for balance, she leaned forward, just a little.

  She flowered and opened for him. Before he could catch his breath and thrust upward, she sank down, not in a rush—he was too big for that—but slowly. Her lids fell; her breath caught. Frowning in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she eased herself down on him, inch by steady inch, even tucking her rear deeper to take him all. She enveloped him in hot, wet silk, slick with her own passion; when she was fully impaled, she released the breath she’d held—and tightened firmly about him.

  After that, he couldn’t remember anything clearly—just startling moments of achingly sweet sensuality, a delight he’d never experienced before. As she rode him, loved him, used her body to pleasure him, he lay back, conquered—defeated—and surrendered and simply took. He let her set the pace, let her gallop, rush, or amble as she would. While she moved over him, rising and falling, he let his hands roam, refreshing his memory, learning more—feasting on the knowledge, reveling in the intimacy.

  And when, flushed and panting, she convulsed about him, collapsing, sated, into his arms, he decided this had to be heaven. Only an angel could have given him so much.

  He held her, soothed her, waited until she’d caught her breath before he rolled her beneath him. Pushing her thighs wide, he thrust heavily, deeply; she caught her breath and opened wide, then clung.

  She stayed with him as he rode her, reaching up to stroke his chest. Briefly meeting his eyes, she smiled—a cat who’d savored a whole bowlful of cream. “I love you.” Her eyes drifted shut on the whisper; her smile remained on her face.

  “I know,” he murmured, then closed his eyes and concentrated on loving her back.

  A soft, smug smile flirted about her lips. Two minutes later, it died.

  She blinked, and shot him a surprised look, immediately wiped from her face as she gasped and arched beneath him. He stifled a groan as she tensed, and tightened about him once more. He was fully engorged and so deeply inside her he was going to lose his mind.

  She lost hers first, coming apart in a series of small explosions, a shatteringly long, rolling release.

  He continued to ride her, hard and deep, waiting until she eased, until all tension leached from her limbs, until, open and possessed, she lay beneath him, her body accepting him with no resistance—in that instant just before she started drifting, just before he joined her in the void, he leaned down, and kissed her gently.

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter 21

  The instincts of years hadn’t died—Demon woke long before anyone else in the house. And instantly remembered his last words. He tensed, waiting for horror to engulf him—instead, all he felt
was a warm peace, a subtle sense that all was right in his world. For long moments, he simply lay there, luxuriating in that feeling.

  A ticking inner clock finally prompted him to move. It wasn’t yet dawn, but he had to leave soon. Turning on his side, he studied the angel snuggled beside him. He’d fallen asleep still inside her; during the night, he’d woken and disengaged, then gently settled her to sleep by his side.

  How she woke was one of the delights already imprinted—etched—on his mind. Smiling, he gently tugged the sheet from her slack grasp and lifted it.

  Flick woke to the sensation of him parting her thighs, to the sweet stroking of his finger in the soft flesh between. She never woke quickly—she simply couldn’t do it. By the time her breathing had accelerated enough for her to lift her lids, she was hot and wet, aching and empty. In the instant before she would have tensed to move, he shifted over her, one hand pressing beneath her bottom to tilt her up, his hard thighs pressing hers wide.

  He entered her—solid and hard and hot. He pushed in, and stretched her, filled her until she gasped, clutched and clung. He rode her and she joined him, their bodies locked together, driven and driving, seeking, climbing, racing until their hearts almost burst and glory rained upon them.

  Flat on her back, gasping in the aftermath, she felt him still high and hard inside her. He hung over her, on his elbows, head bowed, chest working like a bellows. They were both hot, skins slick. The hair on his chest abraded her nipples—in her sensitized state, she could feel his hair elsewhere—on his forearms and calves, on his stomach, at his groin. Their limbs touched—everywhere; they were as intimately joined as it was possible to be. She had never been more physically aware of him—or herself.

  His heart, thudding against her breast, slowed. Raising his head, he looked at her. “Have I convinced you?”

  She lifted her lids and looked into his eyes, then deliberately tensed, tightening all about him, smiled, and let her lids fall. “Yes.”

  He groaned, moaned, dropped his forehead to hers—and predictably convinced her all over again.