He seated her, then, clinging to impassivity, retreated to the safety of the opposite side of the round table. It was ridiculous; he’d managed to keep his impulses regarding her in check, libido subdued and under his control, for all their days in London, and even through the journey to Edinburgh. Yet now, having had her twice, his more primitive self was literally champing at the bit to have her beneath him again.
Unsettling wasn’t the half of it.
Luckily, at an establishment of this caliber there were always serving staff in the room, private or not. He could, of course, send them out, but he wasn’t that stupid. At present they provided the only real bulwark against his primitive self breaking loose and suggesting that Angelica replace the dishes currently decorating the table.
The first course came and went; she instituted a discussion about Perth, the River Tay, and the town’s history, all of which he knew enough about to keep the conversational ball rolling.
The second course passed with a quick sweep through Scottish history, a cursory one given she knew so little and needed to start with the bare bones; her inquiries bolstered the image that she was his willing and eager Sassenach bride-to-be, keen to know more about her new country.
Then the dishes were removed and dessert, a trifle topped with clotted cream, was placed before them.
He sampled a spoonful and finally looked directly at her, something he’d avoided since they’d met upstairs, and found himself gazing into green-gold eyes that already looked more intensely emerald . . .
Could she read his mind?
Or . . . the notion that she was experiencing the same compulsion he was roared through him.
Even as he watched, she put out her tongue, passing the tip over her lower lip, swiping up a sheen of clotted cream.
The image of her spread upon the table flashed back into his brain; if he asked . . . looking into those emerald-gold eyes, he doubted she would refuse.
Looking down at his plate, he wondered how quickly he could make the dinner end.
She pushed her barely touched trifle away.
He met her eyes, arched a brow.
Her smile was determined. “I’ve had enough food.”
Glory be. Setting down his spoon, he stood. Waving the footman back, he walked to her chair and drew it out, offering his hand to assist her to her feet.
She laid her hand in his and rose; clasping her fingers, he set her hand on his sleeve and turned her to the door.
Bending his head, he murmured, “I assume you don’t wish for tea?”
She met his eyes. “I was thinking of something more . . . enthralling.”
His answering smile felt tight. “We’re going to walk through the foyer and up the stairs as if we’re merely intent on getting an early night. Nothing more exciting than that.”
He straightened.
Facing forward, Angelica nodded. “An unenthralling, unexciting, early night.”
Nothing was further from her mind. She’d never felt like this before, as if she was burning from the inside out, consumed by fiery wanting. Her breasts had swelled beneath her bodice and she’d grown unaccountably warm. She’d forgotten to bring a fan, but in the dining parlor she’d needed one more than she ever had in any ballroom. She hadn’t realized that a single night’s excursion into physical intimacy could lead to an addiction, but that was what this felt like—a driving craving to have his hands on her again, to have him deep inside her again. To feel the pleasure rolling through her as . . .
Cutting off the thought, she fought down her impatience, ignored the urge to hurry, hurry, and matched her pace to his as he strolled through the foyer; with an easy nod to the clerk behind the desk, he started them up the stairs. She battled a near-overpowering impulse to drop his arm, pick up her skirts, and race up to her room . . . if she did, he’d be on her, on her heels and capturing her, in an instant; the arm beneath his sleeve was steely hard, locked with a tension she now recognized as a symptom of desire.
Intense desire.
She’d been thrilled, beyond delighted, and enthralled by his attentions over the previous night. Now she knew the basics, she was eager to explore further, yet from the moment he’d escorted her to the countess’s suite that morning, she’d had so much else to fill her mind . . . aside from the moment in the tavern parlor, she hadn’t entertained a single heated thought all day. She’d noticed that his touch, along with his attitude, had grown more possessive, but the flare of heat whenever he touched her—to lift her to her saddle, in taking her hand, or when his hand brushed the back of her waist in that peculiarly male, proprietorial fashion—seemed, not muted, but easier to deal with.
Her equanimity had been perfectly even-keeled, until, dressed for dinner, she’d walked out of her room and had seen him leaning on the gallery balustrade, waiting for her.
He’d turned his head, seen her, and straightened. She’d walked to him—and the only thought in her head had been to get him out of his evening clothes and have him sprawl naked in her bed so she could have her wicked way with him.
Tamping down the eruption of desire had taken all the self-control she’d had.
Now . . . her self-control was running decidedly thin. Frayed, and fraying.
They reached the head of the stairs and he turned them along the gallery.
She locked her gaze on the door to her room. Just a little further—
“In here.”
The gravelly order brought her up short. She heard a click, then he drew her across him, steering her through an open door. He followed; his hands grasping her waist, he pressed her back against the wall while he pushed the door closed with one foot.
And then he was there, hard, muscled, and radiating heat, his heavy body trapping hers against the wall, holding her captive. For one fleeting instant, their eyes met, then he bent his head and his lips captured hers.
Searing, demanding, the kiss was nothing short of incendiary; it instantly set their passions alight.
Within seconds the blaze was roaring.
She reached up, sank her hands into his hair, held tight as the kiss raged, as desire, freed, erupted and raced through them.
When he released her lips and bent his head to press fire along her throat, her hands sunk in his hair, she hauled in a shaky breath and managed to get out, “My room. Shouldn’t we—”
“No. Here.” He laved the spot where her pulse pounded. “The bed.”
He closed his mouth over the same spot and she shuddered. Forcing up her lids, she glanced across the room . . .
Whispered, “Oh, my.”
The hotel had given him the best bedchamber, a stateroom containing a massive four-poster bed hung in the royal colors of crimson and gold. The wide expanse within was large enough to accommodate even him. Large enough for them to roll in, wrestle in, without any danger of falling off.
His hands slid up to close about her breasts, to knead with an urgency impossible to deny, to possess by touch laced with unassailable right; lids falling, she bit her lip against a moan at the surge of heat his masterful, blatantly possessive caresses evoked.
He found her nipples and squeezed. Her knees turned to jelly; if he hadn’t been holding her up she would have slid down the wall. She clutched at his shoulders; after seeing that bed, the only coherent thought left in her head was to get them out of their clothes and rolling naked on the silk sheets.
Raising his head, he took her mouth in a kiss so openly ravenous she gasped. His tongue plundered, stroked, claimed; she seized his shoulders and returned his fire, sent her tongue to tangle, to duel with his.
The engagement spun out of control; passion spiraled and desire shrieked.
Abruptly the mating of their mouths was not enough.
Nowhere near enough to appease the demand thundering in their blood.
His hands released her breasts and st
reaked over her body, claiming, provocatively shaping.
Finding strength in desperation, she slid her hands from his shoulders, reached for his lapels.
He broke from the kiss, brushed her hands aside—so he could set his fingers to the buttons closing her bodice.
Letting her arms sag, she struggled to catch her breath.
Something ripped.
He swore.
“Never mind,” she got out. “You paid for it—I have others.”
He glanced up, caught her gaze; his eyes were crystal clear, burning with intent. “You’re sure?”
“I’ll have the modiste make another. Just get it off—”
He closed his hands and ripped. They both stilled, for a fraction of a heartbeat frozen by the unmistakable, unexpectedly arousing sound.
Then he wrenched his hands apart and buttons rained to the floor.
Releasing the hanging halves of her gown, he seized her by the waist and pulled her to him, away from the wall. He stripped the gown’s remnants and the folds of her shawl away; the instant her arms were free, she wrapped both about his neck and levered herself high enough to capture his lips—to kiss him with all the pent-up passion in her soul.
Dropping the ruined gown, Dominic closed his hands about her waist, held her up on her toes as she ravaged his mouth, transparently bent on issuing an entirely unnecessary sexual challenge.
Intent on ravaging her back, intent on doing much much more, he looped one arm under her bottom and hoisted her up; she immediately wrapped her legs about his waist, levered herself higher against him, and applied herself to frying his brains with her ardor.
All she had on was a filmy chemise, silk and so fine it concealed nothing; no real barrier to his touch, it became a tantalizing, shifting layer between his hands and her skin. But her new position left the heated haven between her thighs riding just above the head of his already fully engorged erection.
And as she shifted against him, pouring her passion into the kiss . . .
He mentally cursed, then with his other hand palmed the back of her head, held her immobile as he wrenched control of the kiss back, then settled to devour her. To claim her mouth, her lips, to sup and seize with unrestrained hunger, to fill her mouth with the heavy repetitive thrust of his tongue, evocatively mimicking the possession to come.
Once she was caught, her senses snared, he walked to the bed.
His legs hit the side. Holding her to him, still captured in the kiss, he reached blindly with one hand, felt and found the top of the covers. With one yank he hauled them back and flung them to the end of the bed.
Bracing his legs against the bed’s side, he bent forward, pried her hands from about his neck, broke the kiss, and let her fall onto the bed.
She sank into the ivory silk sheets, but her gaze was locked on him. She waved at his clothes. “Take them off.” She started to shift as if intending to curl her legs under her and sit up.
Gripping her thighs behind each knee, he lifted both, tipping her back, keeping her where she was. “No time.” His voice was a gravelly growl. “Later. After.”
Her eyes flared.
He drew her toward him until her hips rested on the edge of the mattress, then he pushed her thighs wide, dropped down to one knee and set his mouth to her.
She shrieked, tried to swallow the sound, then pressed a fist to her lips as he licked and laved, and drove her frantic.
But he was already too far gone himself to take the long road; glancing up, watching her head thrash, her hair spilling from the elegant knot to whip about her shoulders, the drive to be inside her escalated to near-brutal force.
Rising, licking her nectar from his lips, feeling it, an arousing drug, add its note to the clamor of his instincts, he released her legs, cupped her slick flesh, and with two fingers tested her entrance while with his other hand he undid the placket of his trousers.
Breasts heaving, Angelica struggled to fill her lungs, watched, mesmerized, as he released his engorged staff. Her eyes locked on the wide, bulbous head; her mouth watered—she wanted to reach out and touch, claim, to run her fingers down the thick, heavily veined shaft.
Before she could summon enough wit or strength to move, he slid one large hand beneath her hips and raised them as, with his other hand, he guided his erection to her entrance.
She felt him there, through the slickness seeking entry. Her lids fell; her breathing snagged, seized, as her senses focused and she felt him push in just a little way.
Then he shifted; the mattress beside her shoulder sank. Forcing up her lids, she looked up, into his face. He’d splayed his left hand on the bed by her shoulder; arm braced, he was leaning over her, the hand beneath her hips keeping them tilted so he could, inch by inch, impale her.
She watched him as he did. Took in the intense concentration that etched his features as, eyes closing, he eased himself slowly, steadily, into her body. Absorbed the incredible, deeply erotic sensation of him, hot, hard, and heavy, pushing deep within her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only watch and feel—and in some deeply instinctive corner of her soul, know.
Even under his coat, under his shirt, she could tell his muscles were locked, that they’d turned to steel and the control he was exerting to ease into her so slowly—so carefully—was no small effort.
But he did it. Until, at the last, he was fully seated inside her.
Then he expelled a breath, opened his eyes, and looked down at her.
His eyes blazed with a raw need that gripped her, held her, fascinated and mesmerized . . . then he spoke, guttural and low. “All right?”
She looked into those predator’s eyes, then gracefully lifted her legs and wrapped them about the solid core of his body, just above his hips. She held his gaze, dragged in a breath, let it out with, “Yes. Now—”
He moved. Flexed his spine, withdrew, then surged in again.
She caught her breath, fought to keep her eyes on his, to meet his burning gaze. He set a slow, deliberate pace, one that escalated as she gasped, as she found the rhythm and rode with him.
Locked together, they rocked, their lower bodies parting and coming together, intimately joining, but other than the brush of his clothes against the sensitive faces of her inner thighs and along her calves, they weren’t touching.
Which somehow registered as excruciatingly erotic to her avidly greedy senses.
And he was watching her, watching her every reaction to his increasingly powerful, increasingly forceful possession.
And possession it was. He filled her completely, the hand beneath her bottom holding her body anchored to receive each thrust. To take him in, take him deep.
And she could do nothing but lie there and let him have her. Let him fill her.
Let him possess her.
Her shallow pants filled her ears; her senses reeled, overloaded and overwhelmed.
His thrusts rocked her, would have shifted her on the sheet if he hadn’t held her in place.
Reaching up, she pushed the halves of his coat aside, spread her hands on his chest, then gripped his sides and tried to tug him down, but he didn’t budge.
He briefly shook his head. “Not this time.”
She slumped back, looked up at him, and saw his lids lower. Felt the hand beneath her tighten, gripping harder. Sensed the change, the escalating urgency of their joining, recognized the start of the climb.
If he could watch her, she could watch him.
Could—between fighting for breath, between panting and writhing and riding her own race, between clenching the sheets as passion and desperate desire welled and ecstasy beckoned—watch him gasp, watch him shudder, watch the flow of expressions, dramatic and intense, cross his face as he thrust harder, deeper, ever more powerfully.
Her inner dam broke. Distracted with watching him, it caught her unawares
, an explosion so shattering she lost touch with the world.
Her body bowed, a breathless scream on her lips, and then she couldn’t see.
All she knew in those instants of searing pleasure, of incandescent heat, was the feel of him within her, the need to have him there, to hold and grip and caress and keep.
He gave a hoarse groan. With one last, shockingly powerful thrust he buried himself inside her, then shuddered.
Glory closed around her, smothered her wits, gilded her senses. Her heart thundered in her ears; she felt his heartbeat, solid and strong, an echo deep inside her. Pleasure rolled over her in boundless waves.
A minute passed, and all she could hear was their labored breaths.
Unable to open her eyes, she reached up blindly, with her fingers gently traced his face.
He turned his head and pressed a long, slow kiss to her palm, then, moving very slowly, he unwound her legs, let himself down alongside her, and drew her into his arms.
They rode out of Perth as the sky started to lighten, Dominic riding alongside Angelica, Hercules pacing easily beside Ebony.
After half a mile, Dominic nodded at the filly. “She’s settled more rapidly today.”
Angelica leaned forward and patted Ebony’s neck. “She’s learned to keep pace with Hercules, I think.”
Just as, in the space of three lessons, her mistress had learned to keep pace with him.
“She’s a fast learner,” she proudly informed him.
He nodded and looked ahead, and prayed his day wouldn’t again be peppered with unintended double entendres; he most definitely didn’t need the distraction, especially after last night. He couldn’t recall being so driven to be inside a woman, not since his distant youth . . . in fact, not even then. He’d gone into the engagement with no thought in his head beyond sinking his member into her body and finding the fastest, most satisfying route to heaven. Which he’d found; the intense pleasure and consequent, unbelievably deep satiation had been the stuff of male dreams.
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae Page 26
