by Liz Carlyle
“Yes, but I mean to undress only one tonight,” said David, bending his head to suckle at her ear. Then his tone became more compassionate. “Cecilia, love, I’m no innocent. God knows I’m not good enough for you, but you’ve always known that. Still, I can give you pleasure. And show you how desirable you are.”
Gently, David slid the dress to her waist, then let his arms come about her. Cecilia’s breasts spilled from her stays, molding to his hands. From behind, he caressed her, while his lips brushed over her hair. He did want her. She could feel the heat of his eyes, staring over her shoulder, watching her breasts harden and tremble as he touched them. The pleasure was too exquisite to be borne. Almost against her will, Cecilia whimpered as her head tipped back against him, exposing herself to his view.
“Good God, Cecilia,” he whispered, lightly pinching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. “You are more beautiful now than when I first—”
Cecilia spun about in his arms and kissed him, her mouth opening to his. Even now, held fast in the spell of his seduction, she had no wish to be reminded of the past.
Outside, the driving sleet grew faster, hammering against the glass in rhythm with her pulse. David’s eyes fell shut, his thick lashes fanning across his cheeks as he deepened the kiss to a burning intensity.
Suddenly, he broke away, and swiftly undressed her, expertly unfastening what was left of her clothing. It took him but a moment, and then he slid the chemise over her head and buried his face in her hair as his hands ran over her bare shoulders and down her back, cradling her buttocks.
With a low, masculine growl of impatience, he pushed her onto the bed, stripped off his shirt, and shucked out of his remaining clothes. Cecilia found him only marginally less alarming in his half-aroused state. She realized he was still staring at her breasts.
“They are... ample, are they not?”
David looked at her and smiled almost wistfully. “They are just as I have always dreamed of them—perfect, ripened peaches,” he whispered, followingher onto the bed. “I haven’t tasted one in years withut thinking of you. Such untainted beauty. Such artless simplicity.”
The honesty of his words made her blush. Cecilia had never lain naked with a man. Not even her husband, in his fumbling and futile efforts, had fully undressed her. In the hearth, the coals sheared off, heightening the glow across her skin. Shyly, she moved to draw back the shielding bedcovers.
At once, David’s hand came down to cover hers. “Don’t, Cecilia,” he whispered. With his body, he pressed her down against the linen counterpane, the fabric soft and cool against her back. Bracketing himself over her, he bent his head to kiss her breast, his tongue seeking the tip, drawing it into his mouth until she arched and cried out at the spike of pleasure. As his dark, heavy hair fell forward to sweep over her feverish skin, his teeth gently nipped at her, suckling until that strange liquid warmth ran through her belly and between her legs.
Good Lord. She had not known... had never dreamed of such a thing. Nor of such exquisite torment. Oh, she’d known that David was sought-after for just such skills. A relentless libertine, she’d thought him. But suddenly, she did not care. And he did not relent.
Still hanging over her, one forearm braced above her shoulder, David turned his attention to the other breast, nursing and nuzzling as his other hand slid down and smoothed over the swell of her belly. “Perfect,” he whispered. “So beautiful, so womanly you are, my sweet.” He opened his hand and caressed her lower still, until one finger slid into the silken cleft between her legs. She was wet. Embarrassingly slick. His fingers slid through her flesh like an erotic breeze, the dampness trailing through her curls.
His fingers traced through her again, a whisper of pleasure, and then his thumb touched what felt like the very core of her soul. It was too much. Too powerful. Cecilia gave a faint, breathless gasp and tried to jerk away. Against her breast, David growled, a sound of intense pleasure deep in his throat. With one hand, he stilled her, while his thumb brushed the wonderful place again, making Cecilia want to writhe and sob with pleasure.
“Oh, oh...” she breathed into the darkness. “Stop, David... oh!” Cecilia felt on fire with shame and pleasure. But she pressed her heels into the mattress, arching hard against his hand. Searching. Eager.
David trailed the heat of his tongue over her nipple. “Sweet Peaches...” he whispered hoarsely. “A taste of you could drive a man insane.” Along her thigh, she felt his rod stir and grow hard again. She pressed herself against him, and David let his full weight come down on her, urging her down into the firmness of her bed.
With womanly instinct, Cecilia lifted one leg and curled it tight about his waist, dragging his hips into hers, and letting her tongue trace a salty path down his throat. She wanted. Oh, how she wanted... something.
Gently, David pushed her leg down again. “Slow,” he rasped. “Go slowly, Cecilia... don’t rush...” His skin was burning now, too, his back taut and powerful as she skimmed her hands down to the tightly bunched muscles of his buttocks.
He raised himself up slightly, bracing his weight on both arms as he studied her, his once indolent eyes burning with raw emotion. “Oh, Jesus, Cecilia...”
Suddenly, he slid down her length, burying his face in the thatch of gold curls between her thighs. Strong and heavy, his hands slid inside her thighs, pressing them apart. With wild abandon, he thrust his tongue into her wetness, probing until he found the place his fingers had teased to hardness. Cecilia stifled a scream. Her hips arched off the bed, but David’s powerful arms forced her down again. Sweetly, deliberately, he tormented her, sliding first his tongue, then his fingers, inside her.
David found himself grappling for control. She was beautiful. Too beautiful for him. Greedily, he suckled her, drawing in the scent of her passion, sliding his fingers through her warm velvet flesh, and then beyond, into the forbidden tightness. Gently, he probed her, wondering what it was going to feel like when he tore through such exquisite innocence. Could he bear her pain? His own pleasure? Yet he burned to take her, make her his. God knew he had no right. Never had. Still, he’d been given a second chance, though it might be madness to seize it.
But he meant to, because this time nothing—nothing—would stop him. Certainly Cecilia wouldn’t. She was writhing against the bed now, murmuring incoherently, her hands fisting in the coverlet, her hair spread over the pillow in a glorious tangle of flame-gold. In the firelight, her skin glowed, her beautiful breasts and rounded belly were flushed with pink.
With a hushed whimper, David closed his eyes and tasted deeply of her, remembering six long years of carnal fantasies—obsessive, heated dreams—not one of which could compare to this reality. Suddenly, Cecilia bucked hard beneath him, her breath fast and rasping.
David had broken into a sweat. Still, he resisted the urge to take her, touching her again with his tongue, stroking and teasing. He’d promised her pleasure, and she’d damned well get it, even if he exploded from restraint.
But it was Cecilia who exploded. Her release came upon her quickly, leaving her shuddering and trembling, her body rigid against him. “Ah, ah... aaah, David,” she moaned, her hands flowing over her body, touching her throat, breasts, her belly, and finally coming to rest over his own fingers.
In response, he slid up her length and held her as the trembling subsided. “Come inside,” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse and foreign. “I want you inside me now. Please. I know it’s wicked, but I want you.”
Against the back of her head, David felt his hand spasm as he pressed her cheek against his chest and held her. “Oh, my sweet Cecilia,” he murmured into her hair. “You must understand—there is nothing wicked about this—not if it is what we both want.”
“Do you want... it?” she asked uncertainly. “Do you want me?”
David gave a sardonic laugh. “So much it hurts, you little fool.” He covered her with his body and kissed her again. She was round and pretty and delicate all over. Too del
icate. His cock was hard and pulsing as he ran one hand down its length, considering what he was about to do to her. To both of them, perhaps.
Mesmerized, Cecilia watched him touch himself. “What will it feel like?”
Such an innocent question. A less selfish man would have stopped. But David leaned forward, spread her with his hand, and slid inside her snug warmth just an inch. “Like that,” he whispered, holding himself in check.
Cecilia shivered at the newness of the sensation, of David’s heavy, heated flesh searing and stretching hers. It felt good. Perfect. As if she’d waited a lifetime. Instinctively, she urged against him. David’s hardness slid deeper, rubbing high over the sweet place his mouth had found, and at once, Cecilia understood. She reached out for him, trying to pull him nearer.
David resisted. Slowly, he withdrew, and Cecilia cried out, stung by the emptiness. With his hand still holding the weight of his manhood, he shoved himself in again, sliding deeper this time. And again, and again, flesh into flesh, a little at a time. Strange. And wonderful.
Still, she wanted something more. His head bent, his eyes focused on their joining, David began to shudder, his muscles taut. “Please,” she sighed, reaching out for him again.
“Not yet,” David whispered, his voice straining.
“Yes,” she begged. “Now. All.”
“No!” he growled.
Then, suddenly, he moaned deep in his chest, a low cry of agony, and moved his hand. On a sudden thrust, he slid deep inside, stretching her, seemingly beyond her tolerance. There was a moment of sharp pain, a sense of intense invasion, and finally acceptance, as Cecilia’s body took him fully inside.
“Oh, my God,” David whispered, his voice rich with awe.
His head went back. His eyes were squeezed tight, the tendons of his neck corded and slick with sweat. “You are... unhurt?” he rasped, his voice weak, his body trembling with what felt like superhuman effort.
“I—I’m fine,” she managed, feeling him throb and pulse against the entrance to her womb. Her pain gone, she craved only the return of sensation, of David’s heated hardness sliding into her. Again, he shuddered, a bone-deep tremble. Greedily, Cecilia rocked her hips against him, instinct drawing her hands to his buttocks.
His eyes flew open in alarm. “No!” he shouted, shoving her hips harshly back down against the bed. “Oh, Christ almighty! Don’t... don’t pull,” he whispered hoarsely. “And don’t push. Oh! Cecilia! Just don’t move.”
Outside, the sheeting ice had lessened to a soft rain, swathing the room in perfect silence, save for the harsh breaths that sawed in and out of David’s chest.
“It isn’t good?” she asked softly, reaching up to push the heavy curtain of hair back from his face.
“Too good, Peaches,” he muttered. “Too bloody good... I think I’m going to die.”
She tried. Oh, heaven help her, she tried to do as he asked and lie still beneath him. But her leg began to slide sinuously back and forth along his, and of their own will, her hips rose against him, hungrily seeking. He stroked once, high against her, sweet and true. A blinding sensation slid nearer. In the darkness, David cried out, a soft sound of torment, a man pushed beyond restraint. And yet, Cecilia pressed against him, yearning for something she did not understand.
“Please...” she whimpered. “Please don’t stop.”
David stared at her, his eyes wide and dark with warning. “I won’t,” he rasped, “but just... let me do it.”
Mutely, she nodded, and he shoved himself inside her again. It was too much. Too sweet. She reached out for him, clawing impotently against the tight muscles of his shoulders. In truth, she clung to him, dragging herself high against him, urging him to move against her, to give her what he’d given before.
“Oh, give me strength,” he whispered, bowing his head and drawing himself out with a warm, silken glide through her flesh. Again, he drove himself into her, this time spreading her wide with one hand, forcing his stroke against her core of fire and pleasure.
Oh, that was it. Yes. So perfect. So deep. Cecilia moaned and rose up again, writhing beneath his thrust. Again, and again, he pounded into her, his breath heaving in and out, his head back, his hips pumping feverishly. What had once been pain became torment, and then... something more. Blindly, Cecilia reached out again.
This time, David fell full on top of her, forcing her shoulders into the mattress, roughly shoving himself in and out until Cecilia could do nothing but whisper his name. Until, at last, she exploded inside, surging around him, drawing him deep, into her heart and her soul.
“Oh—Cecilia!” he cried. “Oh—my God!” His voice was hoarse and desperate. His teeth caught in her hair as he bit into her neck. His hips bucked against her twice more, pounding the headboard against the wall. He clutched her tighter, dragging her against him, shuddering, shoving, pulsing inside her until he was spent.
For a long moment, he held her, clutching at her awkwardly, as a drowning man might clutch a log in the ocean. His hard, unyielding jaw, the very one she’d once thought so haughty, fell against her forehead, damp with sweat. At last, a sigh—a whimper, really—escaped him, and finally, his body collapsed, his shoulders shuddering one last time.
Slowly, he rolled to one side, taking her with him as he went. And Cecilia fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter Nine
In Which Delacourt Awakens to an Epiphany
Reality returned to David through a dense fog, as if he were walking toward a place he did not know. Drowsy and uncertain, he lifted his head from the pillow of Cecilia’s breast and looked about. In her hearth, the fire was dying. In the shadows sat a pair of armchairs, a Louis Quinze dressing table, an armoire, all very normal things. Indeed, it was a very normal lady’s boudoir, done up in frilly fabrics of green and gold. Surely, he’d seen countless like it?
And yet, when he looked back at Cecilia, a sensation which felt far from normal squeezed the breath from his chest. He forced himself to inhale. Something—a bedsheet—was tangled about his ankle. He threw it off with a harsh thrashing motion. In her sleep, Cecilia sighed and turned onto her side to snuggle deeply into the pillows. Entranced, David studied the lush curve of her hip, the mass of burnished hair which fell over one shoulder, and a feeling of intense possessiveness—the need to wrap himself about her, to feel the instinctive tightening of her body against his—almost overwhelmed him.
Sweet Jesus, what was he thinking? Roughly, he lifted himself away from her and went to the window, parting the draperies to peer out into the night. The air, it seemed, had warmed. A thick, murky fog had enveloped Marylebone, swaddling the glossy cobbles in silence. In a corridor above, he could dimly hear a clock striking. Four? Or five?
He turned to look over his shoulder at Cecilia once more, and realized that he had to get out of her house before he did something unspeakably foolish. Like waking her up, falling at her feet, and babbling incoherently about having loved her since the first day he’d laid eyes on her.
Damn! He couldn’t afford to even consider such a thing. His hands trembling, David drew the cover around her nakedness, jerked on his clothes, and went slinking down the stairs like a thief—which, in a way, he was, since in a moment of supreme idiocy, he’d seized something which had not been his to take.
Once inside the drawing room, he shrugged hastily into his coat and threw his cravat about his neck. But Cecilia’s clothing was still scattered over the floor. David had never before faced such a point of etiquette. Surely, it would be ungentlemanly to leave a lady’s unmentionables to be discovered by the first person down tomorrow? And he rather doubted that it would be Cecilia, a woman who obviously slept the sleep of the innocent.
Quickly, he gathered up her things and crept back to her room, piling everything on a chair just inside her door. Then, unable to resist, he turned back for one last look at her, snuggled into the covers like a sleepy kitten. It was almost his undoing. Impulsively, he snared one of her silk stockings an
d stuffed it into his pocket. Then he hastened down the stairs to snatch his coat and dash out into the damp February morning.
Soon, he was alone in a dark, cold carriage, rumbling toward Portland Place. David tried to tell himself that his leaving so quietly was an act of consideration. Cecilia was not the sort of lady who would wish her servants to catch sight of her lover skulking out at dawn. But the truth was, he was driven by cowardice. Delacourt simply did not know what to say after last night.
Last night. Oh, God.
Was it the beginning of something wonderful? Or simply a fitting end to an enduring obsession? In the darkness, he bowed his head. Pray God, anything but that. Perhaps he did not know precisely what he wanted. Or, more accurately, did not know if he deserved what he was beginning to think he wanted. But he knew he needed Cecilia in his life.
So... what now? Did he fling himself at her feet? Beg her to—to marry him? Damn. He’d done that before. And the little cat had all but spit in his face. Surely she wouldn’t now? But why not? What had changed? All her high talk about decent men aside, would she think him somehow nobler, more honorable, now that he’d finally managed to take her virginity? David snorted aloud.
No, Cecilia would not blame him. But it was entirely possible—quite likely, in fact—that she would wake up with grave regrets. And certainly, those regrets would not be eased by learning the truth of who—and what—he really was. And this time, he would have to tell her. This time, he could not assuage his guilt by telling himself he was trying to marry her for her own good, and because she had no better option. This time, Cecilia had many choices. She could marry where she chose—and if she chose.
Suddenly, Delacourt looked back to see the elegant entrance to Park Crescent disappearing in the distance, and he knew that at a bare minimum, he had to make love to her again. But would she be willing? God knew he’d given a pitiful performance. How ironic! At the time when it had mattered most, the celebrated and notoriously profligate Lord Delacourt had first succumbed to an attack of the scruples and, in the end, had been unable to muster any measure of restraint.
