“Damn it, Ara. I wanted to be a gentleman tonight,” he murmured against her skin.
“I do not want a gentleman.” Her fingers traveled, finding his wide shoulders. Such confined strength. She could feel the ripple and flex of his muscles, but there was too much fabric between them, and if she had to wait two whole days to become his wife, she wanted so much more than passionate kisses. “I need you, Clay. Please.”
“Ara.” He groaned. “We cannot.”
“We can.” Her fingers found buttons, slipping them from their moorings. “We will be married in two days’ time. No one will ever be the wiser.”
“I will be, my darling.” He made a suffering sound. “As will you.”
Ever waging war against his interminable sense of honor, her Clay. She moved against him, instinct guiding her. One slow arch of her body into his. Her breasts brushed his chest. The part of him she wanted most pressed against her. It was not enough. Like the fire he had lit in the grate, she was aflame. Burning for him.
“I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered, holding his gaze.
Another sound emerged from low in his throat, like a strangled growl. “You do not know what you are asking.”
She moved again, undulating her body. Already, she had his coat and waistcoat undone. She pulled both from his shoulders until he was clad in only a shirt, and then she grew bold. Ara knew how to touch him, what he liked, what made him lose himself until his big body shook and bliss rocked through him and he spilled his seed into her waiting palm. Once when he had managed to sneak her into his chamber at Brixton Manor, she had raised her hand to her mouth and licked the creamy spend he had left behind, curious, wanting every part of him she could have.
And he had grown rigid again, rolling her to the bed beneath him, and lifting her skirts. He had buried his face between her legs, licking and sucking her hungry flesh until she had writhed and cried out beneath him. He had not stopped until three simultaneous quakes had roared through her. The traces of him remaining on her hand had been crushed into her skirts as she held them to her waist for him, and she’d hidden the gown from her lady’s maid as a precaution, lest the woman make a query about the stains on the pink silk.
She worked open the placket of his trousers now, and he was not wearing smalls beneath them. He sprang free, hard and thick and so very beautiful. Her hand found him. She stroked.
The breath hissed from him. His head dipped. His mouth returned to her throat before rising again. His jaw clenched. “Damn it, Ara.”
“I want you to take me, Clay.” She ran the pad of her thumb over the smooth firmness of his shaft, feeling moisture gathering at the tip. Feeling bolder still, she brought her thumb to her lips. Licked the wetness from her skin.
She tasted him, tart and bold and delicious. Sucked her thumb. Looked deep into his eyes, telling him without words what she wanted. She loved him. He loved her. They would be wed in two days. There was no sin tonight.
She would not leave this cabin until she was his in every way.
“I am yours,” she murmured. “Make me yours forever, Clay. I want you to be my first, my only.”
“Fuck.”
The vicious epithet rent the air, but it did not shock her. Rather, it inspired her. It empowered her. That one word, so rough, so crude, meant he waged a losing battle to keep from giving them both what they wanted. She reached between them, grasping his velvet hardness, pleasuring him as he had shown her.
His hips jerked. And then he tugged her wrist gently away from him. His fingers went to her simple bodice. Buttons popped free. Like a wild man, he dragged her gown down her body. Like a wild woman, she tore away his shirt, ripping a long strip right down the center when she could not open the buttons as quickly as she wished.
His bare chest was bathed in golden firelight, all the contours delineated—the slabs of sinew and muscle, the breadth of him. Her hands couldn’t get enough of his skin. She ran them over him, absorbing his heat and strength, the fine dusting of hairs, the beautiful grooves on his abdomen. She wanted to run her tongue all over his body, to taste him everywhere. Just gazing upon him filled her with a heady, delirious want.
“Yes, love.” He caught her hands in his with those handsome long fingers. Fingers that knew just how to touch her, how soft, how fast, how rough. “I am yours.”
He was hot and sleek. Perfection. Like a marble warrior come to life. Even better, for she had seen him in action. He was her warrior. And he would soon be her husband.
“I never want to stop touching you,” she confessed, her cheeks warming after the words left her.
But he was not ashamed. “I never want you to stop either, love. Touch me all you like, for the rest of our lives.”
Oh, yes.
She would accept his directive without question.
“Where?” she asked, her hand traveling back to his length, which had only grown in size. How would it fit inside her body as he had told her? She could not imagine, and yet she wanted him inside her with an aching persistence. Anticipation, anxiety, curiosity, and need collided. “Here?” Her fingers tightened around him, stroking.
“Hell, Ara,” he growled, and then the last shred of his restraint finally gave way.
He found ties and buttons and hooks, and he began undoing. With speed and deftness. With an almost desperation that told her he was as frantic for her as she was for him. She hadn’t worn a corset, and she was glad for it as he made short work of her chemise, drawers, and stockings, leaving her utterly bare before him. He shucked his trousers.
And then he was on his knees between her spread thighs. His beautiful face lowered. He kissed her mound, directly above the bundle of flesh capable of such intense sensation. Lower still he kissed, over inner thighs, and onward, pressing chaste, tempting kisses all the way to her…
To her pearl, the word he had taught her—one of many initiations between them.
His mouth closed over her, and he sucked.
She moaned, caressing his hair, his shoulders. Any part of him she could reach as he laved, his tongue slicking the plump bud. His teeth nipped. Just a soft exertion of pressure before his tongue swirled again, working her into even more of a frenzy. He licked down her seam, his knowing tongue parting her, teasing where she ached.
“You taste so bloody good, Ara,” he murmured into her desperate flesh. “And you’re so hungry for me, so responsive, so wet. I could keep you like this forever.”
If she had possessed the ability to speak, she would have quipped that she wouldn’t object to such a fate. But he was inflicting his divine torture on her again, and all she could manage was rolling her head on the carpet, arching her back, and moaning. The pressure built inside her, coiling like a spring as he licked and gently bit.
A great, frenzied rush swept her away. The pleasure burst. She cried out, tremoring with the power of her release, her fingers tightening in his hair. He rode out the storm of her climax with her, caressing her thighs, making a deep rumble of satisfaction she felt in her core.
And then he was kissing back up her body, settling between her thighs, the thick head of him rubbing over her in a delicious temptation. His tongue swirled around her nipples as he slid his fingers over her sex, sending sparks shooting through her. He stroked her pearl in exquisite torture, suckling the stiff peaks of her breasts.
“Ara mine,” he murmured against her skin, his breath and lips a brand. “You must be certain. I cannot maintain my control for much longer. I want to be a gentleman. To treat you with the honor and respect you deserve.”
He was such a good man, so honorable. She had no question, no doubt in her soul. Her hands were on him, touching him everywhere she could. “I want you now, Clay. Inside me. You are the husband of my heart, and I don’t want to wait two days.”
He buried his face in her neck, kissing all the way to her jaw as he rocked his body against hers, slowly and tentatively. “Certain, Ara?”
His skin was hot and smooth, his shoulders ha
rd slabs, his biceps flexed as he held himself above her, keeping his full weight from her body. It seemed impossible a man so large and powerful could be capable of such gentleness, and yet he was. He touched her with a reverence that shook her.
“Certain,” she said.
His mouth claimed hers at the same time as he thrust inside her. One quick pump of his hips. Pain sliced through her at the intrusion. She flinched beneath him. The hand between their bodies stilled.
“I’m so sorry, love,” he said against her mouth. “Shall I stop?”
“No.” She kissed him again, moving beneath him. An aching burn tore through her, chased by spirals of pleasure as his fingers plied their sensual torture. How odd this claiming was, half pleasure, half pain. And yet, incomplete somehow. She wanted more. She moved again. He settled deeper inside her.
He groaned. “You feel so damn good. Too good for me, Ara. Too good. I do not deserve you.”
Yes, she wanted to say, you do. But she could not seem to speak.
He thrust deeper, stretching her, taking small, slow strokes until he was all the way inside her, and she was so full. Her body adapted to him. As he worked her with his clever fingers, the pain receded. In its place was the despicable thing, accompanied by the need for friction. For more.
They kissed and kissed. Slowly, he began to move, giving her what she wanted. In and out he thrust, unhurriedly at first but then faster. Kissing her with such aching tenderness that tears leaked from her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. He found them, caught them with his lips.
“Am I hurting you, my love?” He stilled, gazing down at her, concern furrowing his brow.
“You could never hurt me,” she said, managing to find her voice. She urged him to continue by undulating her hips, bringing him deeper once more. “I am happy. So very happy.”
He found her lips, fed her his tongue, his kiss firm and demanding, yet giving and sensual all at once. She never wanted him to stop kissing her, just as she never wanted his body to part from hers. She wished she could keep him here forever, their skin melded together, bodies as one with him inside her, his tongue and his taste in her mouth.
He was her entire world. He was the sun and the moon and the stars, the days and the nights, and every breath.
And she was coming undone. Flying. Her body exploded like firecrackers in a dark sky. With him inside her, the pleasure was even more intense. She tightened, losing herself, shaking, crying out. He slid in and out, faster and faster, and then he thrust deep inside her one last time as bliss rippled through her, curling her toes.
He tore his mouth from hers and threw back his head, crying out her name as he spent inside her. Another tremor hit her, and she was helpless. Mindless. Filled with love and filled with Clay.
“I love you,” she whispered, holding him tightly to her as their hearts pounded in unison.
They held each other in silence for a long time, nothing but the crackling of the fire and the steady reassurance of their breaths interrupting. When they did not dare tarry any longer, Clay tenderly cleaned her with a handkerchief and they helped each other to dress.
The ride back to Kingswood Hall was over too soon.
They parted with a long, slow kiss in the darkness. When Ara slipped back inside her chamber, she could not sleep, the happiness within her so strong she vibrated with it. She stood at the window for a long time, fancying she could see Clay standing below, watching her in return, as reluctant to leave her behind as she was him. The moon bathed the park in a silver glow. The stars seemed brighter than she had ever seen them.
At last, she forced herself away from the window, sat at her writing desk, and confessed her elation in the only fashion she dared trust: to the pages of her journal. She signed her name at the bottom with a flourish.
Mrs. Clayton Ludlow.
Chapter Fourteen
One moment, Ara had been alone in the garden, staring into the sculpted hedges and trying to calm her racing heart and mind. The next, a crunch of tread on gravel alerted her to another presence.
She turned, expecting the interloper to be Clay, returned from wherever he had disappeared to in the wake of her revelation. Hours had passed. Rains had come and gone. And still he had not reappeared. She was desperate to know what his next move would be. Terrified of how her admission would impact Edward. Frightened of the power Clay could wield over her.
But when her eyes settled upon the unfamiliar face and form of a stranger, all her terror and fear turned into abject horror. The man stood at a distance, a bowler hat pulled low over his brow. His countenance was grim. Menacing. Dark-red splatters stained his coat and trousers. Blood. The hilt of a vicious-looking blade glinted in his hand, also dripping with gore.
And she knew.
She knew he was here to kill her.
Ara screamed, snagging fistfuls of her skirts and running in the opposite direction. Clay had men stationed everywhere. She could only guess that the blood on the stranger’s clothing was from one of them.
He had murdered one of her guards. And now, he would murder her.
No.
She would fight. She would run.
As fast as her feet and her legs would take her, she raced. Into the maze of carefully manicured hedges she went, knowing the path by heart. Heavy footfalls followed, echoing in her ears. All she could hear was the pant of her own breaths, the thudding of her heart, and the sound of the stranger following her. Gaining on her. Closer and closer he came. Her heart hammered. Her breaths became increasingly shallow until she was gasping. She was losing speed and he was gaining.
The garden was not large. She reached the center of the maze. He grew closer. Closer. Closer. But she was determined. Desperate. The footfalls sounded heavier now. She had a son to live for. She had everything to fight for. She pushed herself, ran faster, her heavy skirts and corset twin impediments to her progress.
Until her foot caught in her hem. She lost her balance. Tripped. Fell headlong into the gravel path. A fresh wave of fear hit her as she collided with the earth. Her hands caught most of her fall, keeping her head from slamming into the ground. But the footsteps were upon her now, and she was lying prone, helpless.
A lamb for the slaughter.
This was it for her. She had reached the end. Edward’s face flashed through her mind. No, she had to be brave for her son. She had to escape. She would live for him. She had to live for him. She scrambled to her hands and knees, desperation coursing through her.
“Ara.”
Huge, boot-shod feet appeared before her.
This was not the voice she had expected to hear. This voice was familiar. Dark and low. Reassuring in a way it ought not to be after all these years and everything that had come between them.
Hands gripped her, hauling her upward.
And there he was. Clay. She had never been more relieved to see another person in all her life. She threw herself into his arms. “Th-there is a man. He’s f-following me.”
The words would not emerge without the trembles wracking her body. Terror still clawed at her. Where was the man? He had been so close on her heels. Clay’s touch swept over her back, up and down in soothing motions.
“He will not follow you again,” he promised, a lethal note underlying his voice.
Good heavens, had Clay killed the man? She was afraid to ask. “P-please. Edward…is he safe?”
“Yes, the lad is safe.” He continued to stroke her back, holding her tightly. Almost as if she were precious to him, though she knew the truth was he loathed her. “Did that bastard touch you?”
She shook her head, inhaling deeply of his reassuring scent. Musk and man and leather. And Clay. “I ran from him. H-he was getting closer. He was c-covered in blood, Clay. H-he had a blade.”
“Aye. He almost killed one of my men. I’ll be requesting more guards forthwith.” His voice rumbled in his broad chest.
Her body went cold, and she could not seem to stop trembling, her teeth chattering. The threats agai
nst her, while concerning, had been faceless and intangible. Now, she had seen a man who intended to murder her, just moments after he had attempted to kill another.
“Ara, you are safe now. You have my word.” His tone was grim. He stroked her hair with such tenderness her heart ached.
She did not trust his word. He had given it to her before, and his promise had been a lie. But the truth was, she had no one else. He was all she could rely upon, the only hope she could cling to.
And so, she clung. She clung as if he were the side of a boat and she was in danger of being swept away into the sea. She clung to his strong neck and his massive chest. Clung as he bent and scooped her effortlessly into his arms. Not a hint of a protest left her lips as he stalked back along the path she had just run down.
Though she pressed her face against him, she saw the fallen figure of a man in the path. More blood.
“Avert your gaze,” Clay ordered curtly.
But it was too late. She recognized the still form, the bowler hat lying next to his lifeless body. Clay had killed for her. Silently, savagely, and without hesitation. He had saved her life, but to do so, he had needed to take another.
A shocked gasp tore from her, and she forced her eyes away from the dead man.
“It was necessary, Ara.” Clay’s deep voice vibrated against her cheek. “If he had reached you, I would not have been able to save you.”
She swallowed, knowing it was the truth. “Thank you, Clay.”
“It is my duty to protect you,” he said tightly. “You need not offer me your gratitude.”
His sudden coolness felt like a rebuke. “You may put me down now,” she said, her pride reasserting itself now that the danger seemed to have been extinguished for the moment.
“No,” he bit out.
She glanced up at him, finding his wide jaw rigid. “I wish to walk on my own. I do not require you to carry me about as if I am an invalid.”
“The matter is not open for discussion. I am carrying you, and that is final.”
What a stubborn, vexing man. So changeable. One moment, he held her as if she were dear to him, and the next he withdrew even as he insisted upon carrying her back into Burghly House.
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 15
