“Calm, my wildcat.” He dragged his lips over her skin in a decadent caress she felt in her core. “The sport was boxing first, followed by some dice. Nothing more.”
He made her feel like a wildcat, alternately ready to hiss and spit and claw, or just as easily purr. His words allayed the sharpest of her fears, but not all of them.
“You smell of smoke,” she said, attempting to free herself once more.
The only thing she accomplished in her struggles was to wedge her bottom more firmly against his groin. There was no question of his desire. Although she was vexed with him, the knowledge he wanted her sent a rush of molten heat to her center. Her foolish body had no intention of heeding her mind, it would seem.
“Some of the chaps were smoking cigars.” He nipped at her shoulder through the thin layer of her night rail covering it. “I promised to be faithful to you.”
Until she bore him his heir.
After…
After, if he chose to carouse with a string of mistresses once more, she would be ruined. She did not know how she would bear it. Her heart could not possibly recover. If her love for him had already grown after just one day of marriage, she could not fathom how months or even years as his wife would impact her.
But she said none of those things, because he was kissing her. “You smell divine, Hattie darling. Like violets. Fresh as an early spring garden. I need you.”
His raw rasp sent a bolt of desire through her. She did not want to read too much into those wicked words, and yet, she could not deny the warmth suffusing her. However, as much as she wanted him, too, he had to answer for his actions. If she was going to survive this union of theirs, she could not allow him to run roughshod over her.
Her hands settled over his where they remained splayed on her stomach. They were capable of such strength, such tenderness, too. The touch of her skin upon his sent a new wave of awareness crashing over her.
“You owe me an apology, Ewan,” she forced herself to say before she completely tossed herself, headlong, over the cliff of reckless longing.
His lips found the side of her neck, her pounding pulse. “I am sorry.”
That was too easy.
Far too easy.
“Why are you sorry?” Her question ended on a gasp as he sucked on her bare throat.
“I am sorry I spent the day wallowing in my own misery rather than worshiping you as I should have done.” He caught her earlobe in his teeth.
That was not precisely the apology she wanted. But it was a beginning. She found herself tipping her head back until it rested against his shoulder. She turned and collided with his searing gaze. For a heartbeat, she forgot what to say. Forgot what she wanted from him aside from his kiss and the sensual delights he could give her.
She reached up, burying her hand in his thick, dark hair. “I care about you, Ewan.”
She had not meant to make the admission. Somehow, it had slipped from her lips when she had been staring into his eyes.
“You should not.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I am not worthy of your concern.” He set his mouth upon hers then.
Warmth seared her. His lips were velvet seduction, toying with hers, playing over her as if he had all the time in the world. There was such tenderness in his kiss. As if he cared about her as well, and she thought if this were the last time she ever felt his mouth upon hers, she could die a happy woman. Because this meeting of mouths was about more than seduction; it was an apology in itself. An affirmation.
She wondered if he truly believed he was not worthy of her. He had said it often enough. It hurt her heart to think he held himself in such low regard. How she wished he would confide in her. Trust her.
There was so much of Ewan she needed to learn. So much he held apart from her.
He broke the kiss first, gazing down at her. “You are an angel, Hattie Montrose.”
Hattie Montrose. It almost seemed impossible the name was hers now. That the man surrounding her with his strong body now was hers as well.
Even if there remained much he kept from her. A sudden profundity overcame her as she fell into the depths of his gaze once more. She was going to have to push him. Fight for him. If she was going to emerge from this marriage with her heart intact, she could not allow him to retreat from her as he had done earlier. Putting distance between them was his form of defense.
If he built a wall, she would have to tear it down.
“I am no angel,” she told him. “I want you far too much.”
So much it terrified her, in fact. So much it elated her, too.
He will never love you, whispered the voice of doubt within.
How she loathed that voice. How she feared it was right. But she must not think of that now. For now, she must live in the moment. And the moment was Ewan.
He kissed her again on a growl rather than answering her. Or perhaps the kiss was his answer, because this time, his tongue slid inside her mouth. He tasted of sweetness and spice. Negus, she thought dimly as she ran her tongue against his in response. It was not the first time she had tasted it on his lips, but she would not fret over it now, for wine seemed far less a concern than laudanum or gin. He had not appeared at all foxed tonight.
He seemed, instead, ablaze with intensity.
One of his hands slid lower. Over the curve of her belly, to the apex of her thighs. He cupped her there, through the fabric of her night rail. Desire radiated outward. Her hips jerked into his touch, seeking more. And he gave her more, his thumb somehow finding the most sensitive part of her and stroking.
But it was not enough. She did not want any barriers between them, because she knew how delicious it was to have his bare skin upon her. His tongue. All her good intentions fled. She was aching for him, longing in a new way. She understood her hunger. Knew what the empty ache was deep within, an ache which only he could fill.
She wanted to erase the awfulness of the day, too. To start anew.
He caught a fistful of her night rail as he kissed her, dragging it upward. Cool night air caressed her ankles first, then her calves, all the way to her thighs. Anchoring the hem at her waist with one hand, he wasted no time in delving between her legs with the other. Wicked fingers stroked her.
She cried out, hips moving, seeking more. The sparks ignited. She was engulfed in flame. No matter which direction she moved, there was Ewan. Behind her, his cock was a hard promise of pleasure. Before her, his knowing fingers were unlocking her surrender like a key that had been made for her alone.
He kissed her harder, his fingers increasing their pace upon her center. She clung to him, falling into his body, knees weak with need. How easily he had stripped her of determination. But he was the man she had loved for so long. And he had awakened her body.
His fingers dipped lower, circling her channel. Another noise emerged from her, foreign and almost animal. Perhaps she was the wildcat he had declared her after all. He bit her lower lip enough that the sting surprised her. A current of white-hot need simmered through her. After the sting came delight.
A finger slid inside her.
Deep.
Her knees did buckle then, and she would have collapsed to a heap upon the floor had he not held her to him with the arm banded about her waist. His stiff rod prodded her bottom as he leveraged her, keeping her standing. Her lips still clung to his when he inserted a second finger.
In and out, he moved them in unison. Just when she feared she would go mad with wanting, he curved his fingers and reached a new place inside her. A place of shock and spark and desperate thrill. When his thumb nestled between her folds, working her bud once more while he drove into her again and again, she lost herself.
The bliss rained over her like an explosion of fireworks at Vauxhall—searing, brilliant, powerful. Her entire body shuddered with the violence of her release. And still, he continued to kiss her, his wicked fingers playing over her sensitive flesh as the last ripples of ecstasy washed through her.
He withdrew from h
er and turned her around to face him at last. She was unsteady, dizzied. Her palms flattened on his chest, seeking purchase, and her head tipped back. She drank in the sight of him, like a dark god towering over her.
Dear heavens, the way he looked at her…as if she were the most ravishing creature he had ever beheld. As if she had astounded him.
“My God, Hattie,” he growled. “You are more sensual than I could have even imagined. What a treasure you have been hiding all this time.”
She did not know what to say to his praise. Her cheeks went hot. “You…I…we…”
She faltered. Words were beyond her. Her heart was pounding, and the sweet aftershocks of her climax were still throbbing through her. Ewan’s proximity—being in his arms, a bed just behind them—did not help matters.
“Precisely.” He kissed her swiftly, quickly, before raising his head once more. Holding her gaze, he raised his fingers, glistening with her essence, to his mouth, and sucked. “Sweet, so sweet.”
Oh, how wicked he was. Wicked and wanton and holding her heart in his beautiful hands.
She slid her right palm over his chest, stopping above his heart. The steady thumps pounded beneath her, the vibrant evidence of his life source. “Ewan,” she said softly. “I need you.”
It frightened her just how much truth hid in those four simple words.
Chapter Fourteen
She needed him.
God’s fichu, he needed her more. Far more than she could comprehend. Far more than he understood. Far more than he dared say.
What a miracle she was, Hattie Lethbridge. Nay, Hattie Montrose now. And somehow, she was all his. He had her in his arms and naked on her back before he could even think.
He still had on his damned banyan. The silk was smooth as a whisper on his flesh, but not nearly as soft and delicious as Hattie’s bare skin against his would be. He wanted her curves, her pale cream burning into his sinner’s body. He wanted her goodness to obliterate all the badness in him, all the ugliness that had come before her, to erase the memory of any other mouth but hers, any other touch.
God, he had treated her like a cad, abandoning her the day after they wed to pound out his demons in his unsuspecting sparring partner’s face. And then he had drowned himself in the calming succor of a laudanum negus at a smoke-filled gaming hell filled with culls and laden with the stench of sex, bad intentions, and sour ale.
All to come home to this angel who responded to him so sweetly. Who gave herself to him without question. Who wanted to believe him redeemable. He did not deserve her. Never would. Could not do enough to earn her in his bed, at his side.
How had he lived all this time without her? It seemed impossible after one day, the notion of a life without Hattie as his wife.
He kissed her ravenously. Like a beast. Without regard for tenderness or for skill. He kissed her with all the intensity brimming within him. With all the desperate hunger. He was not himself tonight. There was something about her raw surrender, allowing him to bring her to release, the spicy taste of her on his lips, that made him wild.
He tore at his banyan. The silk may have ripped in his eagerness to shuck it. He knew not. All he did know was it was gone. He was naked, poised between her spread legs. He ached with the need to drive inside her. To lose himself in her tight heat.
But yesterday had been her introduction to lovemaking. He must not forget. There was the possibility she was yet sore, and though he was insatiable when it came to her, he would not hurt her. He would sooner draw his own blood than inflict pain upon Hattie.
She was too good. Too pure. Too damned intoxicating. Everything was Hattie. Violets. Raven hair. His fingers were busy plucking more hairpins, freeing the long, thick tendrils of her mane. He kissed her as if he would die if he broke his lips from hers, if the seal ended.
Here was a new sort of mindlessness—in her arms, in her bed. Her body under his, giving and welcoming. Her hands moving over him in worshipful caresses. Her fingertips traced his shoulders, his back, found his buttocks and gripped him hard.
The last had him rocking into her, his ready cock glancing over her wet folds. Her dew on him only served to increase his ridiculous hunger. How she held him in her thrall. He was possessed by her. Obsessed with her. The hours he had spent away from her now seemed the greatest travesty.
The folly of a coward. A man running from his past, hiding from the demons within. But no matter how fast he ran, or how much he imbibed in an effort to free himself of the ghosts, they always followed. He could not outrun himself.
Not even the relief he had found in the opium he had consumed compared to what he felt as he feasted upon Hattie. But he promised himself he would not be a rutting animal. He would tease her. Tempt her. Prepare her for the savagery of his claiming. For surely, it would be savage when it came. There was no other way.
She brought out the darkest desires in him, and he meant to feed them all.
If he could not free himself of the demons, he could at least lose himself in her. In this all-consuming, voracious craving he had to be one with her. To take her in every way he possibly could and then begin again.
The thought of fucking her everywhere, of making her his beautiful sybarite, made his ballocks tighten and his prick so hard, he had to grit his teeth to keep from spending. He knew he had to pace himself. To go slow. He wanted to be deep inside her when he spilled.
At last, he dragged his mouth from hers. Down her throat, he went, kissing, licking, biting. He explored the roundness of her bare shoulder, enjoying her sharp inhalation and kittenish mewl when he nipped her there. He found her puckered nipples, hard little jewels begging for his attention. He sucked on one as he braced himself with an arm and reached between them.
He dragged the tip of his cock up and down her seam. She was soaked. A cry tore from her. Intent upon his prize, he flicked his tongue over her nipple again and again. She was writhing now, murmuring sweet nothings.
“Ewan, mmm.”
He bit her other nipple, then sucked away the sting.
“Oh,” she said.
He kissed down her belly. Licked into her navel. Her hips shot upward.
“Please.”
The way she embraced her sensuality made him even more desperate for her. The contrast of the prim, disapproving wallflower and the decadent vixen beneath him was delicious. He would have never known. Never could have guessed. But now that he knew what a sensual woman she was, he could not get enough.
Never.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, glancing up at her.
Her emerald eyes were heavy-lidded, lips swollen with his kisses, parted. Her cheeks flushed. Her breasts jutted like offerings, tipped with the most luscious pink nipples he had ever sucked. She looked like a sacrifice. Like a goddess. She looked like his.
She tasted that way, too. He licked the jut of her hip bone, getting nearer to what he wanted most, her sweet cunny. He wanted to make her spend again on his tongue before he slid inside her.
But she had not answered him yet. Which meant his sweet goddess needed some more encouragement. Grinning, he applied himself to his task.
*
Hattie was awash in sensation. Floating on a cloud of delicious pleasure. In Ewan’s capable hands, losing herself, forgetting all her worries, was easy. He was kissing his way down her body now, nearing her most intimate place. He was sinfully close to the part of her that he had already left humming with pleasure.
But, oh, the sight of his gorgeous mouth grinning that wicked rakehell’s grin, kissing her hip…
“Ewan,” she said his name, a simple sigh of longing. She knew what she wanted, but she did not dare ask for it.
The deed was far too wicked, even if it was one of the most pleasurable acts she had ever known.
He kissed her inner thigh, his big hands on her hips, caressing. One of his hands guided her legs farther apart, opening her to him. And then she felt the burn of his gaze. He was looking at her, as if he committed her to
memory. As if he found her beautiful.
As if he were entranced.
But still, he did not give her what she wanted. He kissed the tender inside of her other thigh, then higher. All the while, his hands caressed. He neared the hollow between her mound and her thigh.
She inhaled, then held her breath. Watched as he remained where he was, in such aching proximity to the part of her that hungered for him the most.
“Please, Ewan,” she begged at last, desperate for him to do something. Anything. Desperate for his mouth, his tongue. For the same sensual torture he had visited upon her the night before.
“Tell me what you want, darling,” he said again, blowing on her sex. “I am yours to command.”
What a heady proclamation. She would have reveled in it had not the warmth of his breath upon her core left her breathless. Mindless. She jerked toward him, hips lifting off the bed, seeking. He retreated incrementally, keeping himself just out of her reach.
He was going to make her ask for it, she realized. He wanted to hear her give voice to the wickedness. A proper lady would be outraged. Indeed, she likely ought to be. But all she felt was hungrier for him. It was that hunger, visceral, real, unlike anything she had ever before experienced, that prompted her to find the words she needed to say.
Her fingers sifted through his thick, lustrous hair. He was so beloved to her. Every moment only led her deeper down the path of desire, strengthened the love she had been harboring for all these years.
“I want your mouth,” she managed to say. “On me.”
“With pleasure,” he growled, and then his head dipped between her legs.
His tongue found the bud of her sex, teasing her with light, leisurely strokes. She moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair. Last night, everything had been new. She had been nervous. Shy. Tonight, she had the advantage of experience to make her alive to every sensation.
She did not want to miss a single second. The scent of him in the air, mingling with her. The sight of his gorgeous face between her thighs. The slick glide of his knowing tongue over her. The rasp of his teeth. He made a deep sound of pleasure as he licked her, as if he savored her, as if he could not get enough.
Duke of Debauchery Page 16
