by Joanna Shupe
“You do not know what you’re asking for. But I do, and it cannot happen.”
Then Sophie pulled her shirt over her head—and he forgot to breathe. All that luscious, creamy skin, the white bandage around her bosom. Slim arms, small shoulders, the delicate column of her throat. “I know precisely what I am asking for, Quint. And it’s you.”
His breath coming short and fast, Quint’s gaze raked over her body, fingers flexing at his sides as if he itched to touch her. “Are you certain?” he asked, eyes gone dark with lust. His member strained under the cloth at his groin, and Sophie longed to run her hands over him, to feel him twitch in her palm. To drag her tongue down his body, to take him in her mouth.
“Yes.” She’d thought of little else for three days. He’d already shown her more pleasure than she’d ever dreamed, and she trusted him.
Which meant she had to tell him.
It was such a humiliating thing to admit, the stupidity of her debut. Especially to the ever-logical Quint, who thought before he acted, weighed the possibilities, and kept himself in control. Sophie had run headlong into one scrape after another all her life, and owning up to them was never easy.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. She knew he was thinking intently, which he did entirely too often. Certain times required little or no thought. This was one of those times.
She came forward and finished unfastening his god-awful puce-colored waistcoat. Shoved it off his shoulders. He looked down at her, brows drawn in confusion, but did not stop her. She took that as encouragement.
Gathering fistfuls of his shirt, she pulled the cloth from his trousers and began pushing it up his chest. He took over, bringing his shirt over his head in one swift motion. Stepping back, she took it all in. Wide shoulders, dark brown hair dusting his chest, and flat abdomen leading down to narrow hips . . . so deliciously male. He had muscles she did not expect and yearned to explore. The scar on his neck had mostly healed over, the skin now puckered and pink. She traced it with her fingertip, and he gave a tiny shiver.
“I am very glad you did not die.”
He bent to kiss her in response, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, stroking over hers. She loved the way he kissed. So possessively. A woman could drown in his kisses.
When his fingers hit the fall of her trousers, she broke off from his mouth. “Quint, I must tell you something.”
He paused and pushed the hair off of her forehead. “Did you want to stop?”
“Definitely not.” She took a deep breath. “You should know . . . I am not a maiden.”
“Good.” He went back to work on her trouser buttons.
Sophie struggled to breathe. Good. Was that all he had to say? And he said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were of no consequence at all. The relief and shock made her dizzy. This event, this mistake, had haunted her entire adult life. Wasn’t he disgusted? Outraged? Disappointed? She stepped back and sagged onto the bed.
He froze, head cocked as he watched her. “You thought I would hold such a fact against you.”
She should’ve expected him to have an unconventional view of virginity. But she’d kept this secret for so long, had let it determine the course of most of her adult life. How could he not care?
“Most men would.”
He came over and pulled her to her feet. His gaze burned, the golden-brown irises bright and hot, intent on her face. She’d never had a man look at her the way Quint did, as if he were studying and memorizing every detail. As if she were the only woman on earth. As if she mattered.
His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. “The right man would not bemoan the loss of your innocence. The right man would want to ensure you had been handled carefully the first time, with respect and affection. The right man would get down on his knees and thank the heavens you were in his bed—maidenhead or no. I am that man.”
Before she could respond, before she could breathe after such a declaration, he bent, wrapped his arms under her bottom, and lifted her straight up off the floor. He placed her on the coverlet and stretched out beside her. He stroked the tip of his finger over the cloth covering her breasts. “Did you love him, the man who took your maidenhead?”
“Yes.”
He seemed to absorb that. “Taking your innocence was only a small part of why I did not want to bed you, Sophie. There are more important things at risk than your hymen. Like the fact that I cannot marry you.”
She ignored the pang of disappointment that settled behind her heart at those words. “Who said anything about marriage? I have no intention of forcing you into marrying me. But you said ‘things,’ so what else is there?”
“We must take precautions to prevent you from conceiving. Each time. No exceptions.”
That sounded reasonable. She did not want the responsibility of a bastard. “Any other reason you do not want to take me to your bed?”
“Yes.” He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him so she was on top. “Because once I have you, I’ll not want to let you go.”
He angled her mouth toward his and took her lips in a blistering kiss. She melted against him, his large body easily bearing her weight. Deliberate, rhythmic licks of his wicked tongue made her dizzy as his hands slid to cup her backside. He rocked his pelvis into hers, the hard length of him dragging sweetly against the spot that ached most. “Damien,” she gasped.
“God, Sophie,” he growled against her mouth. “How was I ever supposed to resist you?”
She understood what he meant because she hadn’t been able to resist him, not from the moment she’d met him. He kissed her again—ardently, desperately—and she could scarcely form a thought in the onslaught.
Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her upright. “Here,” he said, “let’s get you out of this.” Fingers working quickly, he divested her of the bandage, freeing her breasts. Her nipples puckered further in the cool air, the small mounds already aching with need. He made no move to touch her, just stared at her chest for a long moment. “You are so lovely.”
One fingertip came up to trace the right breast. She closed her eyes, the light touch streaking through her bloodstream like fire. Heavens, she hated to think what would happen when he—
Warm, tight heat enveloped her nipple and her lids flew open. Quint had risen up to suck on her breast. Then, using his lips, teeth, and tongue, he proceeded to drive her out of her mind. With her knees on either side of his hips, her groin lined up perfectly with his, and each tug of his lips had her grinding into his erection.
He fell back with a groan, face flushed, lids screwed tight. “You have to stop,” he panted, clasping her hips to keep her still. “I want to make this last.”
Instead of listening, she bent to kiss his throat, his chest, reveling in the unique taste and texture that made up this fascinating man. Her lips brushed his nipple and he started, so she did it again.
In an instant, he flipped their positions. “Minx.” Sitting up, he unbuttoned her trousers and lowered them down her legs. Drawers were next, then stockings. Leaving her completely naked. “Ty prekrasna,” he whispered in a rough language she didn’t understand. “You are beautiful.”
“Except for my scar.”
He traced the outline of the healing wound on her thigh. It no longer hurt, but Sophie hated the way it looked. “We match,” Quint said, lifting her hand and placing it on his scarred throat. She felt the rough, uneven skin as his hand continued up her thigh, dipped between her legs. He hummed when he found the wetness there. “Oh, God, Sophie. You’re so wet. It makes a man think he’s died and gone to heaven.”
She reached for his waist, for the buttons on the trousers he still wore. “Damien, please.” She slipped two free before he twisted away. He got up from the bed and went to his dresser. Opening the drawer, he soon returned with two long strips of . . . cloth? They were limp and had a tiny ribbon at one end. He tossed one onto the side table and carried the other as he climbed back onto the bed.
“What is that?”
“A condom,” he said. “A French letter. It will protect you from conceiving.”
In very little time, he stripped off his boots and trousers, and then affixed the sheath. She had a momentary flash of concern over the size of him before he settled between her thighs. He used a finger, then two, to stretch her, and then she felt the blunt head of his erection working its way inside. He was much larger than Lord Robert, if memory served. And that had been a struggle. She tensed.
“Relax,” he told her. “I can fit.” He slid forward a half inch and then hissed through his teeth. “You were made to fit me.”
Bracing himself on the bed with his hands, he pushed forward steadily in a slow invasion of her body, one she had not experienced in a long time. He gave no quarter, no chance for escape, even if Sophie had wanted to. But she didn’t, because finally he was fully seated inside her, their hips locked, and it was the most exquisite feeling in the world. He was a part of her in a way Robert hadn’t even come close.
“You are so tight. Tell me I can move, Sophie.”
Her body had adjusted, so she told him, “Move, Damien.”
He dropped onto his elbows, bracing his knees on the bed and giving her more of his weight, before withdrawing slightly and pushing back in. The fire licked through her veins and she clutched his shoulders. When he remained still, she said breathlessly, “Tell me you’re going to do that again.”
“Oh, kotyonok,” he chuckled. “I promise I will do that again.” He snapped his hips and she gasped. “I’ll do it again and again until you come apart.”
He began thrusting in earnest, setting a relentless rhythm. The rest of the room fell away until it was only the two of them, panting and sweating as they climbed higher and higher. “Move your hips to meet mine,” he told her, and she did, amazed at how the simple change in angle increased the ache of pleasure.
Everything was building inside her, a coiling of sensation, when he reached down and stroked a finger over the nub between her legs. On the third stroke, she exploded, her body flung apart into a million pieces, and she shouted and shuddered beneath him. Dimly, she realized his movements had become uncoordinated as he stiffened, a hoarse cry torn from his throat.
When she floated back down, he collapsed beside her. He rolled away for a moment and then came back, pulling her against him. His hand cupped her breast possessively. “How do you feel?”
“Astounded,” she answered, the only coherent word that came to mind.
He smiled. “Then I cannot wait to show you what else we are capable of.”
Chapter Fifteen
Quint dragged his hand over Sophie’s hip, content to lie next to her while they recovered. There would be time enough for regrets tomorrow. But for now, he intended to bask in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Contemplate all the things he’d like to do to her. He would have her at least once more before she went home.
“Tell me what you like,” he urged.
“About you?” Her face tilted up at him. “Feeling insecure, Damien?”
He reached around and pinched her buttock playfully, which drew a yelp out of her. “No, I mean in bed. Do you like to be on top? The man on top? On your knees? Tell me your preferences because I’m not done with you yet.”
She blinked in confusion. Her mouth turned down at the edges, and he realized his mistake. “Wait, I assumed—”
“That I’ve had many partners. I understand.” She sighed, her breath rushing over his skin. “Really, what else could you think? I should have told you all of it. There was only one other man before you, and it was a long, long time ago.”
That would explain her tightness, he supposed. “But why did this one man not marry you?”
A dry chuckle escaped her lips. “You would get right to the heart of it. He did promise he would marry me. It was the year I debuted and I’d fallen for him, you see. He said that many couples anticipate the wedding night and we would soon be betrothed, so what was the harm?”
He cursed inwardly. She was not the first innocent to fall for such a pack of lies from a scoundrel. Quint had been traveling at the time of her debut, away for several years, yet he wished he had been here. Perhaps if he’d met her instead . . .
“Anyway,” she continued, “we did. Anticipate the wedding night, that is. And I kept waiting for him to seek out my father, to ask for my hand.”
Quint stroked her stomach, calming her, while a storm gathered in his chest. He did not like where this story was headed. Not one bit.
“Aaaaaand I waited some more. Finally I cornered him at an event, alone. I asked when he would speak with Papa and he told me never. That there hadn’t been any blood, and innocent maidens don’t enjoy it as much as I had.”
His hands curled into fists, the pressure in his head building and making it throb. “He told you that you enjoyed it too much?”
“Yes,” she answered easily as if Quint weren’t ready to explode at any minute. “And what could I do but slink away in shame? I couldn’t tell my father, not about that, and by then I certainly wouldn’t have married Rob—”
She bit it off, but Quint had to know. “Rob? Robbie? Robert?”
She stiffened slightly on the last one, giving him his answer.
“Robert who? Was he a gentleman? He must have been if you thought he was good enough to speak with your father.” Now on his back, he folded his hands behind his head. Her debut would have been eight years ago. Rapidly, he ran the names of all the titled Roberts he knew through his mind. There were quite a number, as it was a common name amongst the ton. Who would have been about her age, unmarried—?
“Stop it,” Sophie said. “I know what you’re trying to do. Stop. It was over a long time ago.”
“I cannot help it. I want to rip his head off. After I pummel him for a week.”
Propping up on an elbow, she swung a leg over his thigh. Her fingers trailed down his chest, through the sparse hair on his stomach. “I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty. Quite a different side to such a man of science.”
“You’re attempting to distract me.”
She chuckled, her touch tracing his inner thigh. “Is it working?” His shaft came to life, blood rushing to fill the corpora cavernosa within to produce an erection, and she laughed harder. “I’d say that is a yes.”
“We are not done talking about it, Sophie. I want a name.”
She slid between his thighs, raining kisses along his hip bone. “You shan’t get one, Damien. Let it go.” With her mouth poised over his growing arousal, her moist, hot breath teased his skin. He shivered as she said, “It’s in the past.”
No, it was very much not in the past. But Quint decided to let her think she’d won for now.
Especially when her tongue flicked the glans of his penis. He nearly jumped out of his skin. “Yes. God, do that again.”
He watched as the tip of her pink tongue emerged to slide around the sensitive head, and fire raced through his shaft to his bollocks. “Tell me what to do,” she said. “I want to please you, but I don’t know how.”
“There isn’t much to do wrong,” he said with a short laugh. “Except use too much teeth.” She was staring at his genitalia with confusion, so he explained, “You know your clitoris? The tiny nub you rub to bring yourself—”
“Yes,” she said quickly, her cheeks turning pink.
“Well, this”—he gestured to his erection—“is the very same thing, only a bit larger. Yet the same principles apply.”
“Meaning licking?”
“And sucking,” he added, his voice rough with the very idea of her mouth wrapped around him.
She moistened her lips and reached for him. He tried to keep very still, to let her explore, but it was excruciating. She started with light kisses, then tiny flutters of her tongue, to learn the taste and shape of him. He was panting by the time she took him in her wet, warm mouth, her lips stretching completely over the head and sucking him inside. His eyes nearly
rolled back in his head, and he let out a long groan.
“You’re killing me, kotyonok.”
Emboldened, she drew him in deeper. Slick, tight suction as she slid back up. He wanted to watch, but it felt too exquisite to keep his lids open. Figured Sophie would be a quick study. She kept up the motion, bobbing up and down, and his breath grew labored. If she kept this up . . .
He reached and snatched her shoulders, bringing her on top of him for an open-mouthed kiss. She straddled him and he thought about how easily he could slide into her, naked, unprotected. But he would not risk impregnating her. His family line was cursed, and he would not wish a Beecham child on any woman.
“Sophie, hand me the condom on the table.”
She reached over, putting her breast in his face. He took full advantage, tonguing her nipple and drawing it into his mouth. He spent some time on her breasts, showering them with attention, while she gasped and writhed over him. When she started begging, he affixed the new condom and grasped her hips, lowering her down onto his shaft.
“What do I do?” she panted, her brown eyes glittering with arousal.
“Ride me. Rock your hips like this.” He clasped her hips and rolled her pelvis. Her eyes went wide. “Feels good, doesn’t it? This position provides more direct stimulation to your—”
She did it again, harder this time, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. The woman didn’t need to be told twice, apparently.
After that, it was all sensation. Sophie ground down on top of him while her breasts bounced and the mattress protested. She curled her fingers on his stomach, nails digging into his skin, and he started to meet her, thrusting up into her warmth, their hips slapping together. Sweat rolled off his forehead and into his hair. The sizzle soon built in the base of his spine, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.
“Come on, Sophie. God, let me feel you.” He reached and pressed his thumb on her clitoris and her walls instantly clamped down on his erection. She threw her head back, shouted, and spasmed around him, which triggered his own explosion. It went on forever, the thick, ropy strands of ejaculate expelling from his body and into the protective barrier while he shuddered beneath her.
