by Jane Lark
She was his.
Claimed by him.
Owned by him.
His.
The breath, which had been stuck in his lungs, expelled suddenly on a single word. “Jane?”
“Carry on. Please, don’t stop.” Her hands gripped in his hair and pulled his mouth to hers, and she whispered again before she kissed him, “Robert, please don’t stop.”
He moved slowly, and he could feel her taut, slender body beneath him, stiff with uncertainty. Or perhaps pain.
He kissed her. Hard. In gratitude. In awe. A kiss which sought to distract and possess. Slowly, he felt her legs slacken again, and her core relax, adjusting to his deep intrusion.
Her hands left his hair and pressed over his shoulders, fingers spread wide.
He kept his pace steady and whispered into her mouth how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how no other woman had ever been able to compare to her. When he increased his pace, he felt her arch against him. Her palms travelled down his back and her fingers gripped his hips.
He made his movement more controlled, quick and sharp.
She was panting in moments, her fingernails sinking into his hips. Then sweat suddenly coated her skin.
She’d break again soon.
He waited for her to fall. But she seemed to hold back, hovering on the edge of it, as though afraid to cross the bridge.
“Let it happen, Jane,” he whispered as he had done in London. “It shall be so much better if you do.”
Almost as if his words were the final caress, he felt her tumble, her pelvis pressing hard against his, and burning warmth surrounded him.
He loved her. Loved her to distraction. She was the only woman who’d ever been in his heart, and he’d learned much from others, but now, he was going to give it all to her. He could give her pleasure she had never known existed. Once he was done with her, she would not be able to bear leaving him.
She was shaking and silently weeping, clinging to him as he progressed, seeking to enthral her with the constant charm of his invasion. He wanted her cast adrift and he was never going to let her return. He could feel her body dissolving in shivering spasm, as he made a sudden sharp thrust. But then … He growled into the night, sounding like a wolf as he fought the release he didn’t wish to come yet, before stilling and admitting defeat as he let it overtake him and held her tight against him.
In answer she wrapped her legs about his hips and her arms about his shoulders and clung to him, hugging him with her whole body as he felt her tears run across her cheek.
She was his. This should have happened years ago. It was how things were meant to be.
His body lost tension, and his forehead rested on her shoulder.
She was as damp with sweat as he was.
She let her grip loosen, and her hands slid down to lie on his back.
He moved, lifting up, looking down at her, and withdrawing from inside her. “Why did you not tell me?”
She smiled and brushed back a lock of hair from his brow; the gentle gesture gripped as a spasm in his chest. “Hector left me all his money. Joshua wants it back. With that knowledge, he could claim the marriage was never real, and he would win.”
“You think I would have told anyone?”
“You were not in good humour with me when we first met, Robert. After that, I was just too afraid of what would happen next.”
“What do you want to happen next?”
“I don’t know. I do not care. Just take me to your bed.”
Robert laughed, and let his fingers run across her cheek, brushing away the tracks of the tears she’d shed as they’d made love. “You’re fast, aren’t you?”
“Fast!” She bucked, trying to push him further off her, reminding him, as she had once done before, of a temperamental colt.
He should have opened his mind like his eyes when he’d thought it. Perhaps he’d have seen what her skittish temperament meant then. God, she’d shied away every time he’d become too intimate, and it had never been playing games, just maidenly uncertainty.
She’d been reserved, and he’d been overzealous and scared her off.
He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek. “I’m only teasing, Jane. You are hardly that, sweetheart.” He kissed her brow, then nipped at her neck. Her head tilted back and her body arched.
“Not here, darling, not again,” he whispered to her skin.
He leaned to press a last kiss on her bare breast before pulling up to kneel at the end of the shallow hull. “You’re right. Let us withdraw to a bed,” he said, looking down at her. His breeches were slack about his hips leaving him virtually nude.
Her gaze swept over him, and she bit her lip as she sat upright, too, naked to her waist, her wrinkled gown only covering her middle and leaving her long, slender legs glowing pale in the moonlight.
The peaks of her small firm breasts invited him back. She looked shameless and wanton, with her hair loose and hanging to her shoulders – she was anything but – she looked gorgeous.
But his observation must have made her self-conscious, because she began covering herself, lifting her bodice, then sliding down her skirt. She was such a vulnerable woman. He wasn’t used to that. He would treasure her all his life though. The knowledge of her virginity left him totally undone, and an instinct to protect her burned strongly within. She’d only ever be his.
His heart pounded and his head spun as he secured his breeches and slipped on his shirt and waistcoat. He left that hanging open.
She would only ever be his. Lord, he wanted to shout it. Regardless of all his years of self-flagellation, angst and pain over this woman, she was still his.
He untied the boat in silence then began pushing it back to shore. Water lapped at the hull, while above, small bats swooped and circled in the night air.
At the boathouse, he held Jane’s hand to help her out, then he secured her loose buttons.
He threw his coat over his shoulder and wrapped his cravat about his neck, not bothering to dress properly.
If anyone saw them walking silently back to the house, hand in hand, he knew it would be blatantly obvious what they’d been up to. He didn’t care.
They met no one.
To avoid his guests, he led her in through a servant’s entrance and up the back stairs.
Halfway up, he caught her sharply to his chest, stole a passionate kiss, and left Jane breathless and laughing. He silenced her by pressing his hand over her mouth, fearful of his guests hearing, but her beautiful eyes laughed on.
He was smiling broadly when they carried on. He felt as though he was nineteen again and none of the intervening years had existed. Jane was his world.
On the first floor landing, he opened his bedchamber door tentatively.
Archer was busy tidying clothes in a drawer, and his head spun to Robert.
Robert raised his eyebrows, get out.
Archer’s eyes widened as he nodded, before closing the drawer and disappearing.
As the dressing room door shut across the room, Robert pulled Jane in. A single candle burned on the chest near the bed. It was nothing like the sophisticated scene he’d led her to in London. The room was the same as when he came to bed alone. With any other woman, the honesty of it would have made him feel stripped. Not with Jane.
“Robert.” Her arms came about his neck and her untutored kiss pressed over his mouth. His hands slid down her back and gripped the flesh of her buttocks.
Before Jane knew it, they were moving across the room, Robert half lifting her. Then her gown was loose once more, and he was slipping it, along with her chemise, from her shoulders. She was naked in moments and felt the abrasive sensation of his clothes against her skin, and in answer she slid off his waistcoat and tugged his shirt over his head.
When he let her go to allow it, his eyes skimmed across every inch of her body, hunger dark in his gaze.
She couldn’t believe this was happening at last, that she had let it happen, and yet it was always meant to be. It s
hould have happened so many years ago. That was why she had cried in the boat. She felt so full of emotion – of love.
He was wonderful, beautiful, and yet she was under no illusion; she knew who he was, half her Robert, tender and kind, half the Earl of Barrington, rakehell and seducer, determined to devour her.
“I want you so much, Jane,” he whispered.
She touched the hair across his chest which narrowed to a dart reaching into his breeches, and her hand slid down to touch him there as she remembered how their lovemaking had felt in the boat. She was no longer afraid. It had hurt in the beginning, but then it had become a blissful agony. She opened the buttons of his flap and heard his breath catch as she pushed his breeches and underwear from his slim, muscular hips. They slid to the floor, and her thumbs settled on his hip bone for a moment while her fingers gripped his hips, feeling the lines of bone and muscle.
His body was so lean and muscular and beautiful. Like nature had crafted it with a chisel.
When she took hold of him, he was busy freeing his clothes and stockings from his feet, but a heavy sigh left his lungs. She did not look up, but explored slowly.
His muscles jolted when she used her thumb to caress him.
She had power over him, she realised; just as he could control her, she could master his instincts and control him. It was a liberating and exhilarating thought. Her thumb moved and his muscle shuddered.
She looked up, smiled wickedly, and tightened her grip about him.
His shining, wide eyes, held her gaze.
She let go, too unsure of what to do yet. Instead, her hands travelled over his midriff and chest again.
He took control.
In moments, she was flat on the bed. He’d half thrown her there, having gripped her buttocks and toppled her back. She was breathless already, but she wished to play an equal part in this. She did not wish to be charmed by the rake and done to. She wished to be with Robert, loved not worshipped, the two of them equal.
She pressed him to his back and straddled his thighs. Naked skin caressed naked skin, Robert’s naked skin.
“I want to be inside you immediately, Jane. Will you forgive my haste?” he whispered up at her, with no argument over his prostrate position.
“I want you there,” she answered. She ached for him, despite the soreness from the first time.
Strong hands clasped her hips, then he impaled her.
This was the two of them, as it always should have been, equal and the same. Loved and cherished in balanced measure.
A wolf-like growl came from his throat.
She watched his body moving beneath her and learned the pattern he created, then moved for herself and felt his grip loosen.
When she looked up, his eyes glinted with intense unreadable feelings.
“I cannot believe you’re really mine,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Her fingers brushed his hair back from his brow. “I have always been yours, Robert, just not like this.”
“Jane,” he whispered, emotion seemingly overwhelming him.
It made him even dearer to her, if that was possible, and as his hips lifted and his hands rocked her pelvis, she felt her body bow with pleasure. Then the warmth of his mouth was at her breast.
The sensations tingling through her seemed to connect and tangle up as her fingers clawed on the mattress. She fought to keep her head and his rhythm, refusing to be passive and desperate not to be left behind but to travel this crest together.
Her skin felt hot.
He was too good, too knowing. It was so hard to keep up with him. He changed patterns continuously, enthralling her, and his hands travelled everywhere. The more he worked, the less she could think.
She sat upright a little more to draw away from him, but the movement brought her breast back to his mouth, and he nipped it swiftly with his lips.
A sigh of pleasure escaped her, sensation swirling about inside her. She was burning hot and ready to burst into flame.
When she looked at his face, he gave her a sudden wicked rakehell smile, and his thumb slid down between them, found the sensitive spot he favoured, and pressed. He’d won her over. She broke, her muscle trembling as it raged through her, and, at the same time, she felt his motion change to determined, strong, deliberate strokes, racing towards the final hurdle. She hung on, breathless and boneless, unable to compete. He was too good. Too knowing.
“Oh, Robert,” she whispered, “don’t stop.” Looking down, she watched the firm ridges and hollows of muscle tighten across his stomach each time he moved.
“Robert,” she said again more loudly, her voice wobbly.
“Robert!” She broke once more and could no longer hold herself up. Her arms bent at the elbows and she collapsed. Then one of his hands gripped her scalp, pressing her head to his shoulder while the other splayed over her back, holding her secure and safe.
A sound of passionate pain left his throat when he broke, too, and pressed deep then stilled.
“Robert,” she whispered one last time.
With a deep growl, he moved, rolling over and tipping her back on to the soft bed.
His body covered hers, and she held him close as he’d held her, while her lips brushed his cheek and his brow.
He nipped at her neck, using his teeth.
Her heart thundered.
“Are you well?” His breath caressed her shoulder. Then he lifted a little. His brown eyes were matte now. One of his fingers traced the contours of her face then slipped over her shoulder and breast.
She nodded, suddenly tired and overwhelmed by a flood of emotion as her senses returned to earth.
He rolled off her then pulled the sheet up over them. He kissed her hair as her head pillowed on his shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “you cannot imagine how much I love you. It is beyond any explanation.”
“If it is how much I love you, I can,” she answered, her eyelids already falling.
When she woke, the candle had burned down to a short wax-encrusted stub, and Robert was kissing her shoulder as his fingers slid across her stomach.
He said nothing, but just held her gaze as he pressed her back on the bed, parted her legs and began loving her again.
This was Lord Barrington, the London rakehell, administering his art. She knew it, but it was wonderful. She did not fight it. She was too tired and too blissfully relaxed.
His intense gaze held hers, burning into her, and like his eyes, the emotion in his touch was raw with need.
This claiming was an unadorned expression of lust, but it was bestowed in love. She could see and feel the depth of it.
Afterwards, he held her tight as she lay on his chest, and she fell asleep again as he stroked her hair.
The next time she woke, she was lying on her stomach, and his fingers were running over her back in tender exploration. She stretched luxuriously, extending her body, intensely relaxed, and opened her eyes. The room was light.
She should not be in his bed.
His lips touched her shoulder, and she sensed him smile as his fingers traced the curve of her spine down to her bottom.
“Robert!” she laughed, lifting to her elbows as his fingers slipped lower. “We need to get up.”
“Who says? It is time to get up when I say so, sweetheart. I’m not letting you go until I’ve had my fill. You’ve made me wait long enough for this, Jane.” He moved, grasping a pillow, before urging her to lift her stomach. Then he slid the pillow beneath her.
“What are you doing?”
“Showing you another way to make love,” he stated bluntly as he knelt behind her. His fingers explored again, as though her body fascinated him, and she sensed him watching what he did. Then his fingers gripped and parted her thighs.
Her legs became braced open by the pressure of his when he came down over her and into her all at once. She was held wide for him and utterly in his thrall.
The wretch, he knew what he was doing, forcing her to let him
have all the control.
“Does this feel good?” he asked against her ear after a moment, his weight pressing her into the bed.
“Yes, it feels good,” she answered as she felt the magic swirl through her.
“How good?” he urged in a vocal caress.
“Very good,” she answered as she became a little breathless. “Robert.”
His fingers were still playing as he moved.
“Do you love me, darling?” he urged in her ear again, holding her body and mind hostage. She longed for a ransom to escape the earth; he could quicken the feeling in her so easily.
“I love you very much, Robert! I do. Very much!” she cried out as a wave washed high, but he changed his pattern so it broke in ripples and not a rush, teasing her. The rogue.
“Robert!”
Oh, he was mean when he wished to be. He was playing with her.
His undulation possessed every element of her thoughts. The London rake, the Earl of Barrington, was busy binding a spell about her.
“Do you like it this way?” he whispered again. “Is it truly good?”
“Yes.” It felt good. He felt good, and wicked, and the sensation was all-consuming as he pressed her legs painfully wider.
A whimper escaped her lips. She had not intended it to. But the sound was pleading.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he echoed.
It was not wicked. It was cruel.
Her breath came to the pattern of his movement as her fingernails sank into the pillow.
“Yes, darling?” His low voice filled the air.
“Yes, Robert,” she answered, half screaming as she longed to break or escape. She wanted to say stop. She wanted to grip his hips and stop him, but the feelings inside her were beautiful and terrible all at once, and the beautiful element longed for it to continue, to get faster and harder, but he did not change his torturous pace. Her body bowed to better receive him.
“Do you want it a little more vigorous?” he asked in a low voice. She could hear him almost laughing. “Say it, Jane, if you do.”
She gripped the pillow harder and clenched her teeth, feeling every muscle in her body tense in battle against the distracting, glorious discomfort of his possession, but she only endured a little longer. “Robert, please!”
