He leaned closer, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “You’re cold.”
She might have disputed that observation, only her throat had gone dry.
“There’s a way we might keep warm, if we shared…”
Her heart jumped. “Shared what?”
“The heat of our bodies.” He made it sound so decadent. “Shall I show you?”
But he didn’t give her a chance to reply. His mouth crushed hers in a kiss as hard as any he’d given on their wedding night. Hard or soft, he’d asked, but Emma was beginning to understand the pleasure of hard and demanding. It awakened an answering urge within her, one that refused to be ignored.
Not tearing his mouth from hers, he clasped her hips and lifted. The next thing she knew, the unforgiving wood of the table supported her backside. Still he came on, stepping forward, his knees wedging between her thighs, spreading them wide. The hardened ridge of his arousal pressed at her very core.
Oh my, yes.
And what would he do if she wrapped her legs about him? If she locked her ankles at his waist? She couldn’t even say where the image emerged from, but she held it in her mind while his tongue explored her mouth and his arms wrapped her closer.
But not close enough. She wanted to melt into him.
He pulled his lips away to blaze a path of kisses along her cheek, her neck. His hands delved beneath the wool topcoat to tear at the fastenings of her bodice.
“The irony here is,” he murmured against her throat, “to become warmer, we must undress.”
His words fed the growing fire within her and called up the memory of a promise. “You said you’d touch me in scandalous places.”
“So I did, and I intend to keep my word. Just be warned, I also intend to make you scream.”
“Scream?” The notion should have terrified her, but something in the raspy timbre of his voice made the idea sound tempting. Delicious. Sinful.
“Oh, yes. You wind yourself up so tight I can hardly wait to watch you unravel.” With questing hands, he teased her breasts free of her stays and stepped back to look on her.
She still wore his topcoat, but the front of her bodice sagged, and her full breasts seemed to swell under the heat of his gaze. “Beautiful, but I knew you would be. Utter perfection.”
His index finger traced across the aching peak of her nipple, and she moaned.
“Oh, yes, you like that. You want more, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Lord, yes.
“And I promised scandalous. We’re nearly there, but I should like a taste of you first.”
Before she could react, he bent his mouth to her breast, drawing, drawing on the nipple. A bolt of pure lust spiked through her, insistent, assertive, overpowering. His tongue circled the peak, while the softness of his side-whiskers brushed the fullness of her breast, melting her bones. She threaded her fingers through his hair, and held on for dear life. His breath blew hot across her flesh in contrast to the chill air in the wine cellar.
“Ah.”
At her sigh, he paused. “There’s no one to hear you. You can make all the noise you want. Let yourself go.”
He awakened longings in her she never realized she possessed. Longings for his touch, to be certain, but she also craved his skin, both the sight and the smoothness of it. She’d already seen, yet she wished to experience. To taste. Although she couldn’t ask him to disrobe in this cold. So she tugged at his shirttails, jerking them free of his trousers. With a grunt, he helped her loose the voluminous linen. As soon as it was free, she put her hands on the hot flesh beneath. Muscles rippled beneath her fingers, jumping as she passed over them. The slight coarseness of springy hair added texture to the feeling of him.
She let her fingers wander over firm contours and planes, glorying in each groan she elicited. She found herself smiling. She hoped it was wicked. She certainly felt wicked, daring, all the things people like Miss Conklin had forbidden her to be.
He returned her grin. “What do you imagine you’re doing?”
“Touching you in scandalous places.”
“It’s a start, but not nearly scandalous enough.”
She let her hands slip down the flat of his belly. “Perhaps you’d like to show me.”
“You keep on as you are, and you’ll find it soon enough.”
She had found it earlier, pressed against her. The memory increased the aching hollowness between her legs. “Will I make you scream?”
“Do you want to?”
Her smile widened. Never in her life had she been inclined to flirt, but something about the situation—about him—aroused her neglected womanly wiles. “I suppose that all depends.”
“Why don’t we start working out what makes you scream and go from there?”
He surged forward, pressing between her thighs once again to capture her lips. Her bare breasts rubbed against the roughened texture of his waistcoat, a tease and an ache all at once. And how would his bare skin feel against hers? As delicious as this was, both of them bared to each other would be even more delectable.
Her hands found their way to the smooth muscles of his back, while his touch moved to her thighs, working her skirts up inch by inch. Cool air struck her calves, her knees, the bare skin above her garters, but everywhere that air touched, his fingers followed, tracing hot paths on eager flesh, higher, higher.
Oh, yes, this was scandalous and about to become more so. She could sense it, and her body quivered with anticipation.
He eased closer, spreading her. Grasping an ankle with one hand, he placed her foot on the edge of the table. Without thought, she brought up the other to match.
His attention riveted beneath her skirts, and his fingers brushed against her most intimate self, the gesture almost casual. She jumped as a spark rocketed through her. Her spine bowed; then her whole body sagged. Again, it proclaimed. Again, just there. And her entire being seemed to focus on one spot she’d barely known existed until now.
But he’d known. Known just where to touch, just where to tease. Another flick of those fingers, firmer, nearly deliberate.
Her thighs opened wider, while the rest of her wanted to slump and let him have his way. Whatever he wanted, as long as he kept touching, circling. Yes. Just like that.
His fingers delved lower, entering her, stretching, drawing moisture and heat from her body.
“My God, you’re ready, aren’t you?” Full of awe, his voice reverberated through her, in time with his fingers. “I could have you now if I chose.”
“Take me.” Was that breathy command really her? Begging?
“Not just yet. Soon, though. Soon.”
He established a merciless rhythm—up, around, in—that caused her body to tighten. She pushed back with her hips to meet every stroke.
Up, around, in.
Each pass drove her higher.
Up, around, in.
Each one smoother. Each one forcing a moan.
Up, around, in.
Each one firmer, faster.
The tempo increased. Her thighs tensed.
Up—and with the movement, he leaned in to lap at her breast.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she broke, shattered, screamed.
For a moment or an hour or a year, she seemed to step outside herself, and all the while her body pulsed madly, somehow more alive than she ever thought possible.
She was nearly back to herself when she felt another probing below the waist, something blunt and far thicker than his finger. He pushed, and she stretched, yielding, allowing him entry. Heavens, it was finally happening.
She opened her eyes. His jaw was set and a bead of perspiration traced down his temple. The next moment, he subsided.
No, don’t stop. Do this. Finish. She didn’t get a chance to voice the words.
“God forgive me,” he muttered, and then he thrust, hard.
Something inside her gave way in a bright, burning sensation. There it was—the pain her cousin had warned her about. But it wasn
’t dreadful, not when so much pleasure had preceded it; not when it was already ebbing.
Breath hissing between his teeth, he hovered over her and brought up a palm to cup her cheek. “All right?” He spoke tightly, as if he was unable to say too much—even those two words shook.
Her mind filled in the full intent behind them: I’m trying to be careful. Please don’t tell me I’ve failed. “Yes.”
“Thank God.”
He pulled away only to surge forward once more. Slowly, smoothly. He let out a breath as he slid back home. “Now it’s like before. We find the rhythm and we dance.”
“I haven’t learned this one.”
“It’s simple enough if you follow my lead. It goes like this.” He withdrew nearly all the way and thrust. Hard.
“Oh.” The sensation of him inside her, filling her, pushing against her womb, jolted her midsection and soared through her limbs.
“And this.” With an aching slowness, he eased back, paused, and then…Another thrust, solid, firm, breath-stealing. Like the play of his fingers on her, the movement sent her up another notch.
“Again.” This time she tilted herself up to meet him.
He rotated his hips, pushing deep, deeper.
“Again.”
“We need to make this last.” He loomed over her, nearly close enough to kiss. “As long as we do this, we’re generating heat.”
Oh, the heat. If they kept this up long enough, they might well combust. Still, he pressed on, unhurried, easy, but every surge of his body into hers drove her closer to that place of overwhelming pleasure.
She wanted that experience again, wanted to explore it with him. She wrapped her legs about his waist, and he plunged even deeper. A low groan emerged from his chest.
She watched his face as he strained over her, how his jaw set in concentration, utterly focused. On her. The thought multiplied every last sensation from the bite of the wood at the back of her head to the muscles of his backside working beneath her ankles.
The cords stood out in his neck. A bead of sweat coursed down his cheek. She didn’t think she’d ever beheld a more awe-inspiring sight.
He pushed. In and in. The tempo increased.
“Yes.”
He responded to her every sigh with a harder thrust, a more insistent surge. He was reaching for that peak, as well. She could feel it in his every move. He’d closed his eyes. His brow furrowed. Still he moved, faster, faster.
“Yes.”
The pleasure was coming for her. Coming for them both. Nearly there. Nearly.
Then the rush was on her.
She arched beneath him and cried out as her body fluttered along his length. With a final surge, he shouted and joined her in oblivion.
Chapter Fourteen
Rowan was no longer sure how many hours he’d been locked down here with Emma. The time he’d spent wringing every last drop of pleasure from his wife might have lasted days. Months. Or it might have been the briefest instant.
Sweet God in heaven, who could have guessed such a tightly laced female could unleash such depths of passion? He’d never experienced the like. He wanted to live it again, as soon as he could, as soon as she was ready to take him on.
But now that he’d drifted back to himself, the packed earth floor was hard beneath his feet, and the humid air penetrated him with cold. He readjusted his falls and buttoned up Emma’s bodice, wrapping the lapels of his topcoat more securely about her.
He tucked her into his shoulder, brushing his lips to her hairline, but with every passing moment, the temperature seemed to drop another degree. Hang it all. He eased out of their embrace to take a seat beside her on the table and hauled her into his lap. Anything to maintain the warmth their coupling had generated.
Emma snuggled nearer, her body limp against him. He brushed a few stray tendrils back from her forehead—tresses their passion had dislodged. “Stay with me, Emma.”
She trembled against him, muttering incoherent words into his waistcoat, drowsy, barely responsive. To the devil with it. Before long she would become chilled through, and he could not possibly pull her closer. Not without becoming one with her a second time. Impossibly, his cock stirred. Perhaps the idea wasn’t so bad, after all—as long as she wasn’t in pain. Her body had closed about him, incredibly tight, but she’d enjoyed every moment of their coupling. Damn if he hadn’t made her scream.
He tightened his arms about her as snug as they would go and rested his head on top of hers. Nothing to do now but wait and pray one of the servants would return early.
Hours passed, or so it seemed—enough for the candle to gutter. Enough that he gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. Enough that a dull thump on the ceiling barely registered.
At the second, he raised his head. That was definitely the muffled thud of steps. Part of him hesitated to release his wife, but the rest of him knew if he didn’t act now, they’d spend the night down here. He couldn’t allow it. Not with the bone-deep way Emma had begun to shake in his grasp.
Carefully, he loosened his arms from about her pliant body and pulled away. With a soft moan of protest, Emma curled in on herself.
His knuckles throbbed dully from his previous efforts at escape. Nothing for it, though. He shouted, his voice hoarse and raspy, while pounding with the sides of his fists. Before too long, a rattle on the other side of the stout oak panel alerted him to their imminent rescue.
He crossed back to Emma and gathered her close. She burrowed into his warmth, her head settling on his shoulder and her arms twining about his waist. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “The ordeal is nearly over.”
“Ordeal?” she muttered. “Is that how you think of your marital duty?”
He would have smiled at her vinegar, except for the weakness in her tone. Earlier, the afterglow of lovemaking might have softened her voice, but too many hours had passed for that to be the case.
The door burst open to reveal a gaping Grundy. “Sir! Good heavens! What on earth are you doing down here?”
“There’s no time for that now.” He pulled Emma closer. If he had to, he’d carry her upstairs himself. He didn’t stop to consider the source of his panic, but it was sudden and it was most definitely real. Too late, he recalled hearing once about the dangers of falling asleep in the cold. And he’d let her do just that. “Find a footman and order a hot bath. And have Cook bring up some scalding tea. Now. Emma’s taken a chill.”
“Forgive me, sir. The rest of the staff have not yet returned.”
Damn it. She needed warmth, blankets. Him. “Surely, you can see to it yourself. Hell, if I have to, I’ll haul the water. For now, just help me carry her out of here.”
—
She would never be warm again. Teeth chattering, she huddled beneath a mountain of blankets and shivered, while wishing for a hot fire, boiling tea, anything to take away the pervasive chill. Eventually, her mind drifted.
An indeterminate time later, a voice called her name, the sound vaguely familiar. Masculine, but not Papa. She ought to recognize it, but absolute knowledge dangled tantalizingly out of reach.
She drifted off again, only to come back to herself wrapped in a solid pair of arms. She burrowed her nose into the firm warmth of another being and breathed in sandalwood. The scent struck a chord in her mind, but before an association could form, she floated away again.
With a start, she awoke to a metallic clang, followed by a cry of surprise. Her head was strangely heavy, and her mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. She blinked at the unfamiliar cream-colored blur of the ceiling overhead.
“Wh—” All that emerged was a groan.
“Oh, ma’am, I do beg your pardon.” A mobcapped maid hovered into view—one of a succession of girls her aunt Augusta insisted on calling Mary. Thankfully, for this girl, Mary was her given name.
Aunt Augusta. Something was off about that thought, but Emma could not recall what.
“Sir’ll have my hide,” Mary
went on, “if he finds out I’ve woken you.”
“Sir?” Emma groped on the bedside table for her spectacles, before trying to sit. Her arms refused to cooperate with the effort at pushing herself upright.
“Mr. Battencliffe, ma’am. He’s hardly left your side the entire time you’ve been ill.”
“Ill.” Emma’s tongue was too thick in her mouth to permit more than monosyllables.
“Oh, ma’am, you’ve been out of your head with fever. Your aunt demanded we send for her physician, but Mr. Battencliffe tossed the man out when he wanted to bleed you.”
Good Lord. Emma shook her head, but no recollection of anything Mary was recounting solidified in her mind. Nothing but fog and a faint throbbing at her temple. “How long?”
“Four days.” Gracious. Emma probed her brain. She held a dim memory of Battencliffe carrying her out of the wine cellar. Of an attempt to immerse her in a hot bath. Of the notion she ought to protest those particular ministrations, only she was shivering too hard. After that, the recollections became even foggier. At various intervals, someone had forced tea, broth, hot spiced wine between her lips, but none of it counteracted the deep sensation of cold. The thought had her gathering blankets about her chin.
“If you don’t need anything, I’ll see to getting the fire going straightaway.”
Did she need anything? She hardly knew. “Where is Mr. Battencliffe?” This was his bedchamber, after all. A glance about revealed the masculine steely blue tones of the master’s bedroom, décor she recalled from her brief foray into this space the day after their wedding.
Mary shrugged. “Resting, I imagine.” Somewhere else in the house, clearly. Not in his own bedchamber. “I’ll fetch him. If you’re awake, he’ll want to know.”
Emma nearly asked why, but stopped herself just in time. Naturally he’d be concerned about the health of his financial advisor, no matter what else had transpired between them. A sudden, vivid image of him straining over her, his handsome features contorted in pleasure, flashed through her imagination. No, she was his wife now—his wife in truth.
What a Lady Requires Page 13
