His Wicked Ways

by Jaide Fox

Bronte chuckled. “Don't spin me one of your yarns."

  His eyes gleamed with repressed laughter. “But it's so much more interesting than what actually happened."

  Bronte felt her throat close as she studied his face, remembering that look so well from her childhood. The laughter was directed mostly at himself, to hide a touch of guilt, a bit of embarrassment. He'd looked at her in just that way the time she'd caught him coming out of the barn on Isaac's lands. She'd heard giggles inside and known Isaac, and probably Nick, were both in the barn with some other girl. She'd been so hurt and angry that they hadn't invited her to play with them when they had invited some other girl. She'd stalked off, but she hadn't gone home. She'd hidden and waited until the others came out and then she'd caught up with Isaac and told him she would tell his mother about him being in the barn when none of them were supposed to play in the barn.

  Isaac had been so furious with her he'd boxed her ears and told her he'd do something really nasty if she told.

  She hadn't. She hadn't really intended to anyway. She'd only wanted to get even with them for excluding her by scaring them and making them think she would get them in trouble.

  Afterwards, she'd been too upset to think about anything except what Isaac had done.

  Realizing now why they wouldn't let her ‘play’ she wondered how many other times she'd stumbled upon something similar, something she had been far too young to know about, or understand. She'd had no business following the boys around anyway. They were boys, and much older, even Isaac, who'd been younger than Nick and Darcy, but there'd been no girls near her age, and she'd been so lonesome for company, and much of the time Nick and Darcy had been good-natured enough to allow it.

  Rising abruptly, she moved to Darcy and leaned toward him, catching his face between her palms. “Whatever happened,” she said smiling faintly, “I have an idea it's something that shouldn't have happened, but I'll make it all better anyway."

  He stiffened when she touched her lips lightly to the bruise beneath his right eye.

  She leaned back a little. “Better?"

  She heard him swallow. He made a half-hearted attempt at one of his cocky grins. “I hurt my lip, too."

  She studied him a moment, feeling her heart speed up, and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth.

  He caught her around the waist, pulling her onto his lap.

  She lifted her brows, but she made no attempt to escape. “More?"

  "God yes,” Darcy murmured hoarsely, slipping one hand behind her head as he closed the distance that separated them, molding his lips to hers briefly, then brushing them lightly along hers. Her lips tingled at the contact. Desire surged through her with a vengeance, sucking the air from her lungs. Her lips parted as she dragged in a breath laced with the warmth and scent of his. Exhaling harshly, he opened his mouth over hers, pulling her more tightly against him as he raked his tongue along her lower lip and then plunged inside.

  The moment his tongue caressed hers, it felt as if every cell in her body jerked, tensed, then melted as warmth spread through her. She felt a tremor run through his body. Her body answered with a quiver of its own, tightening with expectancy.

  She settled closer. Finding her palms flattened against his upper chest, she began a slow exploration of the body beneath the layers of clothing, skating her palms up and across his broad shoulders, down along his arms and then back to his chest, following the contours of his chest from his shoulders to his hard belly. She hadn't realized how truly immense he was until she found herself on his lap, dwarfed by his size, and it both surprised and delighted her.

  Her desire burgeoned, urging her to search for more pleasurable contact. She ceased to be an accepting vessel and struck off on an exploration of her own, stroking her tongue along his, closing her mouth around his thrusting tongue and suckling. And as she did, she slid her hand lower, along his thigh, searching.

  A jolt went through him as she discovered the turgid flesh she'd been seeking, cupped her hand over it, pressing down as she explored its length and breadth. Feeling the size of it made moisture seep into her slit. Her muscles quivered with acute longing to have that broad length plunged deep inside her.

  He tore his mouth from hers, gasping hoarsely, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “God! Don't!” He growled, grasping her wrist. “I'll explode.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his eyes popped open. Color flooded his face. “My God, Bronte! I'm sorry, darlin'. I forgot myself."

  Bronte slipped one hand behind his head, squirming on his hard lap. “Shut up, Darcy,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his once more, urging him to taste of her, longing to taste him again.

  The invitation was too much for him. He ravaged her mouth with savage possession, running shaking hands over her body, pulling her tightly against him and then pushing her away to explore her with his hands again.

  His hand skated over her hip and around her thigh, fingers curving into her mound just as she slid her tongue into his mouth. Bronte thrilled at his groan, the suction of his mouth, and the pressure of his fingers so close to where she needed them. She knew it would be exciting to kiss him, to hold him like this and be caressed in return, but touching him surged through her system with drugging effect, leaving her achy and feverish and longing for more.

  She crowded her chest against his, crushing her breasts against his chest as she squirmed in his lap. The thought of standing so that she could shift around and straddle him occurred to her, tempting her beyond reason.

  Abruptly, he tore his mouth from hers and surged to his feet, allowing her to slide down his length, steadying her briefly and then releasing her so abruptly she swayed unsteadily. He looked wildly around the room, raking a shaking hand through his hair and bringing it to total disorder. “My God! The front parlor no less! Hell and damnation. I have to go. NOW!"

  Bronte placed a palm over his thundering heart. “Wait."

  He grasped her shoulders almost painfully and set her away from him. “Before God, Bronte,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you touch me one more time I'm going to throw you down on the floor and fuck you senseless."

  Bronte collapsed weakly in the chair he'd just vacated as he strode from the room like a man with the hounds of hell behind him.

  Darcy stood in the street outside for ten minutes before he remembered he'd decided to walk to Bronte's house. “God!” he growled abruptly, grimacing. “I said fuck.” He rubbed a shaking hand over his face, trying to decide whether he'd seen shock or anger on her face, but he couldn't seem to remember anything except that she'd looked thoroughly kissed, her eyes still slumberous with desire.

  Running his hand over his hair, he realized it was in disorder and knew he must look like a wild man. Smoothing it the best he could, he set off down the street at a good clip. He was halfway up the stairs to Nick's townhouse when it suddenly occurred to him that Nick was the last person he wanted to run into at the moment. Turning abruptly, he headed down the stairs once more, gazed absently up and down the street and finally headed back to his apartment.

  His carriage was in front of his apartment when he arrived. Glaring at it for several moments, he stalked into the house in search of his manservant.

  "Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

  Kingsley paled. “You told me to pack your things and follow you down to the country estate."

  The explanation took the wind out of Darcy's sails for about two seconds. “That was more than a week ago, and, I might add, I sure as hell didn't tell you to pack all of my belongings! I've been wearing the same three outfits for more than week and people are starting to talk! What's more, I can't fathom why it would take you more than a damned week to go there and back when I made it in a day!"

  Kingsley flushed. “The carriage broke down twice. When I arrived at the country estate no one had seen you and it was thought that you might have been waylaid along the route by thugs. By the time we sent out inquiries, you'd already left the inn and returned to
town, sir. Once I knew you'd returned to town, I loaded everything up and came back. We only broke down once on the return trip."

  Darcy stared at him in horrified fascination for several moments. “You mean to tell me you had people searching for me all over the countryside?"

  "Your mother,” Kingsley supplied.

  Darcy rolled his eyes. “Well, of all the cock brained things to do! You know how she is! Where are my clothes anyway?"

  "I've unpacked them, sir. The ... uh ... others were in the laundry."

  "As if I'd think to look for them there!” Darcy said accusingly, stalking past his manservant and up the stairs to his room.

  Chapter Nine

  Bronte wasn't certain how long she sat in the salon after Darcy had left, her emotions so tumultuous she merely stared blindly at her hands in her lap, listening to her pounding heart slow until it had resumed its natural rhythm. When her body had ceased to clamor for the release it had been denied, however, her mind began to kick into gear once more.

  Darcy wasn't the only one who'd completely forgotten himself.

  They were fortunate her mother was confined to her bed and none of the servants had happened by.

  She was more fortunate that Darcy had retained enough common sense not to yield to her demands.

  She'd tried to seduce him. There was no point in lying to herself that she'd only meant to soothe his hurt, or make amends for the terrible things she'd thought about him. She'd wanted to see if he desired her.

  She had her answer, and yet it left her feeling dissatisfied, and not just because they hadn't finished what they'd started. She knew she could provoke him to lust. What she didn't know was whether his heated reaction was particular to her, or if he would have been equally excited by any female who'd crawled in his lap and fondled him.

  It was perverse of her, she knew, when she'd reacted just as heatedly to Nick's kisses, but then she'd always adored them both. Even as a young girl, she had felt just as thrilled by Nick's attention as she was by Darcy's.

  She'd always wanted them both.

  Maybe that was the real problem? It was her, not them.

  Sighing, she rose finally and left the parlor. She'd just set foot on the first tread when she heard the bell ring. Her heart skipped a beat as it popped into her mind to wonder if Darcy had come back. She hesitated, listening as the butler moved to the door and opened it.

  The voice wasn't Darcy's. The moment Nick stepped through the door, their gazes collided. She stared at him guiltily. His face hardened purposefully. Without even stopping to consider what she was doing, Bronte hiked her skirts to her knees and fled up the stairs.

  She heard Nick's brisk stride as he crossed the hallway and came after her. He caught up to her in the upper hallway, grabbing her around the waist and jerking her to a halt.

  "Lady Dunmore! Shall I summon the footmen?” her butler called from below.

  Bronte looked at Nick uneasily, envisioning the struggle that was bound to ensue if her footmen tried to oust him. “No,” she said finally.

  "Good choice. You and I have unfinished business,” Nick ground out. Glancing around, he pulled her into the upstairs morning room and closed the door firmly behind them.

  "The servants will talk,” Bronte said uneasily.

  "But you don't particularly care, do you?” Nick asked tightly, releasing her finally although he did not move away.

  Bronte blinked, trying to think what he was talking about. As she stared at him, however, she noticed the bruising beneath his eyes. “You fought with Darcy!” she said accusingly.

  Something flickered in his eyes. “It was a boxing match at the gym,” he said smoothly. “Don't change subject."

  "I'm not sure what the subject is,” she said evasively, having finally remembered the words she'd flung at him the last time she saw him.

  "I think you do,” Nick said grimly.

  Bronte studied him assessingly. “Which part are you objecting to?"

  His lips tightened. “Both, but most definitely the last."

  She forced a disbelieving laugh. “You, of all people, are chastising me?"

  "It was hardly ladylike,” he retorted grimly.

  Bronte's eyes narrowed. “But then I never was much of a lady, was I?” she shot back at him.

  "If you mean to blame that on me, too, Bronte, I'm going to be severely tempted to turn you over my knee and paddle your backside."

  Finding she simply could not resist the temptation to provoke him, she leaned closer. “Naughty Nick. You want to play with my backside, don't you?” she whispered.

  When she straightened, she saw his face was taut, stony. He swallowed thickly. “Take care, Bronte, or you'll find yourself on your back with your skirts over your head. I've only so much self-control and it's wearing thin,” he ground out.

  The threat alone was enough to make the muscles in her belly clench. Lifting a hand, she placed it lightly on his chest.

  He caught her wrist when she began to slide her palm downward.

  She stared at him a moment and swayed toward him, lifting her lips in offering even as she slipped her other hand between them and cupped his cock. A shudder went through him and then, like a dam breaking, he lost control, surging toward her, carrying her backwards until she collided with the wall behind her, his mouth covering hers with savage hunger. Her unappeased desire from before erupted inside of her like a lava flow, fire pouring through her the instant he thrust his tongue into her mouth possessively.

  He moved against her, pressing his swollen member into her belly rhythmically. Bronte groaned into his mouth, trying to shift so that she could feel him against her clit. As if sensing her need, he withdrew slightly, cupping his hand over her mound, pressing his fingers against her in a kneading motion that was almost more torment than relief.

  He tore his mouth from hers after a moment, pressing his lips along her neck, breathing harshly against the crook between her neck and shoulder as he fought for control. Abruptly, almost as if he'd come to a decision, he scooped one breast from the low cut gown she wore and covered it with his mouth.

  Bronte gasped at the intensity of the pleasure that shot through her as she felt the moist heat of his mouth on the turgid, throbbing peak of her breast. She was so enthralled with the adhesion of his mouth and the flick of his tongue, she didn't realize he'd gathered her skirts into his fist until she felt his hand cup her mound more surely, barred from her only by her pantaloons. He lifted his head, gazing into her eyes. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” he murmured hoarsely.

  She complied, her eyes sliding closed as he found the slit in her pants and slipped his fingers through, caressing her bare flesh at last, delving into her cleft until he touched her clit. She inhaled sharply as he began stroking her, teasing the tiny bud and evoking jolt after jolt of exquisite sensation.

  He covered her breast with his mouth once more, suckling as he stroked her, building the tension inside of her until she felt her body surging toward the completion she needed. When her body began to quake with imminent release, he lifted his head, covering her mouth, absorbing her cries until she ceased to shudder.

  He rested his forehead on the wall behind her for many moments afterward, holding her, struggling with his own needs.

  Finally, he lifted his head, sought her lips and kissed her with such infinite tenderness, Bronte felt a terrible sense of loss, of confusion.

  "Don't let your hate drive you into doing something we'll both regret, Bronte,” he said quietly as he pulled away from her at last.

  With a tremendous effort, Bronte opened her eyes and looked at him. She found she couldn't speak, couldn't think of a thing to say. Turning away from her after a moment, he moved to the door and opened it.

  "I don't hate you, Nick,” she murmured as the door closed behind him. “That's the problem. I love you ... and I love Darcy, too, and now I don't know what to do."

  Weakly, Bronte moved to the sofa and sat down, drawing her knees up and hugging them to
herself.

  He'd took what she said to heart, she realized, that she had needs, and he'd assuaged them to keep her from looking elsewhere. She covered her face with her hands.

  He and Darcy had fought. She didn't think she was flattering herself to think it had been over her. They'd been friends as far back as she could remember, and further than she could remember. Naturally, there wasn't always harmony between them, but she'd never known them to batter each other in such a way.

  She was going to destroy that bond and nothing would ever be the same.

  She couldn't do that to them. She loved them too much. Even if she hadn't been so torn that she couldn't choose between them, choosing one over the other would pit them against each other.

  She wished suddenly that she'd never returned to England.

  She wished she could simply pack her bags and flee back to her adoptive country, leaving the mess she'd made behind her.

  This was why she couldn't indulge her fantasies about Nick and Darcy. When she'd thought about it, she'd never considered that either of them might care enough about her to be hurt by it.

  She frowned at that thought, wondering suddenly if she'd misunderstood. Maybe she wrong? Maybe it wasn't an emotional attachment at all. Perhaps the fight had only been because of that fierce competition between them?

  Perhaps.

  She couldn't chance it though. It made her feel a little better to think that she could be wrong about hurting either of them. She could live with them being angry with her for trying to seduce them and then backing off without satisfying either one of them. In truth, it was probably for the best.

  She would have to choose a lover, she decided. Revolted as she was at the idea, she knew it was the only way out of the mess she'd created. Once Darcy and Nick saw that she'd shunned them in favor of another man, they'd probably be disgusted with her, probably think she was completely without morals, but at least they wouldn't be fighting with each other.

  Chapter Ten

  Despite his discomfort, Nick wasn't displeased as he left Bronte's. He had not imagined that Bronte would be so passionate. She'd been on fire for him almost from the moment he'd touched her, responding to him as readily as she had before, perhaps even more heatedly. His body, which had barely begun to cool, was instantly rock hard once more.