Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  Clara instinctively tensed as he slid deeper, stretching her with his steady thrust.

  Above her Hawksley pressed his forehead to hers. “I am no expert, kitten, but I believe this will go easier for you if you try to relax.”

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders. There was no pain, but she could not deny a measure of discomfort.

  “You must recall, Hawksley, I am a rather small person,” she said. “You do not seem to fit properly.”

  She felt his shoulders shake beneath her fingers. “Perhaps not at the moment; still, I promise this will work just fine.”

  Shifting beneath him, Clara opened her mouth to suggest he make an attempt at reducing his size when he gave a low groan and with one swift motion lodged himself deep within her.

  Clara gasped at the brief stab of pain. Thankfully it was short lived, and as it receded all that was left was the sensation of him filling her. Utterly and completely.

  “Forgive me, Clara,” he whispered against her temple.

  “It is all right,” she murmured, her fingers unclenching from his shoulders to run a soft path down the curve of his spine. “The pain is gone.”

  “Then let us see if we can make this a night to remember,” he murmured, claiming her lips in a demanding kiss.

  Lost in the pleasure of his kiss, Clara was barely aware of the shallow thrust of his hips, not until she discovered herself moving in harmony with his rhythm as the sweet pressure began to build again.

  Wrapping her legs about him, she tangled her fingers in his hair. With every stroke his chest brushed over her sensitive nipples, increasing her pleasure until she could barely breathe.

  Oh yes, this was what she had longed for, she acknowledged as she groaned in approval. This was what she had secretly fantasized during the long hours of the night.

  Someone to desire her. To hold her. To keep the aching loneliness at bay.

  She heard him growl as his thrusts became more insistent, his pace quickening.

  “Dear God . . . Clara . . . I cannot . . .”

  She unwittingly pulled at his hair, her back arching as she hovered on the edge of bliss.

  “Please do not halt,” she pleaded.

  His hands shifted beneath her thighs, spreading her wide as he pumped himself ever deeper within. Clara became rigid as a cry was wrenched from her throat. Then that glorious delight exploded through her, making her shake uncontrollably as she tumbled over the edge.

  “Hawksley,” she breathed, wrapping her arms about him as he gave a shout and the feel of his warm seed poured into her.

  Slowly her shaking subsided as Hawksley rolled to his side, pulling her firmly into his arms. Her hand rested on his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart as he kissed the top of her curls.

  “I did promise, kitten, that it would work just fine,” he murmured.

  She snuggled closer. The feel of his arms about her was something she wished to brand into her memories. It would be all she had to keep her warm during the long nights to come.

  “So you did.”

  “And you are . . . pleased?”

  She was surprised by the hesitancy in his voice. As if the proud pirate was actually worried she might possess regrets.

  With a smile she tilted back her head to meet his searching gaze.

  “Are you searching for compliments, sir?” she demanded.

  A wicked glint entered the indigo eyes. “If you wish to offer compliments, I am quite willing to accept them.”

  Clara wrinkled her nose in regret. “I fear compliments are yet another social skill I have never managed to master. I always manage to make a muck of it.”

  “Ah. Then let me assist you, my angel.” His hands slipped down to intimately cup her bottom in his hands. “You should tell me that you are captivated by my kisses and enthralled by my touch. You should tell me that you will never forget this night together. And course, you must assure me that I am the very best lover you have ever had.”

  Her heart flopped over in her chest. Not so much at the tantalizing exploration of his hands, although that was delightful. But more at the casual teasing in his tone.

  Suddenly she understood why women battled so desperately to gain the attention of a gentleman.

  With Hawksley there was none of the awkward uncertainty she always endured. None of the fear that she was about to make a fool of herself. None of the sickening realization that her companion was desperately seeking some polite means of fleeing her company.

  Instead there was a sense of absolute comfort. Of belonging.

  And that meant more to her than anything else he could possibly offer.

  Her fingers reached up to trace the line of his sculpted lips.

  “Very fine compliments, Hawksley, but I do feel duty bound to point out that I can hardly claim you as the best lover since you are my first lover.”

  Abruptly Clara discovered herself rolled onto her back, Hawksley poised above her as his eyes darkened to a blue mist.

  “No, Clara, not your first lover,” he corrected, his voice oddly tight as his head lowered with sensuous intent. “Your only lover.”

  For the first time since his brother’s murder, Hawksley was not plagued with ruthless nightmares that marred his nights. Nor did he awaken at the crack of dawn battling the restless need to be upon the hunt.

  Perhaps not so surprising, he drowsily acknowledged as he breathed deeply of the feminine scent still clinging to his skin. He had devoted hours to teaching his bride-to-be the delights of desire. Wondrous hours that had revealed Clara’s passionate nature and ready wish to please and be pleased.

  Even after she had fallen asleep, he had remained awake to watch her.

  She appeared so delicate, so fragile. And yet, he was discovering that she possessed more strength and courage than any woman he had ever encountered.

  No, not any woman, he had corrected himself. Any person he had ever encountered.

  He had chosen well.

  Near dawn he had gathered her into his arms and had at last fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  Now an unwitting smile curved his lips as he reached out to touch the woman who had banished the demons of the night.

  “Clara . . .”

  His smile faded and his eyes opened as he realized he was alone in the bed. Abruptly sitting up, he glanced about his chamber, belatedly noting the shaft of late-morning sunlight peeking between the curtains.

  Damn.

  Tossing aside the covers, Hawksley plunged himself into the bath that had long since cooled to a tepid temperature and shaved his heavy whiskers. With the same swift efficiency he pulled on his attire and tugged his damp hair into a queue at his neck.

  Why the devil had she not awakened him?

  Bloody hell, he had taken her innocence. Surely she must realize they needed to discuss what had occurred last night? To come to an understanding of their future together?

  In the process of tying a simple knot in his cravat, Hawksley abruptly grimaced.

  What the devil was he thinking?

  He knew better by now than to expect the expected from Miss Clara Dawson.

  While any other woman might be clamoring for promises of a wedding, or at the very least the assurance that he would take care of her, Clara was no doubt off baking a cake or polishing the silver.

  It would never occur to her that he might possess a responsibility for her now.

  She had been too long on her own. Too long forced to fend for herself. And too long surrounded by buffoons who had no appreciation for her rare qualities.

  Well, no longer.

  From this day forward she would have someone to take care of her. Someone who would ensure that she need never be alone again.

  Feeling an unfamiliar sense of anticipation, Hawksley let himself out of his chambers and went in search of his bride. It was time she realized that her future was very much settled.

  He at last discovered her in his small library, seated at his desk. She was occupied
with a paper upon the blotter, and for a moment he simply allowed himself to drink in the sight of her.

  With the sunlight slanting through the window, her hair shimmered with a silver halo and the purity of her profile was thrown into relief.

  His angel, indeed.

  All his.

  Feeling a ridiculous urge to strut about like a puffed-up rooster, Hawksley crossed the room to stand directly behind her chair. He brushed a kiss over her bare nape before leaning toward her ear.

  “Good morning, kitten.”

  With a startled squeak Clara was on her feet and whirling about. At the sight of him her expression abruptly softened.

  “Oh, Hawksley, you are awake.”

  “So it would seem,” he murmured, pushing the chair out of his way as he stepped toward her.

  “I am so glad. I have been working upon . . . oh.” Her eyes widened as his arms lashed about her and hoisted her against his chest. “Good heavens.”

  Hawksley smiled with wicked enjoyment as her eyes darkened with pleasure. With ready ease he recalled the memory of her lying beneath him as she cried out her pleasure. Slowly he allowed his hands to trace down the slender curve of her spine, lingering upon the softness of her hips before skimming their way back up. He breathed deeply of her clean scent. She smelled of soap and vanilla and sweet feminine heat. It intoxicated him in a manner he had never before experienced.

  Intoxicated and bewildered him, he had to acknowledge.

  Lust he understood. It was as familiar as hunger and thirst and pain.

  And the reason his manhood was rapidly hardening with determined intent. But he did not understand the tenderness that ached deep in his heart whenever she was near.

  There was no urge to roughly conquer and brand this woman as his own as he lowered his head. Instead, with exquisite care he tasted of her lips, savoring her softness as if she were a rare nectar. She shivered even as her arms lifted to wrap about his neck.

  He moved to drop light kisses over her cheeks, her temples, and her wide brow. He memorized every plane, every angle of her countenance from the fullness of her mouth to the sweep of her lashes before burying his face in the curve of her neck.

  “This is the proper way to greet your lover in the morning,” he murmured against her skin.

  He could feel her heart racing. “It is?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “What of the servants?”

  He pulled back to regard her with a lift of his brow. “If you imagine I am about to kiss Dillon or his sister like this, you have lost your wits.”

  Her eyes sparkled with amusement and a passion that warmed him to his very heart.

  “I meant what if they happen upon us?”

  “Then I shall send them away. Or better yet, we could return to my chambers where we will be certain of privacy.” Hawksley stole a lingering kiss. “Why did you leave me?”

  “Oh.” Pressing her hands to his chest, she leaned back to regard him with a sudden expression of excitement. “When I wakened I recalled Mr. Chesterfield’s letter.”

  Hawksley froze in disbelief. After spending the most incredible night of his life in the arms of this woman, the last thing he desired to hear was the name of another gentleman upon her lips.

  “You awoke in my bed thinking of another man?” he demanded in dangerous tones.

  Gloriously indifferent to the prickles of danger in the air, she offered a charming smile.

  “I wished to discover what he had written.”

  His teeth clenched. By the fires of hell. There was something gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Something that he did not care for the least bit.

  “It seems that I am not giving you the proper attention if you are able to consider anything but me when you are in my arms,” he growled.

  At last sensing his stiff annoyance, Clara regarded him with a faint frown.

  “Hawksley, is something the matter?”

  “Beyond your fascination with that damnable Mr. Chesterfield?”

  Her eyes widened. “Good Lord, are you . . . jealous?”

  “Yes, I damn well am.”

  She appeared stunned by his blunt confession. He did not know why, he grumpily told himself. He had already physically threatened his two best friends for simply kissing her hand.

  “But that is absurd. You know very well I have never even met Mr. Chesterfield.”

  He gave a restless shrug. “What does that have to say to anything? You were one to claim to have some mystical, intellectual connection with the man. You were even willing to endure being physically ill so that you could rush to London and be at his side.”

  “I was naturally concerned.”

  “Now you leave my bed to come and moon over his letter.”

  She gave a slow shake of her head as her hand lifted to gently touch his tight jaw.

  “Hawksley, I wanted to assist you in your search for your brother’s murderer. I thought the letter might hold a clue.”

  “And Mr. Chesterfield?”

  “I am worried for him and certainly hope that he is well,” she confessed, her gaze holding his. “But you were right when you said I did not know him as a woman should know a man.”

  The tightness in his chest began to ease. “As you know me?”

  “Yes.”

  With a low moan he kissed her with stark relief. The sooner this woman belonged to him, the better.

  “Hawksley?”

  Busily nuzzling the curve of her neck, Hawksley silently cursed the prim neckline of the dowdy gray gown. Once they were wed he would ensure that she possessed the sort of elegant wardrobe suitable for a lady of Quality, he assured himself. The sort of gowns that every woman desired.

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you not wish to know what I have discovered?”

  Battling the urge to sweep her in his arms and haul her back upstairs, Hawksley reluctantly dropped his arms and stepped back. The next occasion he had her in his bed, it would be as his fiancée.

  “First I believe we should discuss something of rather more importance.”

  She did not bother to hide her surprise. “What could be more important than your brother?”

  A fortnight ago nothing would have been more important than Fredrick and discovering his murderer. Now, however, Hawksley realized that the beautiful woman had reminded him that he possessed a life of his own. And a future that suddenly seemed worth looking forward to.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “More precisely . . . us.”

  “I do not understand,” she began, and then strangely her face seemed to pale and something that might have been panic flared through her eyes. “Oh no. No, Hawksley. Do not even think it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She poked him in the chest with her finger. “You are not going to do something wretchedly noble such as ask me to marry you because of last night. I will not allow it.”

  Well.

  Hawksley swallowed a rueful laugh.

  He had not precisely expected her to flutter or swoon at the thought of becoming his wife. That would be far too predictable. But he certainly had not anticipated the irritation that smoldered about her slender form.

  Not about to be put off, he gave a lift of his brows. “Fortunately, I do not take orders from you, Miss Dawson. At least not yet,” he said in firm tones. “As for asking you to marry me . . . well, there is no question that we will wed. I would never have taken your innocence if that was not what I intended.”

  If anything her annoyance only deepened. “You did not take my innocence, Hawksley, I gave it to you. And it was not with the notion of manipulating you into marriage.”

  His expression softened. “I am well aware of that, Clara. You are incapable of such treachery.”

  Her hands landed on her hips, pulling the gray material tantalizingly over the swell of her breasts. Breasts that had fit perfectly in his hands and tasted of...

  “Then why?”

  His mouth
became dry. No, Hawksley, he sternly chastised himself. Not now. Later. Definitely later.

  “Why what?” he muttered.

  “Why do you wish to marry me?”

  His lips twisted; she had only to glance down to know at least one reason that he desired to haul her to the nearest vicar.

  “Well, there is the rather obvious fact that I desire you to the point of madness.”

  A delicate color touched her cheeks. “Marriage is more than desire.”

  “You also fascinate me.” He stepped forward to tuck a curl behind her ear, allowing his fingers to trail along the line of her jaw. “I have never before met a woman like you.”

  “That I can well believe,” she breathed.

  He gazed deep into her eyes. “And you have given me a reason to live again.”

  Her breath caught as she gazed helplessly into his countenance. At last he had touched her vulnerability. She might not wed to ease her own lonely existence or to ensure the security of her future, but she could not ignore her instinctive yearning to be needed by another.

  “Hawksley . . .” she husked, her hand touching his cheek before she was sucking in a deep breath and stepping backward. “No.”

  He blinked at her abrupt withdrawal. “What?”

  “It is not possible.”

  “What is not possible?”

  “I cannot be your wife.”

  Hawksley studied her set expression. What the devil was going through that peculiar brain now?

  “Why? I will admit that it does not appear that I have much to offer a bride, but I assure you that you will not want for anything.”

  She gave a sudden snort. “Good heavens, it is not that. As if I would care for such a thing. I have no desire for wealth or position. Indeed, I should not accept them if they were offered.”

  A faint twinge of unease touched his heart at her disdainful tone. Surely she would not be disappointed when she discovered that her soon-to-be husband was not the penniless gambler she believed but rather a viscount of enormous wealth?

  No. It was not possible, he hastily reassured himself. No matter how eccentric, there was no woman who would prefer to beg and scrape for existence when she could have luxury offered on a silver platter.