“Not that,” she said, shaking her head. “Did you say that you loved me?”
He was a man trapped in a spiral of despair, but he forced himself to stay calm, standing from his chair, readying himself to leave the room if he needed to. “I did. I am in love with you, Helen. But I won’t impose my feelings on—”
Helen stood immediately, matching his every move. “I don’t care, Darius. I don’t care about any of the—you aren’t a character from a Dickens novel. It’s meaningless.”
“It—It isn’t meaningless. And if I were a character in a novel, I’m sure this is the scene where the heroine says something complimentary about my selflessness and offers to shake my hand.”
“You are reading the wrong books, Mr. Thorne.”
“Am I?”
“I think you should kiss me.”
Darius held his breath for a moment. “Mrs. McFadden will be back any moment with a pot of mint tea.” Even as he spoke, his effort to look aloof failed completely as a grin overtook him. The entire conversation had become ridiculous and wonderful, and he was so completely out of his league that he found himself enjoying it. “God . . . what a thing to say when someone offers you your heart’s desire!”
She smiled back at him, a fierce joyful mischief lighting her eyes. “Kiss me, Darius.”
Darius purposefully walked to the library door and leaned out of it. “Forget the tea, Mrs. McFadden! I’ve changed my mind!” he shouted and then shut the door to muffle the sounds of the woman’s complaints and the rattling of pans. He locked the library door and turned back, a man on a mission.
Helen laughed. “Your lungs are much improved.”
“I would have walked through a dozen fires to reach you, Helen.”
“I want to somehow prove that I’m as brave.”
“You don’t need to prove anything to me.”
“Then—to myself.”
“I’m not prepared to be some kind of test, Helen. I care for you too much to be a gauntlet that you run through. I’m flesh and blood, and while the exercise may strengthen you, I don’t think my heart could withstand it.”
“And I’m not merely flesh and blood?”
“Tell me what you want. Whatever it is, Helen, you have all the power in this moment.”
“I don’t want to be in power. I don’t want to be the queen to move about the board.”
“Then say it.”
“I want you.”
“Then I’m yours.”
Darius closed the distance between them instantly, taking her into his arms and kissing her. Since the first time he’d trespassed in the library, the delicious feel and taste of her lips had haunted his dreams and sustained him along every agonizing mile from Edinburgh to London and back. He meant to be slow about this kiss, this singular kiss he’d longed for, but when her breath grazed him and her lips parted beneath his, Darius stopped thinking.
When kissing Helen of Troy, there was apparently no room for thought.
He lifted her up against him, so slight and warm in his arms, hungry for her touch, and driven by her own eager response. She matched his passion, suckling his lower lip, her tongue darting out to meet his own and give him all that he asked.
In a tender reclamation of all the ground he’d yielded, Darius kissed the corners of her mouth and drank in her sighs. She leaned against him and he felt somehow stronger and taller. She reached up to press one hand against his heartbeat, and with the other, splayed the soft blades of her hand behind his neck to wordlessly beg for more.
And in the space of a single breath, tenderness gave way to a blaze of desire.
Darius experienced a sensation like hot sand spilling down his spine to pool at his hip bones and stiffen his cock until he was certain the seams of his clothing would give way.
Not thinking may not be wise, professor.
“Helen, wait . . .”
“What is it, Darius?”
He was a man on fire but he still held himself in check. “I want . . . to keep my promises. I want to be gentle. I don’t ever want to hurt you. But this . . . this isn’t a soft passion or a polite affection I’m wrestling with—” He closed his eyes. “Damn it.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Darius.”
He opened his eyes, struggling with his warring emotions and the taut pull of his desires. “I’m no well-bred gentleman. I have only a vague idea of the rules of this game, Helen.”
“I married a gentleman, Darius, and have suffered for it. Don’t try to be a gentleman. Just keep kissing me. I feel alive, Darius . . . and I want so much to stay that way.”
To hell with the rules. . . .
A lifetime of discipline and denial had only primed him for a feast of the senses and made him feel like a starving man sitting at a banquet.
He lifted her up again, this time high enough to part her thighs and part her skirts, savoring the sensation of her body even through all the layers that separated them. She instinctively raised one of her legs to make it easier for him, and Darius slid one hand up into her skirts to trace the smooth lines of her thigh through the lace and gathers of her underskirts. The heat from the juncture between her legs pulsed against his hips and his body responded, urging him to press forward and betray the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
Her eyes fluttered open a little wider at the sensation of his enormous erection, even through the barrier of their clothing. And Darius knew they were at the Rubicon, so to speak. Because if she wished to stop, it would be now.
“You’re sure?”
“I am certain.”
He eyed the wide surface of his desk for a brief moment but dismissed it out of turn. Instead, Darius lifted her off the floor to cradle her against his chest and carried her over to the hearth of the fireplace, where he roughly pulled down every cushion in sight to make an improvised place to lay her down.
He wanted her to be warm and comfortable, and since he fully intended to deprive her of every stitch of clothing she had on, Darius hoped he’d made a good choice.
Her expression made him hesitate. “What are you thinking over there, Helen?”
“That I landed on those cushions that very first day . . . and here I am again. . . .” She gave him a shy smile. “But look how far I’ve come.”
He pulled her into his arms and pressed her back onto the soft pillows, a surge of joy making his throat close. He’d thought her beautiful that first day, but now she was incomparable—a sensual goddess sweetly offering him a stolen taste of happiness.
Darius slowly reached up to tug at the top button of her dress, just under her chin, kissing her softly just once as if paying a small toll. The modest bodice had glass buttons all the way from her throat to her waist, and as he changed tactics and worked from the lowest fastening at her waist upward, he trailed light kisses across her lips and jaw up to the sensitive shell of her ear.
The back of his palms lightly brushed upward to caress the rise of her breasts and their peaks on his way to reach the uppermost round bob. Darius took his time over each little button, his eyes watching her face and the subtle changes in her color. The intensity of his gaze made her drop hers, but within seconds, she was peeking at him through pale golden lashes as her breath came faster and the work of his fingers reached her collarbone.
“I . . . could manage them,” she whispered, and he smiled at the trace of impatience in her voice.
“You could,” he conceded, “but I am enjoying the process.”
“Darius!”
“Shhh. I want to remember every moment of this so that I can recall it on my deathbed when I’m a hundred and die happy,” he said, thrilled to see her smile at the jest.
He’d never been with a woman before. Every inch of her was uncharted territory, and as he uncovered her skin, myth after myth was shattered. She was hot to the touch, not cold like the marbled Greek beauties he’d seen before. And where he’d thought of women as otherworldly and unfamiliar, here was flesh that matched his own, reacting as h
e did, and her humanity humbled and inspired him to love her more.
He pushed back her bodice, uncovering the simple lace of her chemise and lightly boned corset with its ribboned edges. The column of her throat was bared to him, and the gentle lines of her collarbone and the curves of her shoulders. It was a universe of valleys and rises that beckoned a man to taste and touch at his whim, and when he dipped his head down to trace the pulse of her throat with his tongue, he was instantly rewarded with her gasp and the telltale marbling of her skin.
She leaned into him and tipped her head back, and Darius accepted the invitation without a second thought. She fit against him as if made for him, and Darius reveled in the sweet trust of every stroke of her hands across his skin and every sigh.
Her corset proved a bit more challenging, but once he’d sussed out the fastenings, it came apart easily, like cracking the shell on a lobster. The comparison made him smile as the lovely feast of her body was finally bared for his enjoyment.
Her breasts were tipped in the palest rose pink, the same color as her lips, and he loved their size, like small apples he could cover with his hands. He caressed them, enjoying the heat and heft of her flesh against his palms, but more so, the way his touch incited Helen to wriggle beneath him.
Darius leaned back to move his hand over more of her. He traced the indent of her waist and marveled that his hands could span her and almost touch fingertips. She was at once delicate and fragile to him, but then vibrant and sensually commanding. He covered her ribs with his fingers and measured the planes and rises of her curves, doing his best to ignore the throbbing indignation of his cock at all the delays.
He made quick work of the tapes and buttons of her petticoats and was grateful for her help in kicking the cumbersome layers out of the way.
Her belly button was a small revelation, for he’d forgotten about such things, but spotting hers made him smile. It was a fascinating little well nestled on the rise of her belly, and Darius made a mental note to revisit it if the chance arose.
“Darius,” she whispered his name.
He worshipped her with his hands and with his mouth, trying to take it all in. He skimmed his hands over the lines of a woman that fashion hinted at and art celebrated. Nothing had prepared him for the power of the heat of her firm flesh against his palms and the sacred sense of her power that threatened to overtake him.
The sight of the triangle of pale blond curls on her mons made him sigh at the beauty of her sex. He caught a glimpse of the pink petals beneath and slid his fingers into the silken folds of her body, marveling that anything could be that soft and perfect. He was enthralled by the mysteries of her form, but Helen’s sigh recaptured his attention.
“Darius. I’m . . . You’re staring.”
“I was admiring. I am sure there is a difference,” he replied, shifting back up to cover her body with his, hoping he hadn’t trespassed too far with his bold curiosity. But he was reassured when she began to work his shirt from his body, her hands impatiently baring his flesh for her own touch.
It was a much faster process to shed his own clothes, and Darius lost no time with it.
The buttons at his waist gave way at the first tug, the pressure from within too great for much resistance. The movement made his breath catch in his throat, and when she caught his member in the palm of her hand, stroking him in her gentle assessment of his size and girth, Darius had to pray for control to keep from spilling himself right then and there.
“I’m not made out of porcelain. I’m—I won’t cry.”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“I’m . . .” Isabel blushed furiously. “I’m a married woman. I know all about . . . these matters and I meant to . . . reassure you that I’m used to the pain. You needn’t worry about hurting me.”
“Is it painful?”
She nodded even before words formed to properly answer him. “Of course.”
Darius’s brow furrowed in concentration as he summoned every hint and conversation on the subject he’d ever had with friends. Ashe was the least guarded in his opinions on the matter (or had been open about the topic before the beautiful Caroline Townsend had come into his life) and he had never spoken of tears, discomfort, or anything remotely unappealing in the act.
“Helen.” Darius held his breath and addressed the inescapable truth of his own instincts. “I’m no expert but . . .”
Words failed him.
Painful? There is some discomfort the first time for a woman, that much is certain from what I’ve read—but always? Unacceptable!
“Helen, as a man of letters, I will have to ascertain the truth for myself and apply the principles of a good chess game.”
She nodded. “As you wish.”
“This is my opening gambit,” he whispered in her ear.
He kissed a light trail along her jawline and then down her throat, his fingers barely touching her skin as he moved them over the contours of her body and circled her breasts. She writhed with pleasure and was rewarded as every path his fingers blazed was followed by his mouth to fan warm, wet, teasing kisses along every line of her being.
Her breasts grew taut and her nipples puckered until they truly resembled pert pink roses. Darius hovered over her to inhale their fragrance, and she arched up to try to capture his mouth and press it against one pebbled tip.
He traced the peak with his tongue and then suckled her gently, his hands never still across her skin. He shifted up, his bare thigh pressing against the searing wet of her sex and adding another sensation to her experience, determined to give her whatever she needed, to add layers of contact and texture and draw her out of her reserve.
His only guide was his own heart and its longing to bring her nothing but satisfaction. Using his hands, grazing the crests of each breast with his palms Darius lightly pinched the hardened peaks only to beg her forgiveness with more kisses.
Down between the valley of her breasts, he diverted his attention, even darting his tongue into the well of her belly button to make her giggle before he slid his hand down between her legs, delving again into the wet silk, ensuring that her body was relaxed and open for him. He teased the tiny bud at the crest of her folds and watched her closely to learn where his fingers gave her the greater pleasure, and then lingered on those lessons until she cried out.
He hesitated. “Yes?”
“Yes! Don’t stop! If ever you . . . cared for me . . . don’t stop!”
It was all the encouragement he needed.
He moved his fingers faster but lightened his touch, teasing her with friction that wasn’t friction, and discovered that his queen’s pleasure might be without limits.
She gripped his shoulders, her nails clawing at his upper arms, as the pinnacle of her climax unfurled beyond her control.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “Darius, that was . . .”
“The opening gambit,” he supplied with a playful growl. “And now, on to the castling.”
In chess, castling was a special move that the king was permitted only once in a game to shift over toward the rook and place the castle at his back. But in this instance, Darius hoped to redefine the maneuver for their purposes.
Darius nudged her thighs apart with his and then positioned himself above her. Once he’d achieved his safe harbor, he lowered himself onto his elbows and looked into her eyes. “I am castled.”
“So you are.” She smiled, linking her ankles around his waist to hold him captive. “Now what?” she asked playfully. “And don’t say something about bishops or I’ll take a nip at your nose!”
He laughed, then wickedly began to move his hips against hers. “Middle game.”
She sobered as her expression warmed with renewed lust edged in wariness. “Middle game,” she echoed in a whisper.
The head of his cock had swollen into a fierce dark knob the size of a plum, and the instant his sensitive head was notched against the slippery heat of her body, Darius had to bite the inside of his li
p to keep from bucking his hips forward to take all that was offered.
Instead, he forced himself to move slowly into her, inch by measured inch, his breath coming in ragged hitches at the sheer delirium of the grip of her body on his cock. Instead of hindrances, he was pulled and drawn in, her hips lifting up to take him, rocking up toward him as her legs parted even wider to yield to him. He pressed in and then retreated, only to drive forward with greater speed and force, immediately grasping the implications of following one’s primal instincts.
Oh my. I never thought to enjoy the middle game this much. . . .
Isabel didn’t know whether to cry or shout with joy. All the pain she’d anticipated from her experiences with her husband never came to pass. Instead, his every touch had elicited a new understanding of the possibilities between a man and a woman. Darius’s firm and gentle hands soothed and excited her in turn, sending her over the edge to experience the bliss of release and redefine what it meant to be a woman.
Even so, when the reality of his cock first pressed up inside her entrance, she felt a small jolt of concern. He was twice the size of her husband, and Isabel had learned quickly to hate the invasion of her flesh.
It was the moment of the truth she’d quietly coached herself to simply bear.
But dread evaporated before she had the chance to fully acknowledge it.
Because almost immediately, her body began to sing with a delicious tension that promised another climax as his cock stretched her taut flesh and slowly eased into the hungry recesses of her core.
She’d never felt so alive. Isabel closed her eyes and tipped her head back, clinging to him as her memories died in the fires of this delicious game. Her hips involuntarily rocked up to pull him farther inside. She embraced the fall, shedding any pretense of ladylike reluctance, and met him stroke for stroke until her every thought was swept away in waves of raw lust.
Isabel opened her eyes and leaned up to taste him, defiantly licking the salty sweet fire at the juncture of his throat, and kissed the path of his blood beneath his skin. She wanted to immerse herself in this pleasure and groaned as the white-hot coil inside of her began to tighten to an unbearable tension.
Obsession Wears Opals Page 17
