by Bec McMaster
This was a new game. The challenge was to see who broke first.
If Rathbourne thought her in any way squeamish...
Her smile had edges to it, she was positive, and when she met his gaze with an arched eyebrow, dragging her skirts higher, she could see her ploy had struck its mark. She wasn't the only one tested by desire here.
Rathbourne's mouth hardened, though his eyes turned to pure fire. Hungry. "Well?" he said, leaning on his fist and flicking a bored hand at her, as if to say: Any time you're ready, my dear.
"But we've got all night, have we not?" she all but purred. The drag of her skirts against her knees and then thighs rustled in the sleek compartment. Cool air whispered over her sensitive skin. Obeying left her wet and aching.
"Perhaps I've got plans."
"Oh? Do tell?"
The smile he gave her was dangerous. "No, I don't think so. I think I like it when you don't know what I intend. Remove your drawers."
Her breath caught. "Don't you want to do it yourself?"
Those amber eyes glittered furiously. "If I wanted to do it myself, then I wouldn't be sitting here watching you."
So be it. Submission could be merely another means of controlling the situation. Ianthe shifted and wiggled them down her legs, her petticoats spilling down to hide herself. They were pale pink linen. Clenching them in her fist, she stared at him. What now?
Rathbourne held out a hand, and her cheeks burned as she deposited them in it. He never took his eyes off her as he tucked them in the inner pocket of his jacket.
"Touch yourself."
That shocked her. "What?"
"I want to see you please yourself. Surely you know how."
Of course she did. When a sorcerer's energy was driven by sexual means and one didn't have a lover, one had to be resourceful. But that was private. From the smoldering look in his eyes though, he knew that.
Damned if she would give him the satisfaction. Parting her legs, Ianthe slid tentative fingers up her inner thighs. The ache inside ratcheted tighter, made her wet her lips, her teeth sinking slowly into the flesh of her lower one. Those fingers traced slow circles on her inner thigh, sending tingles shooting through her. It was the way he watched her that made her wet, an intense look in his eyes. The way tension rode his hard frame. He was one step away from reaching for her... Ianthe shuddered.
Lucien's eyes were heavy-lidded, and he rested his chin on his hand. "Are you trying to tease me, my dear?"
"Am I succeeding?"
He shifted slightly. A faint smile traced his hard mouth. "What do you think?"
Ianthe slid her fingertip lightly against her clitoris. Sensation shivered through her. "I think one of us is more patient than the other."
Those hard eyes softened lazily, as if she'd said something that amused him. "Do you want to see who it is? Is that the game? Whoever lasts the longest?"
"You enjoy the play of power, don't you?" Again, she let her fingertips brush against her secret flesh. He couldn't see it. Her skirts saw to that. But she could see the flare of his nostrils as he took a sharp breath, and the tightening of his pupils. Warm light from the mage globe bathed the two of them.
"One could say the same, madam. First you challenge me not to kiss you first, now this... Who's playing games, Ianthe?"
Ianthe. The hot stroke of his tongue over her name sent shivers through her. A sudden wicked urge overtook her. He had ordered her to touch herself: he was not unmoved. And she wanted to win this. She wanted to move him.
Using her telekinesis, she lightly stroked him with her senses, 'caressing' the broad planes of his chest, as if with her own hands.
Lucien went still. His gaze locked on hers. He was actually shocked. And heavily aroused.
Ianthe smiled as she stroked the lush, already damp folds of her secret self. She pulled her skirts just a little higher, revealing herself. Her breasts heaved, pushing against the constraints of her bodice. "I do wonder," she whispered, as her psychic touch trailed lower over his abdomen, "who will last the longest?"
* * *
THE TOUCH WAS LIGHT, a whisper of sensation over his skin. Temping, teasing, and twisting him tighter, until he was almost ready to explode.
And the little devil watched his reaction, her teeth sunk in her fleshy lower lip, as she slowly stroked herself between the thighs, eyelashes fluttering lower and her cheeks painted a pretty pink. "I thought you wanted me to please you, Rathbourne?"
"This does please me. I want you wet," Lucien told her, leaning against the window and watching her. Feigning an unruffled demeanor, though a muscle tightened in his jaw as those invisible hands caressed the inside of his thighs. He couldn't stop his hands from clenching. Bloody woman. He was rapidly losing track of this seduction. He just wanted inside her. Now. "When we get inside, I want you to go upstairs to your bedchamber, bend over your bed, and lift your skirts. I want you to be ready for me, Ianthe. I plan to take you then, with no preliminaries."
Her fingers paused, her eyes springing wide. "So be it," she whispered. Her fingers resumed their work, and he could see now, see the blushing pink depths of her and the paler flicker of her fingernails.
Fuck. Lucien ground his teeth together, trying to stifle the raging erection in his trousers. She knew it too, the devil, her eyes laughing at him as she fingered herself. Her flesh all soft and flushed and peeking out every now and then from beneath the exquisite mound of her petticoats.
"Harder," he whispered.
Again, a flicker of uncertainty danced through her eyes; then she slid one finger inside herself. As if to compensate, a phantom fingertip stroked down the length of his cock. Lucien groaned. He'd never been with a woman who could do that.
"Are you thinking of this?" he asked, cupping his cock. Fabric strained over it, the shape brutish and straining. He needed to touch it. "Of how I'm going to fuck you? Would you like it to be soft and slow, Ianthe? Or hard?"
There'd be no time to ask later.
Her head lolled back, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. The flush of desire painted her body, a soft moan easing from her lips. A firm fist of pressure locked around his cock, taking him to the edge.
"Stop," he commanded.
That hand stopped, her fingers buried deep inside her wet opening. Luminous, half-dazed eyes opened, locking on him incredulously.
He smiled, relishing the moment. "Remove your hand and stop touching me."
"Why?" she breathed.
"I intend for you to reach your pleasure, my dear, but not alone. I'll let you come later, when I'm buried inside you." His words turned dangerously soft. "Only when I'm inside you, Ianthe. You're not to touch yourself from now on, not unless I allow it. Not even during the day."
With visible agitation, Miss Martin thrust her skirts down over her knees, leaning back and pressing the back of her hand to her lips. She wouldn't look at him, though her heart was racing, visible in the flickering pulse at her throat.
"Besides," he murmured, "we're almost home."
Taking her hand, still slick from her body, Luc pressed it to his mouth, his tongue darting over the musky taste of her and earning a shocked flinch. "Are you ready?"
"More than ready." Those violet eyes challenged him. She’d recovered herself with exquisite aplomb.
"Good," he said, stroking her knuckles as the carriage pulled up to the curb. "Now go make yourself ready and wait for me."
* * *
LUCIEN TOOK HIS TIME, sending the butler for some brandy, as Ianthe glared at him then made her way upstairs.
It felt strange to be in this place, going through the daily routine as though nothing had changed, as though Bedlam had never happened. He sipped his brandy, savoring the taste and the scent of it, but he couldn't pretend much longer. The only scent he wanted to smell right now was the musk of Ianthe's body. The only taste he needed was her skin beneath his mouth. She'd been gone for almost five minutes. Long enough to show her who was in charge here. Need itched beneath his skin.
Cock raging, he drained the glass, then left it on the mantle in the parlor. He'd intended to drag this moment out, but there was no point in pretending he could think about anything else but the temptress upstairs.
"A light dinner," he told the maid as he passed her near the stairs, "to be delivered at the half hour. Precisely."
Climbing the stairs left him almost trembling with need. He didn't bother to knock on the bedchamber door. Instead, he opened it and stepped inside swiftly, shutting the door with a gentle click. The swift intake of a breath behind him indicated she'd heard him. Lucien's mouth went dry, and he slowly turned, reaching up to drag his cravat away from his throat.
He was transfixed by the sight before him. All he could see were the wicked pink stockings Miss Martin wore, ending at mid-thigh, and the exquisite lace of her garters. Hands fisted her skirts into a bunch over her back, revealing the smooth globes of her bottom and the flushed pink wetness he was about to devour. Luc's hand fisted in the cravat, the room shuddering a little around him. He forced himself to hold onto control, tightly winding the cravat around his fist to remind himself.
Ianthe's breath was a soft sob. She couldn't see him.
Lucien poured himself another brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, gulping it down with a dark look in her direction. Each chink of glassware made her shift on the bed. Her fists quivered, and her skirts started to slide down.
"Don't," he told her, dropping the cravat and crossing the plush Turkish rugs. Reaching out, he traced a finger over the smooth curve of her bottom. "You're exquisite."
The brandy burned as he swallowed the rest of it, needing it to slake some of the ache of desire. He was close to spending in his trousers just at the sight of her. And that wouldn't do. He needed to break her with desire first.
Putting the glass down on the small bedside table, Lucien returned to her. There was a small packet laid on the bed beside her, an oiled sheathe. He picked it up. "You never answered my question," he said, slowly unbuttoning his trousers. His cock sprang free, and Luc's lip curled in a silent snarl as he fisted the head of it, wiping the slickness of a bead of pearly cum across the throbbing tip. He sheathed it swiftly. "Hard? Or slow?"
"Damn you," she whispered into the mattress, her dark curls hiding her face from view as he stepped behind her. A soft moan made her squirm. "Just do it. Hard. Take me hard."
The softness of her panting gave the illusion that she was begging. He liked it. Still fisting his cock, he traced his dampened finger between her legs, circling the softened bud of her clitoris. The first touch of her almost undid him. Ianthe moaned, one fist grabbing at the bed spread, her fingers turning into claws as that half of her skirt threatened to slide down.
"Say please," he whispered, taking hold of her hips. His fingerprints left little marks in her pale, perfect skin.
She shook her head.
Lucien pushed her onto her knees on the very edge of the mattress, her ankles dangling off it. He thrust forward, letting his cock graze her tender flesh, parting her just a hint.
"I can wait all night," he told her. A lie. God. Just the feel of her satiny skin drove his teeth into his lip. No matter what she begged for, he could not take her as he'd wanted. If he fucked her now, he'd be done in seconds, and he wanted this to last. Wanted to brand himself deep within her. Wanted to beat her at her own game.
"Please." It was a whisper torn from a reluctant throat. "Take me. Now."
"As you wish."
He sank into heated flesh, and a gasp tore from his own throat. The tight clench of her body was exquisite. A vein throbbed in his temple as he held onto her hips, grinding himself deep within her.
Burying his fingers in the fabric that tightened over her hips, he ground his teeth together and plunged into her hot, willing body.
A feather light stroke touched his balls. Lucien flexed hard, an unexpected thrust. His fingers curled around her hip, sinking through the soft folds of her gown until he found the molten core of her. He wanted her loose and undone, absolutely destroyed beneath him. Fingers dancing over her wet flesh, he fucked her with sweet, short strokes, taking them both to the edge of pleasure. Every surge of his fingers was rewarded with the tightening of her body, until he was so close to exploding, he had to bite his lip to stop himself.
But something was stopping her from taking that plunge.
"You're beautiful," he whispered. "So beautiful."
That touch danced over his balls again, a soft caress that made him throw his head back and see stars. "Damn you," he groaned. Heat shivered at the base of his spine, working its way right through him. Giving into the urge, he sank his other hand into her disheveled chignon and tilted her head back. "Come for me, darling. Come."
She bit her lip and shook her head.
"This dance isn't over until you do."
One last flex of his fingers, a hesitation, and then Ianthe cried out, her entire body milking him. "Oh. My. God." She gasped, "Rathbourne!"
He hissed, thrusting one last final time as he came.
Breathing hard, Lucien let his head fall forward, still grinding small circles with his hips. Her body quivered beneath him. They both breathed heavily, trying to find the ground beneath their feet. A minute ticked past. Then another. Slowly, her skirts fell, hiding their joining from view, and with regret, Luc pulled free of her, taking the sheathe in hand and disposing of it neatly before tucking his cock back into his trousers.
His first glimpse of heaven. Every inch of his body felt alive and flushed with power that rejuvenated him. It should have been enough, but he burned still, as if he could spend all night fucking her and still not be sated.
Dragging her skirts down, he slid his hands around her waist and drew her up onto her knees. "Are you hungry?"
Tendrils of silky black hair clung to her damp forehead, and her glassy eyes flinched as they met his. Lucien leaned down and pressed his lips against the soft spot just beneath her ear, hands drinking in the sensation of her crinoline gown as he drew her back against his chest. From this angle, he could see directly down her bodice and feel the soft curve of her abdomen hidden behind its confining stays. All woman. Made to be desired. A goddess.
"Hungry?"
"I've sent for dinner." Stepping back, he forced himself to stop touching her. He could wait. The swift coupling had eased some of the harsh edge within him, and they had all night.
Lucien dragged a plush armchair from the hearth and settled a small table in front of it. Ianthe dragged her knees up to her chest on the bed as she watched him, her cheeks hot and rosy. "Since when did you commandeer my staff?"
"Forty minutes ago," he replied, "when the sun set." Pouring a shot of whiskey into his glass, he offered it to her, capping the flask again.
Miss Martin sipped at it, watching him warily over the top of the glass. The fine hairs at her temple had curled in the heat of their passion, though the rest of her looked like a dignified lady. Only he knew she wore no drawers, her knees crossed tightly against the slick wetness between her thighs.
A sharp rap at the door drew his attention. "Come in," he called, stepping over his crumpled cravat.
One of the maids bobbed a curtsy, pushing a small trolley into the room with several silver domed trays upon it. The scent of fileted lamb made his mouth water, and he directed her where to set the trays. Miss Martin had shifted from the bed, crossing to stand by the window as she stared out into the night, sipping her whisky. None of the staff would be ignorant as to the circumstances between them and whose bed he was going to be sharing, but both the maid and Miss Martin gave a good show of acting as if this were any normal night.
"Would you care for anything else, my lord?" the maid murmured.
As she left, he told her they did not wish to be interrupted. Dragging a napkin off the table, he handled the cork of the champagne bottle. Drops of moisture clung to its green-tinted glass, and it gave a loud pop when the cork dislodged, frothing up over his hand. Miss Martin jumped at
the sound.
"Come here." He cradled a champagne flute for her in his palm as he poured it.
"I think you like giving orders," she said, setting the empty whiskey glass down as she crossed the room. Candlelight dappled her gown and face, warming her creamy skin. The soft swish of her skirts was a seduction in itself.
"And I think you like me giving orders," he countered, handing her the flute. Their fingers met as she took it, her eyes darting to his.
"Champagne on an empty stomach? What are we celebrating?"
"Perhaps I'm merely feeling somewhat... relaxed." Folding his long body into the armchair, he extended a hand to her. Confusion distorted her brow, but she took it, and Lucien drew her into his lap, brushing the tendrils of wispy-fine hair off the back of her neck. Miss Martin tensed, a half-glance back over her shoulder revealing her nerves.
Revenge had never seemed sweeter, though his means of seeking it had changed. There was just one little problem. Lucien brushed his mouth over the soft skin where her neck sloped into her shoulder, fingers working at one of the buttons that fastened her gown in the back. Pearl, of course.
He'd always enjoyed the mysteries of a woman's body, the sensations of learning every inch of it. One ex-mistress had even accused him of being a sensualist, and it was true.
With a sidelong glance at her, he tugged more of her buttons free as he leaned up to press his mouth against the bare skin revealed. Tracing the edge of her chemise and stays, his lips rippled over the indentation of her spine. Warm firelight set her skin to a softened gold.
Time to confront that little problem.
"You didn't come," he murmured, tongue darting out to trace the sweat on her skin.
Miss Martin glanced back. "Yes, I did."
"No lies," he warned, meeting her gaze. "You gave a good approximation of it, but you didn't gain your pleasure." Which meant that she had won. In the moment, he hadn't been sure, but now...
Miss Martin's cheeks burned. "It's not always easy for a woman," she murmured. "I have a lot on my mind. It... It's harder to lose myself in the moment."
