Well, no matter. There was nothing to fear. She would allow only as much contact as need be to get to know him a little. Since being torn from her lonely yet secure life in Ireland and thrust into society at age sixteen, she’d spent her time allowing people only as near as was comfortable. She was an expert at emotional evasion.
It should be easy to regain her control.
But now, as late afternoon sun rays played over his pale hair, turning it to the colour of winter wheat, all her carefully rehearsed words flew away.
Say something—anything—else he will think you’re a bird-wit.
An intimate smile, one that invited her to play, tugged at his mouth.
“In a situation like this, alone with a gentleman, it’s perfectly normal for a lady to feel some apprehension.” His hushed voice, barely audible above the piano and boisterous singing from down the corridor, accentuated their isolation. His gaze became so piercing that she had to lower her eyes.
He brushed his fingertips over her cheek. “She will invariably ask herself if he will try to kiss her.”
She jerked her eyes back to his face. God, he couldn’t mean to—Not yet, surely… Peculiar, heated chills swept over her. She tried to take a step back, but found her arse flush against the bookshelf.
He leaned closer; so close that his Scotch-scented breath tickled her face. “And just in case you are wondering, Lady Cranfield—the answer is most assuredly yes.”
She should demand that he put his arm down so she could pass by and leave. She really should. But she couldn’t stop looking at his hard mouth and wondering what it would feel like upon hers. He was so close to her that his breath blew on her lips. If she moved but a fraction, she’d be kissing him.
Kissing him.
Dear God. Her breath began to come very fast and short. Her throat went tight with a suppressed moan.
His eyes burnt as brightly as aquamarines. He looked so fierce. If he kissed her, if he dared… Oh God, it would be so harsh. That cruel-looking mouth could express itself no other way.
Excitement rushed through her, sending tingles to every point of her body, even her toes.
But no, he wouldn’t. Not yet.
He kept leaning closer. He didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he seemed to focus all the harder upon her.
Heart pounding and unable to move away, she braced herself for his assault.
His lips brushed hers, barely. A gossamer caress.
He lifted his head.
It was done.
Ended.
And it hadn’t even begun.
He held her chin, appearing so cool, so unaffected. His kiss had seemed to sear her. An urge to put her fingers to her lips arose in her. She resisted it, for it would give away too much of how she was affected.
Never show your feelings.
He traced his thumb along her lower lip, slowly, deliberately, as he studied her with eyes that now glittered with something powerful and predatory. Heat pooled in her pelvis, low and spreading even lower.
She went weak all over, as if she’d lain in a sunny window seat for too long. Her knees almost buckled. She forced them to lock. To be strong.
It should not have affected her so profoundly. It had just been a peck—not a true kiss at all. William had poured out all of his skill upon her and hadn’t garnered even a tenth of the reaction in her that this man’s peck had.
Ruel traced her jaw line with his fingertips. Unthinkingly, she leaned in to his touch.
“Of course, once he has kissed her, then it’s his turn to wonder…” His voice sounded unnaturally loud to her ears. “How will she respond? Will she withdraw, or can he ignite some hidden fire?”
She sensed that he was toying with her. She didn’t understand flirtation—why had she imagined she could carry this ruse off? Was he making advances in order to have a laugh with Francesca and her simpering friends later? Hurt blossomed in her chest. She resented him for that. She ought to feel indignant, superior, uncaring—anything but hurt.
“Please don’t make sport of me.”
She cringed. Was that quavering, pleading voice really hers?
An infinitesimal pause. “Now, why on earth would I do such a thing?” His voice was as smooth as velvet.
“To please your vanity,” she replied, trying to regain her wits.
“Here.” He placed her hand to his chest. The contours of his muscles were hard, powerfully developed. Even more so than she’d expected. His body heat radiated through the satin and, beneath her hand, his heart beat was rapid and strong.
“Is that vanity?” He put a finger under her chin, giving her no choice but to face him. “Is it?” He gentled his grip.
The warmth in his voice settled over her like luscious hot chocolate. Melting her insides to quivering burgoo, rendering her speechless, unable to move.
“My dear, lovely Lady Cranfield, I am going kiss you again.”
Then he touched his mouth to hers, more firmly this time. Delicious, steady pressure. Her lips trembled and she clutched his lapels. He lifted his head. At the loss, a throaty, pleading moan sounded in her ears. Had it really come from her?
Clearly, now was the time for her to reassert some control over her reactions. To put him at a more comfortable distance.
“Kiss me back.” At the commanding edge in his voice, hot, sweet honey pooled in her belly.
No. Focus.
What had she wanted to ask him? Focus? Dear God, what rubbish. She could scarcely remember her own name, much less anything else. What madness had made her think she could maintain control over him?
He traced her mouth with his tongue. Deliberately; lingeringly. This time she couldn’t hold back a moan. She had grown to dislike it when William kissed her opened mouthed. It had always seemed such an overheated, messy thing. But where was her coldness now? She was burning to know what it would feel like to know Ruel’s full kiss. She had to know—just once—or she would surely die.
Just once. Certainly once wouldn’t hurt.
Tentatively, tremulously, she opened her mouth.
He thrust inside, his tongue like a bold blade of flame as it touched hers. He tasted of whisky and something smoky, too sensual to be borne. Fire burst within her, spreading over her breasts. Of their own volition, her hands slid up his muscled arms and she gripped his shoulders and moaned again.
She twisted and pressed her breasts against his chest, trying to increase the sensation on her taut, aching nipples. However, her stays prevented it. Her frustration vibrated deep in her throat, another longer, more intense moan.
The sound startled her and, for a moment, it was as if she was staring down at the two of them. She didn’t recognise herself, but she couldn’t stop kissing him back. Couldn’t stop rubbing her breasts against him.
Who was this uninhibited strumpet?
His breathing changed, growing heavier. He cupped her face with his large, long-fingered hands, angling her head. She went even more boneless and allowed him to move her as suited his desire.
He probed more forcefully with his tongue, went deeper, compelling her to open further, to melt against him more completely. He slid his hand to her neck and threaded his fingertips through her hair. He lifted the heavy mass off her neck. Cool air rushed over her nape. In one quick movement, he tightened his hold on her hair and, with gentle but firm pressure, he pulled her head back. Her shocked gasp came out as a mere whimper, muffled by his demanding mouth.
No man had ever handled her like this. She’d never even suspected a gentleman would handle a woman—even one of his whores—like this. If she had any sense left, she ought to be frightened, offended—enraged.
Instead, her nipples pebbled painfully and heat twisted through her insides.
He tore his mouth from hers. As she gasped for breath, a sense of loss hit her so intensely that she felt disorientated. She stood there, leaning against his hard body, panting open-mouthed, with her head pulled backwards by his grip.
He studied her and
tightened his grasp, pulling more harshly this time. A violent shaft of desire stabbed her, womb-deep.
Warmth, and what looked very much like satisfaction, shone in his gaze.
He laid his other hand along her collarbone in what could only be called a blatant, sexually possessive manner. The skin crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so slightly.
Something had just happened. She didn’t understand what it was. If only she could think, she would be able to reason it out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and flowed out between her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex throbbed as if it were a beating heart.
Coherent thought was impossible.
He shifted and throbbing heat seared her, even through their clothing.
His erection.
Its long, thick weight was more substantial than William’s.
Ruel brushed his fingers against her back. Tugging, pulling.
Undoing her laces.
She froze and placed her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”
The gown slipped and she automatically clutched the dark purple silk to herself.
He took hold of her wrists, easily circling them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let the gown fall away.”
He used the voice. The one from the dreams she only reluctantly admitted to herself. The very confident, commanding tone that the nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover who would press her down and—
“I want you to remove the rest of your garments and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”
She threw a glance at the divan, her favourite spot in this whole house. The image his words conjured—her, lying naked on the crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt into her brain. Her inner muscles contracted several times—hard. The folds between her legs swelled and grew slicker.
Of course, despite her wayward dreams, she didn’t really want to do something like that.
Couldn’t possibly.
She barely knew Ruel. Yet there was that innate sense that she could trust him. That she could give in to his whims and it would be safe. A secret shared between them. Temptation tingled through her, increasing with every beat of her heart.
Reckless.
She had never been reckless in her life. A trembling began in her legs.
She turned back to him. His features were tight with desire, his stare commanding and compelling. She wanted to be reckless with this man.
“The door is locked. The others aren’t going to come in here—the gentlemen are all occupied with fencing and the ladies are busy with their watercolours.”
She’d never allow herself the luxury of surrendering to this. For this was pure emotion and it would be giving him too much of herself.
“I won’t do it.” She had intended to make her tone resolute. That thready, pleading voice couldn’t possibly be hers.
“It would please me.” His firm tone sent a new wave of lassitude through her limbs.
Need twisted in her lower stomach and a fresh cascade of wetness slicked her intimate folds. It slid down her inner thighs.
Wait—How had they come to this moment? Where the devil was the reserve and sexual coolness that had driven William into other arms? This virtual stranger held some kind of special power over her. God. It was unthinkable. It was terrifying.
“No.” Her strident denial echoed jarringly in her ears.
He released her wrists.
She pulled the gown up high and clutched it tight. She wanted to run. She should run. But his large, strong body still stood between her and the exit. Would he really attempt to stop her if she tried to flee? Her heart pounded at the thought. Because she knew that if he put his hands on her and stopped her, especially if he did it as forcefully and firmly as he’d behaved thus far, she’d melt for him.
What a revelation! She’d never suspected such a creature existed in her secret heart, waiting for someone to come along and draw her out.
“You’d better leave now.” She pushed the words past her shaking lips.
Also from Natasha Blackthorne
The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne
Intimate Secrets (Book One)
Catriona, Lady Blayne is recovering from a most delicate situation. Driven to the brink of madness by love for her late husband, a young man too ill to meet the demands of the marriage bed, she teeters on the brink of scandal. Now she must face the carnal temptation personified by her husband’s cousin and heir, James, the new Lord Blayne. His sensual appeal, contrasted with his iron will and stern self-mastery fascinates her. She can’t help but ask: what if sensual indulgence is the only way out of her darkness? However, she is not free to explore the idea. There are those who seek to control the young widow, keeping her imprisoned through emotional manipulation and physical coercion. With her growing restlessness, the very people she loves and trusts the most are becoming an increasing danger to her sanity and safety.
James is determined to protect Catriona—but he will not soften to her again. She rejected him once and James can’t risk losing his heart a second time. As heir to the Blayne baronetcy, he must marry a woman socially and politically appropriate. Such a scandalously self-indulgent lady as Catriona won’t do. Yet the pretty girl he once knew has grown into a beautiful, curvaceous woman that is every man’s dream.
Especially his.
Erotic Romance; Regency Historical; Elements of Sensual Domination, Spanking and Light Bondage; Rubenesque Heroine; Character-Driven Story with Angst and Strong Internal Conflicts; Standalone Long Novel.
Reader Advisory: The characters discuss issues of abuse which took place in the heroine’s backstory. Frank sexual language & period appropriate sexual slang and general bedchamber naughtiness.
She had escaped her captors. Those who watched her.
Now Sunny stood by James’ bed, listening to the distant chime of the clock in the vestibule.
One single chime.
Soft snores issued from between his parted, sensual lips. Despite the late hour, he still wore a shirt and trousers. His collar lay open.
She picked up the hem of her nightdress and pulled it up, over her head, then tossed it aside. Cool air made gooseflesh erupt all over her. Tightened her nipples. She shivered then noticed a bottle on the night table. She picked it up and sniffed it. Whisky.
She hated whisky. But her mouth and throat were so hellishly dry. She put the bottle to her lips and took a tentative swig, coughing and sputtering then shuddering as the burn of liquor spread through her. The fire was thrilling. Stimulating. Forbidden to her. She took another drink. And another. When the bottle was drained, she replaced it on the night table. The bottle teetered and she caught it. The chamber seemed to tilt and turn.
She closed her eyes and licked her lips, waiting for the giddiness to ease. But it wasn’t passing too quickly, so she sat on his bed. Though the bed rocked, he made no sign that he’d noticed.
She considered the way he lay in the bed, as though he had flung himself there. She frowned. What cause had he to drink himself to sleep? Was he troubled by something?
What could possibly affect a Rock of Gibraltar that much?
He groaned softly in his sleep.
She smoothed the hair off his forehead, lingering a moment over the surprisingly silky texture of the inky black strands.
She slid her hand down the crisp linen shirt, down to the bare, hard flatness of his abdomen.
Once again, James moaned in his sleep. Sunny lay beside him and leaned close to his face. He snored softly between slightly parted lips and the scent of whisky and musky male sweat overwhelmed her.
She placed her mouth on his. His lips were soft yet firm. She pressed her lips to his more passionately. The lack of response sent a wave of frustration through her. She slid her hand down the cool linen of his shirt, down to where the shirt ended. The warmth of his flesh, the hardness of his muscled stomach, the line of coarse hair, it
all set her pulses pounding.
She slid her hand further down, down, down, edging beneath the waistband of his trousers, searching until her fingers met the coarser, prickling hair and then the smooth warmth of his cock.
She caught her breath.
His erection swelled against her hand, making things very confined beneath his fall.
He groaned.
She did her best to stroke him in the limited space.
He groaned louder, harsher, rolling towards her. He grasped her hair, and the brush of his fingers sent tingling chills down the back of her neck. His hold tightened and he held her head in his grip.
Dull pain spread over her scalp and gooseflesh erupted along her nape, down her back. The sensation made her nipples harden and ache. She arched her back, pressing against his chest. The crisp linen of his shirt abraded her tight peaks. He pressed his lips to hers more firmly, definitely changing the balance of power between them.
She was no longer kissing him; he was kissing her.
Intense, delicious pressure.
He slid his hands down her back.
His touch sent waves of shivering pleasure through her. She writhed and the crisp linen of his shirt stimulated her nipples, sending sparks of fire shooting down deep into her belly. He slid his hands down to cup her buttocks, holding her writhing body still. Pressing her to his erection.
He was huge and so hard.
“Wench,” he muttered.
Did he think she was a tavern wench? Is that what pleased him?
He thrust his hips, grinding his throbbing heat against her aching nub. She was growing wetter and wetter, dampening the skin between her thighs.
Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3) Page 16
