“Darling…” He withdrew and stared at her.
Guilt darkened his expression. The hands gripping her arms—dear Lord, he hadn’t touched her body at all and already she quaked—eased so that it felt as if his hold was as delicate as a single thread of silk.
Oh, no. No, no, no. He wasn’t stopping now. Not when finally his kisses promised oblivion. Frantically she buried her hands in his hair, pulling its soft thickness. “Keep going.”
“You’re hurt.”
“He hit me.” Curse Christopher, he must know she didn’t want to talk. She, a woman who spent all day juggling words, wanted only to feel. “It will hurt me more if you stop.”
He kissed her tenderly, sending her heart swooping. “I won’t stop.”
She stretched up to kiss him, using her tongue in silent demand. When he hesitated, she tugged his hair until he kissed her back.
At last, at last, he cupped her breast. In aching welcome, the nipple pearled against his palm. She shivered as he bared her to sweet exploration. Moisture welled between her thighs and she shifted restlessly.
He kissed her neck again, stirring more shivery reaction, but for all her eagerness, she wasn’t ready to lie down on the bank. “Come with me,” she forced out, as his teeth scraped a sensitive spot on her neck.
Through the steamy haze in her mind, she realized he was caught in this whirl of pleasure and hadn’t heard. She cleared her throat and spoke more loudly, “Not here.”
He growled with frustration and lifted his head. “Where?”
With every second in his arms, the horror of Lord Neville’s assault receded, submerged in a wild, reckless elation that turned the night brighter than the Harmsworth Jewel. She fumbled for his hand. “Follow me.”
With her other hand, she tugged her bodice across her breasts and wrapped his coat around herself. Modesty was absurd after he’d touched her so carnally. But she was reluctant to wander the woods half-naked like a nymph.
He groaned. “This is revenge, isn’t it? For the times I teased you about your embroidery or interrupted your work.”
Laughing softly, she squeezed his hand. Sweetness leavened desire until her heart brimmed so full, it must surely burst from her chest. She hardly noticed Christopher collecting the lantern. She turned toward the end of the pond, shrouded in thick trees and bushes.
Richard struggled to leash his urge to tumble her where they stood. She seemed so eager, but he couldn’t forget how she’d looked crushed beneath Fairbrother. She needed a perfect lover now, a man to worship her, treat her the way he’d treat antique lace or Venetian glass. Richard wanted her so much, more than he’d wanted any other woman, but tonight of all nights, he couldn’t let his selfishness rule him. This was about restoring Genevieve’s bruised spirit.
In a daze of anticipation, he followed her through the dark woods. She pushed through low branches. Richard was so focused on Genevieve, he needed a moment to identify the structure rising from the undergrowth as if planted there. But it was manmade. And completely hidden from anyone passing a few feet away.
“I had no idea.” In amazement, he stared at the tiny white temple shrouded in greenery.
Genevieve led him up cracked marble stairs, littered with dead leaves. “I found it not long after we came to Little Derrick.” She paused. “My mother died just before that. This provided the perfect place to hide and grieve.”
“Darling—” Fierce compassion pierced him. Tenderly he raised her hand and kissed the knuckles.
She turned in the doorway, shaking her glorious hair back from her face. “Welcome.”
His breath caught at the sight of her. She gleamed gold in the lantern light and her face was as pure as an angel carved on a cathedral front.
With a cursory glance at his surroundings, he stepped through the columned entry. The space was astonishing enough to occupy his attention, if the woman he loved hadn’t stared at him as though he brought the stars down from the sky to set at her feet.
“Good God.” With a shaking hand, he set the lantern on the marble floor with its geometric patterns. She’d furnished the summerhouse with candles and a table. And, praise the Lord, pillows. Pillows and cushions stacked against columns. Pillows and cushions piled to form a bed worthy of a harem.
She smiled. “Do you like it?”
He smiled back and gently drew her down to the bed until they kneeled facing one another. “Yes. You must tell me about it.” He caught her thick fall of hair in his fist, revealing the graceful curve of shoulder and neck. She was so delicious, he could eat her up. “Much later.”
He swung her close for a drugging kiss. She responded without hesitation, her mouth open and ravenous. Her hands curled around his arms.
Giddy with love, he kissed her throat. Her scent invaded his head. Warm flowers. Female musk. Genevieve. Above all, Genevieve.
He nipped her earlobe. Her breath escaped in humid little gasps and she arched, the peaks of her breasts grazing his chest through his shirt. She was no passive lover. Her capable hands grabbed his open collar. He waited for her to push his shirt aside, but her impatience exceeded his. With a grunt, she tore his shirt in two, then rose on her knees to skim her mouth across his pectorals.
Her desire fed his. Made him ready to take on the world and win. How had he lived without her? Still he couldn’t forget her ordeal with Fairbrother. The memory tempered passion, made him careful, as he couldn’t remember being careful with a lover.
He caught her face in his hands, chary of her bruised cheek. “I want to see you naked.”
Her eyes were dark and mysterious. “I want to see you naked too.”
For all her boldness, her hands trembled as she brushed his ruined shirt from his shoulders. Then slowly, so slowly that it was excruciating torture, she touched him, learning him with her fingertips. His heart threatened to burst under the powerful sensations.
Her fingers glanced across one nipple and he jerked with shock. She stopped and regarded him uncertainly. “Should I stop?”
“Hell, no.” He loved the drift of her hands. Even more than her touch, he loved her wondering expression. As though his body was the gateway to a magnificent kingdom that she’d never dreamed existed.
With a few deft movements, he rid her of coat, dress, and corset, then pulled her torn shift over her head. Her torso rose from the froth of white petticoats like a perfect flower. When he took her beaded nipple into his mouth, her taste made his head swim.
His fumbling fingers—no woman in years had made him fumble, but Genevieve demolished practiced technique—released the tapes fastening her petticoats. The need to see her pounded like an army of drummers. He edged her back into the cushions. He drew away petticoats, then slippers, scuffed and dirty after tramping through the woods. Then stockings. With unsteady hands, he tugged her drawers down her long legs.
Dear God in heaven. He’d caught a hint of how exquisite she was when he’d surprised her at the pond. But nothing compared to this moment when she lay bare before him, flushed with desire.
Genevieve’s hands coiled nervously at her sides. He knew she desperately wanted to cover herself.
“You’re lovely,” he said in a choked voice.
Vulnerability shadowed her eyes as she bit her lip. “When you look at me like that, I feel lovely.”
In the light, she was a creature of gilt and shadow. Nothing could match her. He prayed for the skill to do this superb woman justice.
He kneeled between her legs, sinking into the cushions. Her hot scent made him crazy. She stroked his shoulders and chest until his muscles twitched with longing. Then she lowered her hands to his trousers, brushing his cock.
“Hell—” He grabbed her hand and stared at her in desperation.
“Can’t I touch you?”
He hissed through his teeth and battled for control. “I want you so much.”
“I want you too,” she said softly.
She pressed her lips to his in a kiss that his former supercilious
self might have considered clumsy. For the man who had discovered his heart, the kiss was as destabilizing as an earthquake. He kissed her back, tasting need and innocence.
Awkwardly, hurriedly, he ripped open his trousers. His cock sprang free, hungry and throbbing. She sighed, eyes fluttering shut, and lifted her hips.
Tenderly he cupped her mound, feathery hair beneath his palm. In Oxford he’d had to coax her into accepting such familiarity. Tonight, praise the Lord, her legs swiftly fell open. She was wet, gloriously, lusciously, sumptuously wet.
He pressed his forehead into her satiny shoulder and tested her with one finger, then two. Yes…
Chapter Twenty-Five
Genevieve felt a seeking pressure between her legs, where she was aching and empty. She yearned for Christopher’s possession with a hunger she’d never known, even when he’d touched her on the river.
Breathing raggedly, Christopher braced his weight upon his arms. “I’ll hurt you.”
She hooked her hands around his back. “Don’t stop.”
“I don’t think I can.” The raw voice didn’t sound like the familiar self-possessed man.
He shifted his hips and pressed deeper. Her damp heat eased his passage; still he stretched her. She bit back a whimper and he paused.
Beneath her hands, his back was slippery with sweat and she felt his trembling tension. New sensations overwhelmed her. Sensations that left her shaking. Her body tightened to expel the invader.
He bit down on the nerve in her neck that turned her boneless with pleasure. A jolt of response shot to where their bodies joined. On a shocked inhalation, her muscles loosened a fraction.
He growled with satisfaction. Raising his head, he stared at her as if she was his most precious treasure. The fear lurking below her determination blossomed into warmth. As he kissed her, she shifted to take him deeper. She strained up to prolong the kiss and in that moment, he thrust. Stiffening, she cried out against his mouth.
“Don’t cry, please, darling, don’t cry.” He placed urgent kisses over her face and neck.
He looked tortured to the edge of endurance. He looked like his suffering far exceeded hers. Especially now that the pain ebbed and her body subtly adjusted. Her lips caught his with a fierceness that made her blood rush.
He groaned and shifted. The new angle sparked a cannonade of sensations. Astonishing, almost pleasurable sensations. She moved, rubbing her breasts against his chest.
Supporting himself on one hand, he stroked her. She moaned and closed hard around him. This time tightness delivered pleasure not discomfort.
As he slowly withdrew, Genevieve felt every inch. “Don’t go,” she begged brokenly, tugging the damp hair clinging to his nape.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he responded softly. With smooth power, he pushed inside again.
Her shocked gaze met his. “Oh.”
He smiled with the brilliance she’d come to believe was only for her. “Oh, indeed.”
He retreated, setting every nerve to shouting hallelujahs. Again he joined her, deeper than before. Dear Lord above, this was wonderful, unlike anything experienced or imagined. She felt restless and yearning, cherished yet frustrated. The next time he thrust, she instinctively raised her hips. Liking what happened, she repeated the action. She watched savage enjoyment flare in his face before she closed her eyes and surrendered to a blazing new universe.
Higher and higher she flew. She was an invincible, immortal eagle soaring into the incandescent sun. Her hands dug into his shoulders, her only anchor in a whirling world. Behind her eyes, the light was blinding.
Up and up she climbed. She shook and moaned with the fever. Her fever was desire. Desire twisting so tight that surely she must disintegrate.
Finally, at the point where she could no longer bear the twisting ascent, longing ignited into fire. She clenched to keep him. He groaned, the sound guttural. He tautened and jerked once, twice, three times. Liquid heat flooded her womb, augmented the overwhelming sensations.
When he collapsed gasping upon her, wonder held her still. His essence cloaked her. Lemon verbena and satisfied man. She couldn’t doubt his satisfaction. His back loosened under her stroking hands as if he’d exhausted all strength. Against her cheek, his hair slid damp and cool.
Her body felt stretched and used. Her face ached where Lord Neville had slapped her. Christopher was heavy, cramming her into the pillows. His weight reminded her that this bed wasn’t designed for love, but as a place to read a book on a quiet afternoon.
Now she’d found a new way to pass her idle hours. The wry thought added an edge of amusement to glowing pleasure.
Richard clung to the dark oblivion of sexual repletion as long as possible. How to measure the time he took to return from the stars? Genevieve’s musky, female scent filled his nostrils, the sweetest perfume he knew. That shattering climax still rumbled through him like a distant storm. He’d never found such pleasure with a woman.
Genevieve remained quiet, arms draped around his waist. He wondered if she slept. He must be crushing her, but he couldn’t bear to move. If he moved, his conscience might decide that he was willing to listen. And he damn well wasn’t.
But his conscience caterwauled until he could block it no longer. Making love to Genevieve had been the transcendent experience of his life. And unquestionably it had been wrong.
Groaning, he rolled away and sat up on the rumpled cushions, raising his knees and burying his head in his hands. From bliss to wretchedness in a heartbeat. This felt like the most God awful hangover. A spiritual hangover. Much nastier than the effects of too much brandy.
“I’ve made such a bloody mull of this,” he muttered, wrenching at his hair as if the small pain could compensate for the evil he’d done this woman.
“Well, that’s what a girl wants to hear after she’s taken a lover,” Genevieve said sourly.
He didn’t look at her as she scrambled away. He missed her proximity. Almost as much as he missed those luminous but unforgivable moments when he’d been inside her and she’d clasped him tight as if she’d never let him go.
“This is no joking matter.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw colored lights. When what he should see was the engulfing flames of hell.
He heard her moving about. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet expectations.”
Horrified, he raised his head to watch her marching around the temple lighting candles. She’d tugged her dress on, although without petticoats, her gown was nearly transparent.
“Don’t be silly, Genevieve,” he said grimly. The light blooming around him didn’t brighten his inner darkness.
She halted before him, glowering. She was so beautiful. A louse like him didn’t deserve to touch the hem of her skirt.
With a furious huff, she blew out the taper. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel like a princess.”
He didn’t smile. He felt lower than a snake’s belly, too low to summon his usual tricks to keep a lady happy once he’d tumbled her. With Genevieve, his tired old lines seemed cheap and shabby. He was cheap and shabby. And a damnable liar.
The lies were the problem. Lies as black as pitch and stinking like a fart from Satan’s arse.
Unsteadily he rose to tug on his trousers, then he slumped onto the makeshift couch to stare at her in despair. “Sit down, Genevieve.”
She folded her arms, pushing her lush bosom up. He was definitely a louse. Even now, his cock twitched with interest. His cock didn’t care that he was rotten to the core. His cock wanted to plant itself between Genevieve’s creamy thighs.
Stifling his baser impulses, he extended his hand toward her. “Please.”
Without touching him, she dropped onto the cushions. Her body was so tense he thought she might crack if he touched her. “Are you married?”
“Good God, no.”
On a shuddering breath, her shoulders relaxed. Guiltily he realized how his behavior must unnerve her. “Well, that’s something.”
He stared blindly at the candles on the rickety table across the room. His belly cramped like he’d eaten bad fish. Life had been considerably easier before he’d given a damn. Dear Lord, what if he’d got her pregnant? She’d curse the day he was born.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said bleakly, knowing that he should have told her before he took her virginity. That he should never have lied at all.
Too late. Too late.
He braced as if expecting a blow. But he owed her the foul, damaging truth. His voice emerged as flat as Lincolnshire. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“I know you’re not,” she said equally expressionlessly. “You’re the thief who broke into the vicarage and locked me in.”
Bloody hell. She knew? Astonished, he turned. She studied him with severe, focused attention. Against expectations, she didn’t appear to hate him. Yet. “What did you say?”
“You broke into the vicarage.”
“The first time. Never after that,” he said quickly, before reminding himself that he could only seek absolution after a full confession.
He didn’t deserve absolution. How he wished he could take back the last hour. Or more accurately he wished that he wished he could take it back. His unparalleled satisfaction didn’t outweigh his long overdue scruples.
Then the significance of what she’d said struck like a hammer on brass. “How the hell do you know?”
Her lips curved in an unamused smile, although her gaze remained watchful. “You’re not as clever as you think you are.”
That was something she didn’t need to tell him. “Apparently.” He struggled to order reeling thoughts. “How long have you known? Not from the first, surely? You wouldn’t have let me move in.”
He saw her consider making such a claim, but she was much more honest than he. “The first time we kissed.”
Another shock shuddered through him. “What did I do?”
“It wasn’t what you did. It was how you smelled.” Despite the fraught moment, a reminiscent light entered her lovely eyes. “Lemon verbena.”
A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin) Page 21
