by Darcy Burke
Just as he was turning her weak-kneed with his plunging kisses, she knew he would turn her weak-hearted when he entered her. She wanted it, wanted it fiercely. Wanted him, musician and man and, though he could never know it, mate of her soul.
If she could not tell him in words, she would let her body speak. She would open fully to him, give him everything of herself. All the secrets burning in her, all the secrets she could never say, transmuted to pure passion.
His hands tangled in her hair, he kissed her as though he were worshipping some pagan goddess who must be appeased by his kisses. It made her feel beautiful and powerful and humbled all at once. His mouth trailed a line of caresses along her jaw, down her throat, around the base of one ear.
She held tightly to his shoulders, her skin tingling from the brush of his lips. A soft moan escaped her and he lifted his head. Those green eyes regarded her, that firm mouth and sculpted features all the ladies sighed over—that she sighed over in the restless hours before morning. A wayward lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and she could finally brush it back; an intimate gesture she’d been craving for weeks. His hair was black satin against her fingers, and she knew she would never forget the feel of it.
He smiled, and she caught her breath. It was a private smile, a smile made for bedchambers and midnights, full of promises.
“You are everything distracting,” he said. “Turn around.”
Even as he spoke the words, his hands turned her in place until she faced away from him. He held her by the hips, the male heat of him just behind her, then bent his head to lay more kisses along her neck. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against his shoulder, giving herself up to the tickling shocks of his touch. She was dimly aware of him moving her, steering her a few steps to the right.
“Open your eyes.” His voice was low and husky. “Watch.”
They were facing the large mirrored wardrobe. Her eyes widened as she saw what was reflected there.
Lamplight played against her pale skin, gleamed on the long fall of her hair. Darien was tall and dusky behind her, one arm around her waist, holding her as the midnight sky holds a luminous moon. She looked like a goddess captured, unwary, by a masterful hunter. Unwary, but not unwilling. A wave of arousal swept through her, and her reflection mirrored it, lips parting, eyes half closing.
“Watch,” he said again, a smoky undertone of wickedness in the word.
He brought his hand up to cup her breast, then ran his thumb over the pink tip. The sensation, coupled with the sight of him caressing her, made her gasp aloud.
“So lovely,” he murmured.
He pulled her tightly against him and began teasing her nipple, all the while watching her reflection’s eyes. His other hand grazed her hip, and he took a handful of her chemise and began to lift.
The light material inched up, exposing her calf, her knee. She swallowed, tasting the heady flavor of desire. It was scandalously exciting, as if she were watching another woman, a beautiful, sensual stranger, being undressed. He toyed with her breasts, while her chemise crept ever higher.
Past her ribbon-clasped garters to the pale skin of her thigh, the lacy edge of her drawers. Darien made an impatient sound. His hand moved beneath the chemise and she felt his fingers loosening the ties of her drawers. They slipped down, cambric and lace rumpling at her ankles. She lifted one foot, then the other, stepping free of the undergarment.
“Very good.” He gave her a hungry smile.
She held his reflected gaze and dipped her head in assent. Here in his arms, he was the master and she would follow wherever he led.
He resumed the slow lifting of her chemise, and her heart pounded. She was naked now beneath it, nothing to shield her womanly places from his avid gaze. The smooth length of her thigh, her hip—and then the first glimpse of the golden curls wound tightly between her legs.
His hand stilled on her breast and she felt tension imbue his body. Here, now, the secrets of her body were revealed. And though she could not share her other secrets with him, she wanted desperately to share this. She reached back, lacing her fingers about his neck, and the movement raised her breasts even higher above the corset.
The woman in the mirror was deliciously wanton, a self she had never suspected, yet could not help but acknowledge. The proof was there before her in the glass—her pale hair unbound, her softly opened mouth and languid eyes, her breasts peaked and eager for his touch, her legs ready to be parted. Heat and a low throbbing pulsed from her center, and she let out a sigh. The kind of sigh the siren in the mirror would certainly give in the arms of her lover.
The sound spurred him to movement. Still holding her tightly, he leaned, snagged a nearby chair, and pulled it in front of her.
“Put your foot there,” he said. “On the seat.”
She obeyed, though it was a position that would expose her even more to him. With a low, guttural sound, he dropped his hand to her hip and pulled the rest of her chemise aside. Ah, she was still partially clothed, but naked everywhere it counted. The lamplight cast soft shadows between her breasts, shone faintly on the triangle of hair between her legs.
Darien was heat and powerful male at her back. The breath feathering past her neck was the only softness about him now. That, and the way his palm smoothed along her lifted leg. His hand slid forward to caress the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Breath hurried through her lungs now, and she was panting softly as his touch moved closer to the juncture of her legs. When he brushed her curls, she moaned—she could not help it. Her eyes fell closed, and his hand stopped.
Oh yes, she must watch. With effort, she lifted her heavy lids. He met her gaze in the mirror and gave her a nod of approval, then threaded his fingers through her curls and tugged gently. His knuckles brushed lower down, sending a shower of sparks tingling through her. Another moan escaped her lips.
“Very good,” he murmured. “You are an apt student in the arts of lovemaking. Will you continue on as my pupil, Miss Becker?”
She summoned the breath to speak. “Teach me, Master Reynard.”
Again, the formality of the words, contrasted with her shockingly explicit position, sent a wave of arousal through her.
“Excellent.”
He laid his hot mouth against her neck, swirling his tongue in a pattern of pure desire. Lower, his hand brushed between her legs, lightly back and forth. Too lightly. She needed more. She tilted her hips forward and felt him laugh against her skin.
Taking his hand away, he brought his fingers up to her mouth. Slowly, he inserted his index finger between her lips. She flicked her tongue along it. He tasted of salt and man, slightly rough in the warm confines of her mouth. Experimenting, she sucked on his finger and felt a quiver run through him.
Finger slick with moisture, he brought his hand back to play between her legs. This time he boldly touched her, parted her, and slid his finger against the softness he found.
“Ah!” A sudden flare of excited relief surged through her. Yes—right there.
A feral light in his eyes, Darien continued to stroke her. The initial satisfaction quickly burned away, replaced by the fiery urgency she recalled from the night before. Need pressed close about her, pulled tighter than any corset.
“What do you see?” he asked, his voice low and unrepentant.
She had forgotten to watch, had been unable to watch, with such sensations running rampant through her.
“I…” She licked her lips and forced herself to look in the mirror again.
Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, partially concealing her breast, though the tip of it peeked out, the nipple still puckered hard with desire. His arm circled her waist, his fingers clenched around her bunched chemise, while his other hand moved relentlessly between her legs. She was spread open to his touch, to his gaze—indiscreet and reckless.
“I see a woman—”
“An incredibly desirable woman,” he corrected.
“Being touc
hed. Pleasured…” She faltered.
“Oh yes. Do you feel pleasure?”
She nodded, knowing that he could sense the sensation building beneath his hands in the trembling of her limbs, in the way her breath shortened as though she had just run up three flights of stairs.
“Let me give you more words,” he said. “Stimulated. Erotic. Aroused.”
Each descriptive sent another throb of heat through her.
He dipped his head and whispered in her ear. “Are you those things? Let me hear you say them.”
“Stimulated,” she breathed, then shivered as he added a second finger to the one rubbing along her slit.
“Erotic.” She felt as though the floor were tilting beneath her.
“Aroused.” She could barely speak the word as the pressure of his fingers increased, sliding insistently back and forth. Back and forth.
Her head fell against his shoulder and she bit her lip, moaning.
“Yes, my beautiful one,” he murmured. “Find your release for me—let me see it.”
The feel of his hand closing about her taut nipple tipped her into a surge of sensation. Waves of fire clenched through her body, ripping a soft scream from her throat. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. She was swept by tingling heat, every inch of her body suddenly, fiercely alive. If not for Darien holding her, she would have fallen in a fluid heap upon the floor.
The waves receded, leaving her trembling and languorous in his arms. He gently lifted her leg and set her foot back down on the carpet, let the chemise drop to cover the astonishing place between her legs. The place he coaxed such untoward sensations from. Oh, she’d touched herself before, curious, but had only ever felt a vague, dissatisfied tickle. Nothing like the surging, powerful sensations he evoked in her.
He took a step back and began unlacing her corset, dark head bent to his task. As the stays loosened, Clara took a deep breath. The corset slipped to the floor, and she shed her chemise on top of it. No modesty—not when she knew how the sight of her nakedness affected him. She could see the erratic pulse in his neck, the stark hunger on his face.
With a sideways look, she set one foot on the chair again and untied her ribbon garter. Slowly, slowly, she pushed the silken stocking down. His eyes followed the movements of her hands and he licked his lips. She repeated the action with her other leg, then turned to face him, naked and breathless.
“Now what?” she asked.
His smile was feral, with an edge of triumph. “Now we move on to the advanced course of study.”
He untied his cravat, casually, as if he were alone, undressing after a concert. His fingers on his waistcoat were unhurried.
“Let me.” She reached to help him with the buttons, but he brushed her hand aside.
“So impatient. But now it’s your turn to watch.”
Despite his studied movements, his voice was full of checked urgency, as if he were eager to tear his clothing off and only rigid control kept him from doing so. The deliberation tightened the coil of tension winding about them, set a spark of awareness low in her center.
He pulled off his waistcoat and began to unbutton his shirt at that same maddening pace. A sigh of impatience escaped her. At last the flat planes of his chest were exposed, his skin framed by the brilliant whiteness of his formal shirt. He shrugged the garment off over shoulders sleek with muscle.
Now the trousers. His hands paused on the flap, then he loosened them and his drawers together and let them fall.
Oh. Oh my. She had not truly seen him last night, but he was as imposing as she had thought. Her face must have reflected her momentary uncertainty, for he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said.
“I’m not.”
It was not fear. It was desire and anticipation and the knowledge that their bodies belonged together, in some deep, primal way she could not explain.
He pulled her against him. One hand under her chin, he tilted her face up to his kiss. Sensations ran through her like a melody, his lips over hers, his arm firm about her waist. And the scorching shock of their bodies standing skin to skin. She gasped, and he slid his tongue inside, tasting her mouth.
It was all heat, and softness laid over hardness. Gasping breaths, and her hands clutching his shoulders as he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. The sheets were cool against her back, but he was a fever running deliriously through her. He knelt above her, his dark hair sweeping against his cheekbones, his skin gleaming in the lamplight.
When he spoke, his voice was roughened with passion. “I’m going to taste you.”
She blinked. “Haven’t you already?”
“No. Not fully.” As if to demonstrate, he lowered his head and plundered her mouth again for a long second.
Leaving her gasping, he lowered himself, his skillful lips now at her breast, sucking and teasing. She arched into the touch, sparks scattering through her.
“Delicious,” he said. “Yet not enough.”
With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he slid down her body. He trailed kisses over her ribs, across her belly, licked the curve of her hip, then knelt between her legs, pressing them wide. His fingers played again, tickling and teasing sensations from her. Ah, he was a master indeed.
“But—”
“Shh. Remember, you are still a student.” He set his hand over the mound of her womanhood and the pulse inside her grew more insistent.
Was he truly going to taste her there? It was scandalous and tantalizing, and suddenly she burned for it.
He moved his hand, then leaned over and blew softly against her skin. The caress sent a shiver through her. Her legs were wide, but he pressed them open even more, making a place for himself there between her thighs. Then, slowly, he touched her with his tongue.
Ah. Ah yes.
He explored her, his tongue slick and warm as he savored her secrets. She shuddered with sensation beneath his mouth. Then he slipped a finger inside her and she gasped, lifting her hips clear off the sheets. His laughter tickled against her. A second finger joined the first and he slid them back and forth, his tongue still caressing her until she thought she would go mad from the need burning through her.
A need left unfulfilled as he pulled back. She could feel him watching her, and slowly lifted her eyelids. The look in his eyes was possessive, his gaze moving over her as though she were a perfect score of music, written solely for him to play.
“Are you ready for the next tutorial?”
“Oh, yes.”
She was ready. Beyond ready. And she welcomed it with everything in her soul.
“There is one thing.” He slid to the edge of the bed, then returned a moment later, a packet in his hand. “French letters, to prevent conception and... illnesses.”
He offered no further explanation. She watched, curious, as he removed a long sheath and pulled it over his member, fastening it tightly about the base with the attached ribbon. Then he knelt over her again, his hands to either side of her shoulders. She felt his manhood between her legs, pressing against her slickness.
It was easier this time. Her body opened to him and he slid in, deeper and deeper, stretching until he filled her completely. His gaze searched her face, clearly watching her for any sign of pain or discomfort.
There was none, only the slow sweet build of pleasure. And beyond that, the yearning of her soul, answered.
“Darien.” She whispered his name, and left the rest unsaid.
Slowly, he began to move in her, stroking back and forth. She tilted her hips, finding the counterpoint to his rhythm. Together they strove, reaching for a song just out of hearing, reaching for the edge of the stars.
He quickened his pace, both of them breathing more heavily. It was a symphony of desire: the slip of the sheets against skin, the faint creak of the mattress beneath them, the rasp of pleasure in his throat, her own sharper gasps. Faster, closer. Brightness spun at the edge of her vision.
He threw his head ba
ck, neck taut, and together they whirled into that vortex of pleasure. A firework lit in her center, the explosion of light and sparkle flashing through her entire body until she felt she was made of nothing but sparks and air.
She clutched his shoulders and swallowed her cry of delight. Darien shuddered, his movements slowing until they lay in a moment of stillness. Clara closed her eyes. She could almost feel the night sky heavy above them, the revolving earth carrying them breathless through space.
The immensity of it, the joy, was almost too much to bear. A tear stole from the corner of her eye, quickly cooling as it ran down her temple and into her hair.
“Clara.” He brushed the moisture away with his thumb. “Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, at the concern and unexpected vulnerability in his expression.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
More right than he could imagine, cradled in that perfect moment under the spinning sky.
***
As the coach traveled through the Prussian countryside and into Austria, Dare watched Clara, and thought.
He had taken her innocence, though she had offered it gladly. Still, she was his now, in ways he could not explain even to himself. Hungry compulsion rose in him every time their gazes met.
When the musical competition was over, he would ask her to be his companion, and openly reveal their affair. Until then, they must be cautious. Nicholas was far too volatile. Any hint that his sister and Dare had been physically intimate could send the man spiraling out of control. Dare could not take that risk, though it was unfair to make Clara hide in the shadows.
Impatience made him curl his fingers into his fists. With a deep breath, he released them, leashing the emotions pulsing through him.
Less than a fortnight until the duel, and then everything would be laid bare, into the light. Until then, he must keep sight of his goal. He would be victorious—in all things.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
