Perhaps he did share the same tendency to tire of his playthings that all noblemen did.
Even if he considered himself in love for now…
She wouldn’t leave that to chance. The stakes were far, far too high.
She loved him so desperately…
Well, there was just one solution. She would just have to use every skill and wile she possessed to enchant him so thoroughly, that he couldn’t live without her, either.
His gaze still burned her.
She took her hand and let her fingertips glide over her belly.
His sharp intake of breath rewarded her and she smiled at him, letting her finger drift lower and brush the red curls between her legs.
He gave a harsh groan and took her by the ankles and she let him pull her legs wide apart.
She laughed, softly, sensually, in the way she’d been taught would drive men wild and continued to stroke herself, well aware that he had a much clearer show than a moment before.
He knelt between her legs, a tricky feat given the limited space on the settee. Then he took her by the wrist and pulled her hand away.
Settling close between her legs, he put his cockhead to her wet heat.
With one quick, fierce thrust, he entered her completely.
The sudden, jarring motion sent a wave of discomfort through her tender flesh, up into her belly. She gasped.
He grasped her legs and jerked his hips, pressing himself even deeper within her.
Strong thrills raced through her at his fierceness.
With a soft laugh, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed tight. “Fuck me,” she said, knowing the effect the vulgar, forbidden word would have on him. “Fuck me hard.”
He gave her a series of near ruthless thrusts, rocking her body, driving her until she was breathless, overly warm and sweating in the heavy nightdress.
When he paused, his body was shaking hers with his quick, harsh breaths.
She stared up at him, panting frantically. His thick dark hair was already sweat-dampened, clinging to his forehead. Yet, his face was still in shadow, she couldn’t read his expression.
“Harder,” she said, breathlessly, all the while squeezing his waist with her legs.
“God,” he gasped harshly. He gave her several powerful thrusts, rocking her body again.
“Harder.” She squeezed him all the more with her legs, her internal muscles.
He withdrew.
She gasped.
“On the floor,” he said harshly, his face still obscured by shadow.
She glanced up at him. “The—
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her up. “On the floor, now—” He gave her a slight push.
The ragged, commanding edge in his voice sent quivers of apprehension tingling through her and her mouth grew dry. Her body shook with the intensity of her rising arousal.
She sensed the balance of power shifting between them as that shuddering, trembling anticipation and need swept over her. On her shaking knees, she obeyed him.
He was behind her, flipping her fallen, sweat damp nightdress up to bear her buttocks.
The cool air on her buttocks made her shiver, a sensation that only accentuated her already shimmering excitement.
“On your hands and knees.” He gripped the back of her neck, pressing her forward.
She let her body lunge forward with the motion, allowing herself to be placed into a most undignified—yet thrillingly vulnerable—position. The dancing flames cast shadows on the floorboards, as he took her by the hips. Held her firmly.
He took hold of her hair and pulled her head back. With a deep, animistic groan, he shoved into her.
He took her, battered her, savagely.
Wild thrills shot through her body, white-hot sparks of pure pleasure shooting up through her belly and down, down to her toes.
Wildness.
She had sensed it within all along.
Now she clenched his thick cock and thrashed and moaned her surrender to the wild force of his taking.
He reached around and touched her straining, throbbing nub. Stroking her, driving her over the edge into the most intense pleasure she’d ever known. Her cunny convulsed, again and again, and her body shuddered.
She went limp, her arms collapsing and she fell forward against the floor.
He held her hips in an iron grip. Panting, she wondered if there would be bruises there on the morrow.
He drew in a sharp breath, withdrew from her and his body jerked against hers. Hot wetness jetted over her buttocks. His harsh breaths were audible even over her own desperate panting.
The lay there on the bare floor. Just as she began to feel the draft from the windows, he jerked her nightdress over her nakedness and she could sense him readjusting his clothing.
Never had she felt so spent, so satisfied yet so distant from him.
He stood and several floorboards groaned under his Hessians as he went to hearth. She watched as he banked the fire. And then he came back to her.
He stared down at her and her heart seemed lodged in her throat.
What was he thinking?
He knelt and swept her up into his arms. His strong body, his warmth, was reassuring. Like a downy, soothing blanket on a cold night. She fought the inner softening to him. She must keep her wits.
He glanced between the two doors that flanked the chamber. “Which one?”
She nodded towards her bedchamber, the other door being to the small kitchen.
The bedchamber contained a modest sized bed and a tall wardrobe of light wood.
He carried her to the bed and laid her on it then he stretched out beside her.
She held her breath, not knowing what he would do.
He laid his head on her breast then fitted himself close to her body, hugging his around her waist.
A myriad of confusing feelings whirled within her. She longed to let her breath go in a sigh and to surrender to him emotionally just as thoroughly as she had sexually.
She was afraid to risk it.
He closed his eyes.
She continued holding herself stiffly, not knowing what to do or how to feel.
Adrian listened to the sound of Miranda’s breathing become more regular. Deeper. Her body relaxed against his.
Finally.
Holding herself rigid in his arms, that outward, physical sign of her inner resistance hurt him. He couldn’t deny that.
Yet, he also couldn’t deny it was all his fault.
He lifted his head and propped himself on one elbow and then he smoothed a hand over her hair, lingering to enjoy the silken texture of the dark auburn tresses.
He had lost control with her.
A total loss of control.
That he had lost control over his emotions at all, with anyone, under any circumstances, that alone would have deeply disturbed him.
But to have done so with her, due to the surge of jealous possessiveness, well, that was untenable.
It proved that Adrian was no better than his father
Or any number of other male ancestors who had either ruined their own lives, or the lives of the people who loved and depended on them most, over their need to seek out, to dominate and to own beautiful women.
He had reminded her of Winterton.
Winterton!
No one need to tell Adrian how much of her trust he might have lost. How much damage he might have done to the bond growing between them.
He would have to work very hard to regain that.
He would also have to keep a tight rein over himself.
Miranda started awake to the sound of Adrian’s voice.
A low, deep rumble.
She realized he was still half-asleep, speaking her name.
His arm tightened about her.
“I dreamed that you had left,” he said, his voice somewhat hoarse.
The raw anguish in his voice struck her in her heart. His pain resounded within her. She felt her face contort with t
he sudden emotion.
“It would have been my own fault if you had,” he said, gently. “No less than I would have deserved.”
He lifted his head and a soft sound of loss escaped her. She opened her eyes. His were dark and heavy lidded with hunger. He traced a finger in the hollow of her collarbone and then moved it down the line of tiny pearl buttons on her heavy flannel gown. “Only a woman’s nimble fingers could work these diminutive buttons. A man would have to tear them open.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Perhaps I felt a need to be protected.”
“Against me?” He had begun to undo the buttons, belying his earlier statement.
“Maybe against all men.”
“A wise precaution. You have beautiful breasts. The most perfectly beautiful I have ever seen.”
She watched as he deftly worked the row of buttons open. “They say you prefer plain women.”
He froze with his hand resting on the valley between her breasts, underneath the now opened nightgown. He looked up at her. “I prefer you.”
She felt her smile widen. “I thought perhaps that is why you despised me.”
“You were colder than December to me. It made me wonder what it took to thaw your icy heart.”
She laughed softly. “I love when you tell me that I am beautiful. It makes me melt.”
“I don’t need to tell you, you know it already. Too well.” He moved his hand over the swell of her breast.
“Tell me anyway, my lord.” She caught her breath as his fingertips brushed her nipple.
Even as sparks of delight followed his touch, she sensed a sudden tension in him. “My lord?” she asked.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He continued caressing her. “But that returns us to our original topic. Your role as courtesan. Your flirtatious behavior, your cosmetics, your sparkly bodices…” He laughed softly. “As though you need to do anything to draw attention to these gorgeous breasts.”
He gave her a squeeze and the resultant pleasure made her shudder.
“But you really shouldn’t gild the lily so much.”
She bristled. He wanted her to change, already. He wanted her to become plain, ordinary when all her security and all the security she could offer Mama relied on her being always beautiful, always elegant, something out of the ordinary.
Didn’t he realize that no woman could really be so out of the ordinary? Such an image required the very artifice that he hated. Once she lost that air of fantasy that she and her aunt had worked so hard to create, it would likely be lost forever.
“I can’t do what you’re asking,” she said. “I just can’t take the risk yet.”
“Ah, the risk of trusting me.” Beneath his firm tone, how hurt he sounded! He withdrew his hand from her breast. “At least the risk of trusting me fully.”
“Why can’t we simply be for now? Why can’t we just be lovers and let matters develop as they will?”
“Because your physical safety is also at risk.”
The sudden surge of overt emotion in his tone made her catch her breath.
“At my hunting box, when those boys drugged your wine, I saw the clear evidence of how dangerous your… profession is to you.”
“That’s my concern. My risk—”
He sat up and leaned over her, the skin pulled tight over his cheekbones, his jaw held rigidly. “Not any longer.”
At his abrupt fierceness, she held her breath, her heart pounding wildly. Trepidation? Yes, surely.
Arousal?
Yes, that too.
“I told you that you are mine now.” He caressed her cheek. “You are so precious to me. Do you think I shall ever be careless with you?”
She had to swallow against the tightening in her throat. “I can take care of myself… I always have.”
“No, I am not sure that you really can, my love.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “I have seen too much evidence of your soft heart, your beautiful soft heart. You will sacrifice yourself completely for your Mama. You will throw caution to the wind to bolster the esteem of others.” The barest grin touched his mouth. “You let me get away with too much arrogance, too much insensitivity. You ought not have opened your door to me last night. You ought to have thrown me out on my arse. Instead, you let me ravish you.”
Uncomfortable at being so closely scrutinized, she laughed, softly. “Just who ravished who last night?” She trailed her fingers down his bare chest and stomach, slowing down in her enjoyment of his hard, rippling muscles. “Are you sure you know the answer?”
As she swooped, dangerously low, he captured her hand, holding her still by the wrist. “We must discuss this. I am your protector now. It is my place to set limits for you if I feel your safety is in danger.”
Miranda’s felt herself melting inside at his protectiveness. No man had ever cared to protect her the way that Adrian did.
At times, she had thrilled to his sense of protectiveness but she wasn’t sure what she thought about any sense of protectiveness being a justification for dictating her behavior, her attire. Even if she might wear cosmetics.
But was she allowing those soft feelings, her own craving for a man’s more tender feelings and care to blind her to his true nature?
Could it be that he was simply finding some way to excuse his possessiveness?
“You are no longer simply a courtesan. I am not merely some random gentleman paying for your services. You are my mistress and also my love.” His voice became softer on the last two words and he released her wrists.
She no longer felt like seducing him.
She felt a little lost. Confused by the events of the past evening. The past few days.
Yes, she was in love with him. At times, he seemed the answer to all the girlish dreams she had held, secretly, never even admitting them to herself.
However, love was turning out to be far more complicated than she wanted it to be.
What happened to those lovely dreams?
Adrian watched Miranda, noting her deepening frown. Once again, he had allowed his previous experience with courtesans to color his perception of Miranda’s behavior. He would never have thought that a flirtatious gesture would actually be an act of kindness to a shy and unsure younger person.
Just as he had told her, her heart was far too soft and forgiving.
How ironic that he had once seen her as cold and haughty. Uncaring. He had once believed that she had driven his Carrville to his early death through unceasing demands for money and support. Perhaps even using sexual congress to weaken him. Adrian had thought that she had wheedled Carrville to sign a will that was favorable to her and would be well rid of him.
Now Adrian knew all of that had been untrue. Miranda had grieved her protector for he had been a lover who was a friend, but not a beloved lover.
She had bent her head down, curling on her side, her auburn hair falling over her face.
He smoothed the tangled tresses back. “The weeks we spent apart were a torment. I will not risk losing you. I will not see you put your own safety at risk.”
“Because I am an elegant plaything?”
His caressing hand froze, so deeply did her words cut into him.
As the full meaning of her words settled in, the pain seemed to take away his ability to take a full breath.
You terrified me.
You reminded me of Winterton.
He understood, better than he had before, how deeply he had hurt her the evening before.
He had to work very hard to make her forget. To make her feel secure with him and to believe him when he said that he would never, ever abandon her.
And yet, the strength of his need to possess her still disturbed him. Did he love her, the woman inside enough to respect her need for autonomy?
Or would he prove no better than the other men of his family, a man who wanted to possess beautiful women and would treat them no better than an expensive doll?
A feeling of profound despair
wrenched through his gut.
No, God, no.
He was not like his father.
He grit his teeth.
He was not!
He loved Miranda, body and soul.
Despite the edgy energy coursing through his veins, he forced himself to lie beside her. But he couldn’t close his eyes. Instead, he watched her as sleep overtook her.
Moonlight from the partiality opened curtains made her pale skin glow. He couldn’t take his eyes from the perfection of her profile.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. That was no lie told to flatter her. He couldn’t deny the joy that filled him to know that she was his.
But was it joy to possess her love?
Or joy to possess her loveliness?
Did he doubt himself because she still didn’t trust him? Was her lack of trust a sign that she didn’t really love him?
Or was it as he had determined from the start tonight, that he had given her due cause not to trust him?
The conflicting thoughts went round and round in his mind, keeping him from sleep.
Chapter Six
At a clanging sound, Miranda opened her eyes and came to herself. Dawn’s pale light gave the chamber a soft glow.
She glanced around and saw a maid she had seen in Danvers’ house building up the fire. Intent on her work, the girl did not glance Miranda’s way.
Danvers came into the chamber. His hair was damp, obviously recently combed into place and he looked clean-shaven. He wore a crisp white shirt with a pale blue vest and beige breeches and he bore a tray.
He placed the tray on the bedside table. The scent of steaming tea tantalized her. Yes, she could certainly use a nice, hot cup right now.
She could feel his eyes on her like a physical touch. But she stared at the coverlet, with her last words from the night before echoing in her mind.
Because I am an elegant plaything?
What a horrid thing to say!
She recalled the stricken expression that had crossed his face after she had said it. She knew him well enough to know he’d never show that kind of weakness to anyone else.
That kind of hurt.
She had hurt him.
What was the matter with her?
She would usually never allow anyone to know her direct thoughts. It was more her way to keep her tongue still and to wait to see what others did. Or did not do.
A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) Page 6
