Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Seconds later his soapy hands began their magic all over again, this time massaging their way down one arm, gently lifting it from her chest, and stroking her skin all the way to her wrist. Her eyelids drooped closed when he caressed each finger until she was limp with pleasure.

  Her other arm fell away from her chest of its own accord, and he lavished the same treatment on that limb. Next he wrought his magic on her neck, then worked his way slowly downward, over her collarbone, then to the rise of her breasts.

  She forced her heavy eyelids open and watched his hands slip beneath the surface to curve beneath her breasts. Her breath caught and she involuntarily arched her back. His thumbs brushed over her nipples and they hardened into tight peaks, begging him to repeat the sensual caress.

  With rapt attention she watched his long fingers play over her wet breasts, circling and lightly tugging on her nipples, each teasing pull drawing a groan from her. The sight of his hands on her, his skin so dark against hers, left her breathing hard and aroused in a way that made her feel as if he’d set her on fire. The folds between her legs felt heavy and swollen and they ached with the need to be touched. She squirmed, rubbing her thighs together, but rather than soothe, the movement only served to enflame her further.

  He rolled her nipples between his fingers and gently tugged. “You feel so good, Sarah. So soft and warm.” His words brushed passed her ear. She turned her head, seeking, searching, and then his lips were on hers. Gentle, persuasive. Too gentle. She wanted, needed, more.

  With a sigh she parted her lips and he slowly deepened the kiss. She felt as if he was sinking into her and she was melting into him. The sensation of his tongue touching hers, his hands caressing her breasts, filled her with an ever growing heated urgency that demanded something…something she couldn’t name but that she desperately wanted. Needed. With an aching intensity that couldn’t be denied.

  In the next instant his hands and lips were gone, leaving her bereft and dragging a moan of protest from her. Before she could question him, he was standing beside the tub, looking down at her. Although she couldn’t see his face clearly, she could hear his ragged breaths.

  “More?” he asked in a gravelly whisper.

  Sarah stared at him, this man who in mere days had stirred her emotions more, and in unprecedented ways, than anyone she’d ever known. Her mind, heart, and body all ached, begged to know more.

  But did she dare?

  If she said yes, would she regret her decision tomorrow? Perhaps. But in her heart she knew she’d regret it more if she missed this opportunity she never thought she’d have.

  “More,” she whispered.

  He held out his hands, and with her decision made, she put her hands in his. He gently pulled her to her feet. Standing in front of him, water trailing down her skin, she remained still while his gaze slowly traveled down her wet form. A trail of heat followed his perusal, as if tiny flames were lit everywhere his gaze touched, evaporating her modesty.

  When their eyes once again met, he whispered, “Perfect.”

  It was not a word she ever would have used to describe herself. Not a word she ever thought any man would ever say to her. Her heart thudded in response, then nearly stalled when he reached up and gently pulled the pins from her hair, dropping them on the carpet. Her unruly curls fell from its haphazard upsweep, the ends brushing her hips. Then he slowly sifted his fingers through the strands.

  “Perfect,” he repeated. “If Botticelli could see you, he’d declare you his muse. I pity him that he’ll never have the pleasure.”

  “I cannot fathom a single reason as to why you would say that.”

  “Really? You said something similar in my bedchamber with regards to my desire to kiss you. Therefore, I shall answer as I did then: ‘Don’t worry. I can fathom enough reasons for both of us.’”

  He touched a single fingertip to the base of her throat and dragged his hand slowly downward. Sarah’s eyes drifted closed. Locking her knees, she focused her attention on his hand, absorbing the myriad heated tingles coursing over her skin. With slow, feathery caresses he awakened every pore, layering sensation on top of sensation. When he palmed her breasts, teasing her nipples into tight arousal, a long sigh escaped her.

  “Open your eyes, Sarah.”

  She dragged her eyelids open and stared into his beautiful hazel eyes, darkened with an unmistakable passion she’d never thought to see. Never dreamed to inspire.

  He stepped closer then lowered his head. His tongue circled her distended nipple, then his lips closed over the sensitive bud, sucking gently. Sarah gasped at the intimacy, at the knot of pleasure that tightened low in her belly. Lifting her hands, she sifted them through his thick hair, reveling in every wondrous draw of his lips.

  As he lavished the same attention on her other breast, his hands coasted down her back to cup her buttocks. A guttural groan rose in her throat, a sound she didn’t recall ever before making. He kissed his way up her chest and neck, along her jaw.

  “Sarah…Sarah,” he whispered, his lips and breath tantalizing her skin. And then his mouth slanted over hers and her arms wrapped around his neck and her mind emptied except for one word. More…more…

  As if he heard her silent plea, he deepened the kiss, his tongue dancing with hers. One large hand slipped lower, down the back of her thigh, then lifted her leg until her foot rested against the edge of the tub. Any embarrassment she might have felt at being so openly exposed dissolved at the first touch of his fingers against the aching folds between her legs.

  She gasped into his mouth and would have simply slithered back into the tub if not for his strong arm wrapped so securely around her waist. He tormented her with a slow circular motion that maddened and enflamed her until she undulated in shameless need against his hand. He groaned and lifted his head, pressing kisses along her jaw.

  “So soft,” he whispered against her neck. “So hot and wet. So…perfect.”

  Yes, perfect. The way he was touching her, teasing her feminine flesh, was perfect. And pushing her closer to a precipice that remained just out of reach.

  And suddenly she was there, hovering, until his next magical touch propelled her over the edge into a hot, dark abyss of pulsing pleasure that dragged a ragged cry from her throat. She buried her face against his shoulder and for an endless, mindless moment her entire being narrowed down to the place between her thighs where he continued to stroke with such perfection. Then the spasms subsided, leaving her limp and languid in the most wickedly delicious way.

  She drew a deep breath and her senses flooded with the scent of his skin. Sandalwood and clean linen and him. She slowly raised her head and found him regarding her through serious hazel eyes.

  “Sarah,” he whispered.

  “Lord Langston,” she whispered back.

  One corner of his mouth twitched. “Matthew.”

  “Matthew.” The mere act of saying his name elicited a tingle. She slowly lowered one hand from around his neck, dragging her palm down to slip it inside the open neck of his shirt to rest against his chest. She splayed her fingers against his warm skin, absorbing the feel of his heartbeat, the slight tickle of his dark chest chair against her palm. “Matthew…what have you done to me?”

  He reached up, cupped her cheek in his palm and brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, looking at her as if she were an enigma he couldn’t solve. “What have you done to me?”

  “Not nearly the same wondrous thing you just did to me. I…I’ve never felt like that before.”

  Something she couldn’t decipher flickered in his gaze. “I’m delighted to have been the first.” He pressed a kiss against her forehead, then in one smooth motion lifted her from the tub. When he slowly lowered her, her body dragged along his. With her feet on the carpet, his hard arousal pressed against her belly and she wished he was as naked as she. Wished there was nothing to thwart her from satisfying her burning curiosity to discover and explore the texture of every bit of his skin.


  After setting her on her feet, he stepped away and retrieved her robe from the back of the chair. Standing behind her, he held the garment so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. He then moved to stand in front of her and deftly tied the ribbon around her waist.

  “I believe we’re even now,” he said.

  She raised her brows. “Not exactly.”

  “Oh? You saw me bathe, I saw you bathe.”

  “I only saw you bathe. You helped me bathe. And, um, then some.”

  Instead of looking amused as she’d expected, his expression remained serious. Reaching out, he captured her hands and entwined their fingers. “Is that what you want, Sarah?” he asked softly, his gaze searching hers. “To help me bathe?”

  An immediate yes rushed onto her tongue, but she forced herself to suppress it. Because based on his tone, his expression, he was not asking her in a playful, teasing way. In as light a tone as she could muster, she said, “I’ll think on the matter.” And she would. Indeed, she doubted she’d be able to think of anything else.

  “As for helping you bathe,” he said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t stop myself.” His gaze skimmed down her form and a muscle ticked in his jaw. Meeting her eyes once more, he said, “And now I must leave. Before I find myself in that exact same situation once again—unable to stop myself.” Lifting her hands, he pressed a warm kiss to the backs of her fingers. Then he released her and walked swiftly to the door. He quit the room without a backward glance, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

  Sarah turned toward the tub and for several moments remained perfectly still, staring at the water, reliving their incredible, magical interlude. Surely she should be feeling regret. Shame. Embarrassment at the liberties she’d allowed him. Instead she felt exuberant and exhilarated. And understood what it was ladies whispered about behind their fans at soirees.

  She turned and her gaze fell upon the bed. She supposed she should climb beneath the covers, but how could she possibly sleep when her mind was so full of what she’d just experienced?

  Knowing sleep was many hours away, she walked toward the window, where she pushed aside the heavy green velvet curtain. The full moon hung in a star-studded sky, an iridescent pearl against black satin sprinkled with glittering diamonds. Silvery moonlight illuminated the garden below. Her gaze swept over perfectly manicured grass. Immaculately trimmed hedges. A copse of soaring elms.

  A shovel-toting figure moving toward the copse of soaring elms.

  She gasped and pressed her nose closer to the glass. Even if she hadn’t recognized Matthew, there was no mistaking Danforth trotting at his heels. Whatever his lordship had been up to the other night, he was clearly up to it again—and not even a quarter hour after departing her bedchamber. All her questions and concerns about him that he’d dissolved with his drugging kisses and intoxicating caresses came roaring back, smacking her from the stupor into which he’d lulled her.

  Her sated languor was squashed by disgust at herself for being so effortlessly and completely seduced into forgetting all her questions and concerns. She dashed to the wardrobe and dressed as quickly as possible in a dark brown gown. Recalling Tom Willstone’s death, she grabbed the brass poker from the stand next to the hearth, as she had no intention of placing herself in danger. Thus armed, she quit the room and hurried toward the stairs, determined to find out once and for all what the infuriatingly distracting Lord Langston was up to.

  Chapter 11

  Matthew walked down the darkened garden path, all his senses on alert. In addition to the knife he normally kept tucked in his right boot, he’d slipped another blade into his left boot and brought Danforth along for further protection. If indeed someone was watching him, waiting for him to find that which he sought, that person would have one hell of a fight on their hands getting it away from him—if he ever managed to find it. And just in case Tom Willstone’s murderer was still lurking about, he had no intention of being caught unawares.

  He headed toward the far northwest corner of the garden, an area he dreaded visiting. If he’d known the first thing about gardening a year ago when he began this quest, he would have planned to dig in the northwest corner during the winter months, when the roses weren’t in bloom. But he hadn’t known at the time, and now the northwest corner was the last unexcavated section of the garden left for him to dig. So he would go where the roses were.

  And not just a few roses. No, there were hundreds of roses. All lovely and fragrant. All just waiting to make him sneeze.

  As if powered by the mere thought of his nemesis flowers, his nose twitched. The sneeze came upon him so suddenly, so violently, he had no time to stifle it. Two more followed in quick succession before he was able to muffle the sound by shoving his handkerchief beneath his nose.

  Bloody hell. Clearly he was nearing his destination. So much for a stealthy arrival. Of course, he would have realized he was nearing his destination if his brain weren’t so jumbled—which was completely her fault.

  Muttering an oath, he firmly shoved all thoughts of that distracting woman aside and fashioned a makeshift mask for his lower face by tying the ends of his handkerchief behind his head and pulling the square of linen over his nose. As it had in the past, this helped his nose, but did little for his eyes, which felt grittier and itchier with each step that drew him closer to the rose garden.

  Heaving a sigh of resignation, he made his way down the rose-lined pathway. When he reached the far border, he stopped, looking around, listening. Although nothing seemed amiss, he once again felt as if he were being watched. He glanced down at Danforth, noting the dog’s alert stance. Did he sense an intruder?

  Matthew waited nearly a minute, but when Danforth didn’t issue so much as a warning growl, he decided it was time to get to work. He trusted Danforth’s canine senses to pick up on any intruders. If he’d brought the beast with him the night he’d seen Tom Willstone, perhaps the man would still be alive.

  With the same patience he’d used for the past year, Matthew began digging a trench along the base of the shrubs, hoping this one would yield the results he sought. As he rammed the shovel into the dirt, his mind wandered—to the precise thing he was trying not to think about.

  Her.

  And not to just any thoughts about her. No, his mind instantly drifted into sensual waters that did nothing for his concentration. Halting his digging, he leaned on the shovel’s wooden handle and closed his eyes. And instantly imagined her in the bath. All wet, satiny skin, lounging in a tub of steaming water. Pictured her looking up at him with those beautiful eyes, then slowly rising from the water, like the Botticelli painting she so closely resembled.

  The feel of her skin, her hair, her wet, swollen sex, the flowery scent of her, the erotic sounds she’d made, were all branded in his mind. He’d gone to her bedchamber intending only to stay a moment, just to see the look on her face when she realized he intended to pay her back in kind. And then leave.

  Isn’t that what he’d intended?

  He opened his eyes and shook his head. God help him, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d taken one look at her and been completely captivated. Thoroughly seduced. And utterly unable to walk away.

  It was those damn eyes. So huge and liquid and soft. Like golden pools of honey a man could simply drown in. And every time she looked at him, that’s exactly what he felt like—a drowning man. Yet it was so much more than just her eyes. It was…everything. It was just…her.

  Never had a woman affected him so strongly so quickly. He tried to recall any woman who’d fascinated him as this one did, who filled every corner of his mind, whom he ached to touch as he did this one, who eroded his control so completely, and he failed utterly. Which, given his circumstances, was very bad indeed.

  An agonized groan vibrated in his throat. How had this happened? How was it possible that this woman, who was nothing like the sort of woman he’d always imagined himself with, nothing at all like the sort of woman he’d always pursued in the past, wa
s the only woman who had ever affected him this way? This profoundly?

  Bloody ridiculous, that’s what it was. And bloody annoying as well. Yet also bloody undeniable.

  Still, this inexplicable attraction to her must simply be because she was so completely opposite of every woman he’d ever been attracted to. Which meant that this…attraction or whatever one wanted to call it, was merely some odd aberration that would hopefully go away.

  He cheered a bit at the thought. Yes, surely it would go away. It was merely the result of too many sleepless nights. Too much worrying. Too much pacing in front of the hearth rug. Too much hole digging.

  And surely another factor was that he’d been too long without a woman. No doubt any woman who’d arisen from a steaming tub of water and stood before him wet and naked would have aroused his ardor. His inner voice guffawed and called him a bloody idiot. You’ve walked away from other women, it reminded him. But you couldn’t have walked away from Sarah in that tub if a gun were held to your head. He shot his annoying inner voice a frown and told it to shut the hell up.

  Damn it, such thoughts were not serving his purpose well. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Matthew set his boot on the flat end of the shovel to begin another trench. He’d just lifted the first mound of dirt when Danforth, who’d been sitting quietly, suddenly stood. The dog lifted his nose, his nostrils twitched, and his entire body tensed as if ready to spring into action. A low rumble sounded from his throat, and in the next instant he raced down the path.

  In a flash, Matthew retrieved the knife from his right boot, and with the weapon in one hand and the shovel in the other, he ran after Danforth.

  As he neared the end of the rose garden, he heard a crashing in the underbrush followed by several deep woofs. Seconds later Matthew rounded a corner in the path and skidded to a halt. And stared. At Danforth, who, instead of cornering and holding at bay a potential threat, was a tail-wagging, tongue-lolling bundle of canine happiness as he gazed up adoringly at Sarah, upon whose shoe he happily sat. Sarah stood with her back pressed against the thick trunk of an elm. She patted Danforth’s head with one hand, clutched a fire poker with the other, and was making frantic shushing sounds.