by Maya Rodale
Therefore . . .
He groaned. There was no therefore. There was no rationalizing his way into lovemaking or anything like it. This was all wrong and improper and he should have put a stop to it hours ago and . . .
But they had made it so far, therefore . . .
He was falling in love with her and had every intention of marrying her, therefore . . .
Then she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. He felt the length of her pressed against him.
He was hard, so hard, therefore . . .
It was the sweetest, gentlest kiss that undid the last shred of his resolve. With some vague notion that they would continue kissing—JUST KISSING—lying down on his bed, he scooped her up in his arms.
“Where to, my lady?”
“What are my options?”
“That horribly uncomfortable settee.” They both looked at the tiny, horribly uncomfortable settee. “Or my bed.” Then, realizing how that sounded, Alistair added, “which is also horribly uncomfortable.”
They both looked over at it—and the feather mattress, soft pillows, and blankets. They both knew that it was not horribly uncomfortable at all.
“At the risk of sounding horribly forward, let us to the bed,” she said.
It was just a few steps to the bed.
He lowered her onto it, half wishing it were their wedding night. She’d be in white, perhaps with flowers in her hair and his ring on her finger. But he was getting ahead of himself, ahead of them.
He took a step back and exhaled.
She peered up at him from the bed. She reclined, leaning on her elbow.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
Yes. No. He shouldn’t. But oh God, he wanted to. In order to make himself feel right about it, Alistair made some promises in his heart. He was going to marry this woman. Protect her. Love her. Do all the right things.
But first, he shut the bedroom door.
Then he joined her on the bed.
“Amy . . .”
“No. Don’t say any more.” She pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him from speaking. Well, he tried to delay the inevitable.
But this little minx and her boundless enthusiasm, curiosity, and need to explore was going to be his undoing.
She pressed a kiss to the soft skin just below his jawbone. He was aware of her breathing him in. So it was going to be like this, a slow, sensuous exploration. Next, her lips found the base of his neck, the hollow of his throat, the bare vee of his chest exposed by his open shirt. Her hands fumbled with his shirt.
What the hell. He sat up enough and pulled it off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. The way she gazed down at him was almost as erotic as her touch. Her brown eyes widened, darkened. And her lips curved into a sensuous half smile. She liked what she saw.
She ran her palms along his chest. He hissed when her thumbs caressed his nipples.
She smiled. Oh you like that do you?
Then she teased his nipples with her mouth, her tongue, and he groaned. Her hands went lower, brushing along his breeches, and caressing his rock hard arousal.
He had never been this hard.
Especially once he felt her touch.
Thoughts of sending her home had long since given way to thoughts of feeling her hand around the hot, hard length of him. Or feeling her around him.
She teased him with her soft touch, here and there and all over his body as if she were memorizing it or claiming it. When he could tolerate it no longer, he flipped her onto her back and rolled on top of her.
“You are trouble,” he whispered.
“But you like trouble,” she whispered back.
And there was no denying that.
Amelia had but one thought in her head: Yes, this. She loved the feeling of his hot, bare skin under her palms or, better yet, her mouth. And there was something about his scent that went straight to her head and chased away all and any thoughts. Except for yes, this.
She couldn’t quite explain this desire to explore him and to know him, intimately. It wasn’t merely curiosity about a naked man, though there was certainly some of that. It wasn’t merely a desire to be wicked, and break the rules and do just one more Thing That Proper Young Ladies Would Never Do.
She just wanted to know him, all of him. From the thoughts in his head and his earliest memories to the feel of his skin and the way he tasted when she kissed him.
And now she knew the way he felt on top of her. His body was strong, heavy with muscle. Alistair propped himself up on his arms, caging her in. He gazed down at her with those dark eyes, fringed with ridiculous lashes. Two could play at this game, his eyes seemed to say.
She smiled back. I won’t stop you.
He pressed a kiss at the hollow of her throat and start moving lower. Yes, this.
And this. His palm pushed the shirt up, sliding the fabric along her skin, followed by his hand. Skin to skin. It felt intimate. It felt right.
And this. He lowered his mouth to her décolletage. And then lower. And then the blasted shirt was in the way. In but a moment it was gone.
And oh God this. He took the dusky centers of her breasts in his mouth. She arched up into him. He laughed softly. You like that don’t you?
She gasped. Do not stop.
And then she writhed a little bit beneath him because he was heavy and hard and she felt him pressing against her intimate place. Even with the layers of fabric between them, just the feel of him there did something to her. She felt something tighten in her core. She felt a warmth blossoming and taking over. Yes, this became Yes, more.
Or not.
“We shouldn’t,” Alistair gasped. “I have . . . honorable . . . intentions.”
Oh yes, those. She had forgotten.
“However . . .” There was a wicked gleam in his eye, one that made her heart beat faster.
“What do you have in mind?”
He didn’t answer her, just slowly worked his way down her body, pressing kisses along her belly. Oh . . . he paused, glancing up at her, seeking permission. She didn’t know what he wanted or what she would be agreeing to, because if she was imagining things correctly . . .
Alistair lightly pressed his lips to the soft skin below her belly button, then gently flicked the skin with his tongue, teasing her with a hint of what was to come. Oh. Yes. This.
At some point, her breeches came off. Gone. Good riddance.
Then he moved lower, and pressed his mouth there, gently teasing at the soft folds.
She gripped the sheets, twisting them in her fists.
Her breath was short, shallow. Feeling. There was so much feeling. So much good feeling but . . .
A release. She needed a release. There was too much heat and tension and feeling all building inside of her.
“I think . . .” Her voice was a hoarse gasp she hardly recognized.
He lifted his head just enough to say. “Don’t think.”
“But I need . . .”
She needed more of him. She needed to feel him.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmured. At least that’s what she thought he said. She was having trouble concentrating. So much wanting. She wanted him to continue, but also pause. She wanted to hold him, but she didn’t want him to move.
“I feel like I’m going to explode.”
And then he stopped. He stopped! She was left throbbing, wanting, needing, and he stopped.
“Why did you—”
He silenced her with a kiss. Oh, this.
But still, she felt incomplete. Unfinished. She wanted more.
Alistair had long ago learned that every woman was different. And that was the fun of it, if you asked him. When it came to lovemaking, half the fun of it was that slow, teasing, exciting process of discovering what would make a woman go wild.
And Amelia was discovering what gave her pleasure now, with him, for the first time. He was the lucky bastard who would get to show her and hold her as she learned for the fir
st time all the pleasure her body was made to feel.
It’s supposed to stop here. Ah, yes, another intrusion from his better judgment. Stop now before you ruin her irrevocably.
But he couldn’t stop now, not before she had her release. He was starting to know her. She’d be irate for days otherwise.
So he kissed her, bringing her back to that wonderful mindless place—he knew because she softened against him, and gave those little mewls of contentment.
Then he slid his hand down, finding the bud of her sex and with the lightest, slowest touch began to stroke. He felt her writhe, pressing into his hand. He grinned into the kiss. This, she liked this.
“I love this,” she whispered. “But I want more of something . . .”
He pressed a little harder.
“I feel . . .” She gasped as he slid his finger inside. She was wet. And warm. And God he wanted his cock inside her.
Think of your wedding night.
He got even harder, if such a thing was possible.
Okay, do not think of your wedding night.
Focus on her.
He focused on her. Kissing and teasing her neck as his fingers kept up a steady rhythm, in and out, and stroking the bud of her sex. He listened to her breaths, each one coming faster, shorter, shallower, harder.
“I want . . .” she panted. “I need . . .”
He knew the feeling.
She was close and she didn’t know it yet.
I want. I need.
Wait. Stop now.
Shut up.
She was close, so close. It was time to send her over the edge. He shifted so he could take one of her nipples into his mouth. He sucked and teased with his tongue while never once wavering from that steady rhythm. In and out and in and out and . . . her sighs of pleasure were like a caress; they only aroused him more. The way she writhed against his hand made him ache to be inside her, to give her more. He wanted to bring her to the brink and then beyond.
So he didn’t stop.
He kept going, stroking her with his fingers, teasing her with his mouth. He didn’t stop until she was bucking a little underneath him, crying out in pleasure. He vaguely heard words like yes or God or this yes. He felt her clench around him as she came.
She wasn’t the only one out of her lust-addled mind. Alistair didn’t know how it had happened, but between all the sighs and moans and touches and groans they had tangled themselves up. He was on top. His cock was poised at her entrance, he was dying to be inside her, and his resolve was . . . gone.
Yes this. Yes this. Yes this. Yes this. Yes this. Yes this.
Thoughts. She had them. Yes this. Or just the one.
Something marvelous had just happened to her. She couldn’t catch her breath and any second now, surely, her heart was going to burst right out of her chest. So she had to tell him now.
“I want . . . this,” she gasped. “I want . . . you.”
It was as if those were the magic words he needed to hear. She felt him hard, there. Then harder and deeper still. And then she felt him fully inside her. Hot. Throbbing. Aching.
Wanted. She wanted.
Then he began to move, each slow thrust stoking the fire that had been building and simmering inside her. Any little lingering thoughts of should or shouldn’t or what time is it . . . all were burned up, reduced to nothing. Only one thought, again and again, with each thrust: Yes, this.
And then she couldn’t even put those two words together.
He moved inside her, thrusting deep and slow. There was nothing but the soft clink of tooth against tooth as they fumbled for a kiss. She felt the slick sheen of sweat on his back; she licked it off his neck. His fingers threaded through her hair, grasping tight, holding her close. There were grunts (his) and gasps (hers). Limbs were tangled. He was on top, and then she was on top and then somehow they ended up on the far end of the bed. And still, he moved inside of her, moving faster now, harder now.
She sensed that he might be close to that marvelous earth-shattering I-had-no-idea moment she’d experienced. Amelia wrapped her legs around him, arched up. He groaned in pleasure. She felt a spike of triumph.
They kissed. They moved together, mostly. She held on for dear life as he thrust hard and fast and shouted out. Then he collapsed on top of her. A few quiet, possessive grunts. A few last shallow thrusts. One last deep kiss.
For now.
Who cares about the time at a time like this?
It was raining again, a soft drumming of raindrops on the windowpanes. They were warm and dry inside, tangled up in arms, legs, and sheets. Clothes were strewn about the room. The air was thick with the scent of rain, the scent of sex. The city outside seemed so distant. There was only the two of them, in the room, in this bed.
“This has been the perfect day,” Amelia said softly, tracing a line up and down his arm with her fingertip.
“Even though you were robbed, caught in a rainstorm, and ravished?” Alistair teased. There was nothing like being able to lie contentedly, naked, with a woman and tease her, knowing she would smile just like that, sweetly, giving him a peek of that dimple in her left cheek.
“Because of those things. And this moment.” She rolled closer and buried her face in his neck, breathing him in. He heard—and felt—her whisper, “I don’t want it to end.”
He held her close and in a soft voice said, “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”
Chapter 13
In which our heroine returns home to finishing school.
Or does she?
Six o’clock? Or seven?
Evening was settling over the city when they set out once more. This time, they went together. The destination was Durham House—not that Alistair knew that. Amelia made sure he thought that he was doing the gentlemanly thing by escorting her back to finishing school. How she was going to manage the deception was something she ought to figure out immediately, but no ideas came to mind.
That lovemaking had slowed her wits. She felt like a ninny with the way she was already longing for him, and his touch. She had become the thing she had always mocked in love stories and poetry.
Amelia walked slowly, like one of those pokey pedestrians in Vauxhall who had vexed her earlier. Then, she had been in a rush to see everything. Now, she wished to prolong her time with Alistair. In the course of the afternoon something had changed; it was no longer about running away, but wanting to stay with him.
She knew their moments together were dwindling.
The idea of elopement was preposterously premature. Staying another night was too much and besides, she was beginning to feel the tug of home. The clock was ticking on her time with Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones and their one perfect day.
There had been no discussion or mention of if they would meet again, as if it were understood that this was the only time they would ever spend together.
After all, what could possibly happen?
He knew her as Miss Amy Dish, finishing-school student. A gentleman could not call on a young lady there—even if said school actually existed and even if she was actually enrolled in said school.
To see him again was to reveal her true identity.
She was not ready to risk that.
The clock was ticking on their time together. Alistair knew this. So he walked slowly and dragged his feet as he escorted “Miss Amy Dish” back to “finishing school.” He was curious to see how she would maintain the charade, though he wasn’t exactly eager for the moment they would part.
Alistair hadn’t said anything about seeing her again.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, wanting to be spoken. It seemed impossible that he would never see her again. But a gentleman couldn’t call on a young lady who didn’t exactly exist at a school that was certainly fictional.
To see her again was to reveal the deception: that she was truly Lady Amelia Cavendish, sister to the Duke of Durham. And that he’d known all along.
He would be revealed as the worst sort of scoundrel. H
ow on earth could he justify that he had lied to her all day, all over London, and then made love to her?
It was unforgiveable.
He realized that now that it was too late to do anything about it. Damn.
He would have to take the secret to his grave. They would meet again—even if she didn’t know it and even if he didn’t speak of it—and he would have to act surprised to see her and hurt that she had lied to him all day, all over London, and then made love to him.
But could he maintain such a lie for a lifetime? It hurt his head to consider it.
A few hours ago—it felt like a lifetime—the plan had been so simple—forge a connection, stand out from all the other fortune hunters. He had by all accounts been successful, yet he had the sneaking suspicion it would lead to his downfall.
They walked along in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Amelia really wished he would say something, because all this thinking was ruining her mood. They would have to say goodbye soon, any minute now really, and it would be the end.
Forever.
Probably.
Not only had Alistair not said anything about calling upon her, he hadn’t said anything about marriage. She had meant it when she said she had no intention of marrying. But she knew that Real Gentlemen issued proposals after making love to a gently bred woman.
Perhaps he didn’t think she was a gently bred woman. And why would he, when she’d practically ravished him?
Perhaps he wasn’t a Real Gentleman, which mean that she had ruined herself on some scoundrel. How tragic. How melodramatic. God, she could at least be more inventive than that.
But then she thought about his bare chest—the ridges of muscles, the soft skin darker than her own, the smattering of hair. And then she thought about the rest of him, naked, without even a fig leaf, and she decided she couldn’t regret a thing.
This man was her downfall.
She was ruined, gloriously so.
She was without virginity and without proposal.
Which was beside the point because she suspected that she would not be allowed to marry him anyway.
There was plenty of evidence to suggest that Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones could be classified as a fortune hunter. She was clued in by the nearly empty flat, devoid of things and servants. There was also his willingness to squire around an heiress all day, humoring her by calling her Miss Amy Dish when he certainly had to know, thanks to that stupid cartoon in the newspaper, that she was Lady Amelia Cavendish.
