Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3

by Cerise DeLand

  She considered him, her lips open, her gaze yearning, her back to the wall, her hands flat against the plaster. "Do you like me?"

  "Like?" He wasn't sure that was his voice. "A weak word, 'like'."

  She tipped her head, sweet and sultry.

  He stepped to her, stroking her arms, her hands, her bare belly, her sleek hip. He was so eager, he might fail to love her as slowly as she merited.

  "I'm going to be a dead man soon. Just looking at you stops my heart."

  Her mouth formed an O and she murmured his name.

  But he couldn't move, couldn't help himself. He stared at her. He'd look at her until he was an old man, who was, because of her, horny as the devil. She was so luscious, a curvy woman with those fabulous breasts. He was going to lick them, suck them and cry in joy. Those round hips. He was going to caress them, mold them to his own and live for minutes after as a satyr. But her mound, her curly red hair. He was going to pet her, part her folds, lave her, suck her into his mouth and submerge himself in all she was. He was going to love her in the flesh because—oh, Killian Hanniford, you crazy scoundrel—he loved her.

  For that, he had no words yet. But soon, he'd tell her. And for now, there was just this. "I hope I can do you justice."

  She writhed back against the wall with a feline confidence that seemed new, borne just for him. "I don't doubt it. But really, darling, you must hurry."

  He snorted, put his hands over her marvelous breasts and bent to bless each nipple with a tender kiss. "The last thing we need is speed."

  She hung lax and dolorous in his arms. "If you don't hurry, I may dissolve right here."

  He chuckled. "No, you won't. You want my mouth on you here." He drew one nipple into his mouth, bit her, and then sucked the other one in, and teased her with his tongue.

  "You want my hands on you here," he said and stroked down her ribs and around her buttocks to lift her and press her to his raging erection.

  She swallowed hard and loud, as she dug her nails into his shoulders.

  "And here," he gruffed as he sent his flat palm down her belly to the wealth of her hair, "you want my fingers." He parted her lips where she was soaked. "You want my praise for how well you show you want me." He sank his fingers inside her to caress her silken inner walls. As she mewled, he kissed her ear. "My darling, you need me and I am yours."

  She reeled.

  But with one hand to her hip, he pressed her to the wall as he sank to his knees and urged her to widen her legs. In the dim light streaming in the window, he detected her beauty. Her thighs were muscular, shapely, her bush trim. Her pale folds fragrant with desire for him. With two fingers, he spread her lips and she moaned, thrashed her head against the wall, but he soothed her with a stroke.

  "I will taste you and love you and you'll stand there and let me. You'll love it because you need this and I must have all of you in every way I can."

  She gave a little cry.

  And he sank to her sweet lips. She was so silky, so musky, so enchanting in her surrender to him. He put his mouth on her and let his tongue love her. Opening her wider, he found her nub and kissed her, then sucked her up. She quaked, her climax wild and loud.

  She sank in his arms. "Killian, please!"

  He spread her out beneath him. His naked prize for being patient. He stroked her hair and cuddled her close. She shook, her sounds of completion joy to his ears and her vibrations long and lovely to his eyes.

  Quiet, replete, she stroked a fingertip over his lower lip. "That was beyond words."

  "It was," he said, thrilled at her unbridled response to him. He'd not tasted a woman like that in years. So many years. Since his wife's death, he'd taken women for a night or mistresses for a month or even a few. But he'd not wanted this intimate possession. With Liv on his lips, he filled with a madness to have her again like that. But first, he'd fill himself and her with the power of a mutual mating. He'd savor her with his cock.

  He got to his feet and pulled her up with him. "Come to bed, my lady. We've more to do here."

  She rose to him, a torrid grin on her face. Her hands to his stock, his shirt, his vest, she peeled his frock coat from his shoulders. "I want to see your skin. Your nipples." She cupped him in his trousers. "Very impressive. I want all of this, you wicked man."

  He laughed and disrobed as efficiently as he could, given her continuing caress of his very hard and tender penis. "Darling, you'd better take your hands off me."

  She rubbed her hand along the length of him.

  He caught her wrist and stayed her moves. Coughing, he said, "If you want me inside you, sweetheart, don't make me come in your hand."

  As if burned, she pulled back. Then she strolled to her little bed and whirled to face him. Waggling a finger, she indicated his form. "Now, Hanniford. I'm getting cold."

  He stripped out of his clothes like a man on fire. Naked, he let her look.

  Slapping a hand to her heart, she stared at him. "Oh," was all she could seem to manage.

  He stepped to her, took her hand and put it around him.

  "Oh," was her only word.

  He leaned over her, stroked one of her satin nipples and sank a finger up inside her succulent hot core.

  "Oh, oh."

  He picked her up and urged her more fully on the bed. There, he stretched out beside her to nibble on her breasts and bite her fingertips, smooth the expanse of her flat belly and delve inside her thick wet folds to find her center and roll her nub until she cried out, clutching him once more.

  "You're a terrible man," she said as she quivered in her joy of him.

  "I can tell," he said with a smug satisfaction and a raging need to plunge inside her.

  "Come, have me, darling." She urged him over her. "Please, please."

  At once, he froze.

  She pecked him on the mouth. "What's wrong?" she begged him like a tormented girl.

  "Liv, darling?" Reality burned his mind. Through the euphoria of his lust for her, in the admission of his love for her, he had forgotten one basic rule.

  She frowned, her sweet eyes filled with fear. "What?"

  "If there's a baby—"

  "No," she smiled sweetly at him, her hips undulating against his in invitation. "There won't be."

  He would not shame her. He loved her. He'd marry her. "You can't be sure."

  She did not move for a long minute, considering the severity of the subject. "I'm thirty-eight. I've not had a regular monthly in ages and after Camille was born, I was never with child." He didn't need to know why. She reached up and brushed her lips on his. His mouth held the flavors of her body. To savor them on a man's lips for the first time was a rousing and titillating experience. "You can't leave me now. Not after you've tasted me."

  He tucked her under him, his massive body covering her with warm and wild desire. "I want you. Wanted you for so long."

  “No man,” she said, quivering with excitement, “has ever said that to me.”

  “I’ll repeat it,” he whispered, his lips skimming her own, “and become all men to you.”

  Gasping, she tilted up her hips and detected the tip of his cock. He was a huge man, larger than she thought a man could be. But then, she'd had David only a few times and his penis had flagged quickly. They'd coupled quickly and without much in the way of kisses or caresses. He'd done what he must to seal their vows. Her knowledge of men was so limited.

  These raptures she felt in Killian’s embrace were addictive. That she would not deny. If that was lust, then she also doubted she’d never find such enjoyment with any other man. This one was too endearing. Unique. A lover she could savor, body and soul. And she was ravenous to have him fill her, make her pulse with the power of his thrusts. "Come inside me."

  He inched into her core. She panted, eager, desperate. She put a hand to his firm ass and pressed down. "Have me, Hanniford. I'm not glass and, God knows, I burn to have you."

  With one long slow glide, his gaze holding hers, he slid into her full
bore. She arched up, her whole body ardent, seeking, filled to the brim with this man.

  This man who was bigger than others. This legend, who was mightier than many. This tycoon, scoundrel, wicked thief of her heart. And she loved him.

  Adored him.

  How he made love to her. How he cared for her. Held her hand. Chided her. Wiped her tears. Made her laugh.

  He paused, caught her chin. "Look at me. Where are you?"

  "Here, here," she assured him. Her admission of her love pushed aside, thrown away from this moment in her mind, she flowed with him. His cock took her up and she reveled in him.

  He plunged into her with precision, drove her up up up to oblivion and frantic, rocking bliss. She shook and he came with a growl and sharp thrusts. She took them all, savored the harshness of his rise and the sweetness of his fall. For long minutes, he covered her and she welcomed the weight, the fervor, the claim of him.

  He rolled to one side and left her empty. Even though he combed her hair from her eyes, she noted the lack of him.

  "I prefer you inside me."

  "If I stayed, I'd crush you."

  She laughed. "I'll have to be on top next time."

  He sank his fingers into her hair and kissed her with a hearty smack. "I'm glad to hear there will be a next time."

  She wiggled her brows. "Soon?"

  "Is there a time limit?"

  "Do I have enough to go get you that brandy I offered?"

  "That depends."

  "On?"

  He ran a hand over one of her nipples and circled his thumb over it. "You grow hard quickly, darling. You'd better not be gone too long, wouldn't you say?"

  She snuggled closer. "Perhaps if you give me incentive."

  He gave her a singular arched look. "To go or stay?"

  "Stay."

  He grinned, then pushed her to her back and put his mouth over her breast. His tongue was the most talented organ in England.

  In minutes, she was writhing in his arms, his mouth on one nipple, her flesh pounding over his skillful fingers. And then he curled her against him and stroked her back as if she were a cat.

  Against her tummy, she felt the hard probe of his cock and smiled. "Perhaps I should go now for your brandy?"

  "Perhaps you'd prefer to stay a few minutes?"

  Breathless, she propped herself up on one arm, her mouth watering at the sight of his very ripe interest. She lay her hand on his length and the girth of him, the heat of him pulsing through her. "I think you'll wait for that brandy."

  Minutes later, she rolled to her back, threw her arms over her head, grinned at him and sighed. In the eight years she'd been married, she’d had no rippling moments of fulfillment. In fact, Camille's conception had been a huge shock to both David and her. Truly, in the last hour, she could count more sexual satisfaction than she'd enjoyed in all her life.

  But her next thought caused a lump in her throat. She'd never before been consumed by such blinding passion for a man. And much as she’d loved him, not ever for her husband.

  Killian rose from her bed as he saw a ray of sun dart through the gray clouds beyond her bedroom window. Losing the heat of her body shocked his system, but he padded over to her draperies and spread the heavy damask wide. From here he saw down to the coast where a few dark figures walked the rocky shore.

  Liv looped her arms around his waist, her lips to his spine.

  "I must go."

  He heard her moan. "Don't. Stay."

  He turned in her embrace. "Aren't you concerned someone will know?"

  "No." She kissed him full on the mouth and he yearned to return the homage. "I have a maid-of-all-work but I gave her a half day yesterday and whole today. She's gone to Hove to visit her family and won't be here until tomorrow morning. Stay with me, Killian. Let me cook for you. I'll play the piano too."

  He hugged her close. "You have a piano here?"

  "I rented one from a local seller." She widened her eyes, playful as he'd not seen her before. "Chopin? Bach? Bacon and cheese with eggs? What is your pleasure?"

  "You know the answer to that last," he said and squeezed her luscious body against his.

  "Wonderful." She tore away and danced backwards. "Would you like a robe?"

  He knit his brows. "Silk?"

  With a flourish of one hand, she indicated his face. "A wonderful fine weave from Chinese worms. Red and yellow butterflies. It'll compliment your complexion."

  "Like hell it will. Thank you, I'll wash up and dress."

  Her face fell. "What a shame."

  He chuckled. "You won't dress?"

  She preened, then crossed her arms. Her breasts swelled and her nipples beckoned him. "Do I need to?"

  "A robe, oh tempting one. At the very least."

  She strolled away. The sight of her derriere as she flexed her muscles made him rethink his suggestion of some garment.

  He groaned. "I'm dressing. Where's a pitcher? I'll go out to the pump and get wash water."

  She was shrugging into a yellow silk robe and tying the sash beneath her breasts. "You're a darling. The pump is out back. I'll show you the way and the pitcher is...here." She took a large blue china one from behind her dressing screen.

  "I'll put on clothes and go out," he grumbled as he pulled on his undergarment and his pants. "One thing I'll treasure in this new house will be the indoor plumbing."

  She waltzed over, rose on her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. "A man of the future!"

  The question was, was he a man in her future?

  The next morning before dawn as he climbed out of her bed and pushed the curtain aside, he had a partial answer. He was a man she enjoyed. A man she desired. Often and with unbridled pleasure. But he wouldn't make her his mistress. And he had to go slowly to ensure she welcomed all he would offer her.

  The sun had not yet risen but the wind off the coast was strong, battering the window panes. He crawled back into her bed beside her with gratitude for her warmth. She snuggled up to him.

  “Now I must leave.”

  She wiggled her hips against his. "I wish you didn't have to."

  He turned in her embrace. Her hair tousled, her eyelids drowsy with fatigue, naked, she was a carefree insistent lover luring him like a siren.

  "No. I must." All too aware of her sensitivity to be seen with him, he didn't want to aggravate the issue by leaving her home in broad daylight. If they were to continue their affair, how long could they keep it secret? He didn't want to. God knew, he wanted more of her, perhaps all of her forever. But if she was ashamed of him, his name, his reputation, his past, their love affair would necessarily be short and for him, bittersweet. He wasn't a man to play a waiting game. His entire life and his business success had been built on instinct, speed and decisiveness. In love, he would not change. Could not. He'd force the matter...and do it now. "You know it's best I do."

  She tried to smile, but it was a watery expression. "Do you still want to go to the drapers?"

  "I do." Do you?

  She nodded. "Can I make you tea before you leave?"

  "No.”

  She burrowed into him, her ferocity to hold him contrast to her dislike of being seen with him.

  He moved away from her, picking up his clothes.

  She donned her robe that she'd flung over the bed and sat on the edge to watch him as he dressed. She was silent.

  He formed a plan.

  Securing the last button on his frock coat, he went to her and raised her chin with two fingers. "I'll return at ten o'clock. When I do, I want an answer."

  "To what?" She looked wary, surprised.

  "I want you to come to Paris with me. Tomorrow. It will be business. You'll stay at the Grand Hotel. I'll be at Boulevard Haussmann. Pierce is there finalizing a few of his own business contracts. You and I will go to the silk merchants and the art agent who sells Marianne's and Remy's pieces. I have an invitation to a soirée at the home of a French financier. Pierce has accepted for himself. But I want you to c
ome with me. And I plan a dinner party. I'd like you to be my hostess."

  She said nothing for a very long time, her face a sea of emotions from shock to sadness to the utter fascination she'd worn when she was in his arms this past day and a half. "I've not been in society for many years. I'm not certain I'd be your finest hostess."

  He waited, his heart sinking. She was refusing him. The only woman who'd mesmerized him in decades.

  "If I go with you and find I cannot do it, you must promise me to let me return here without objection."

  She gave him fragile hope. Whereas he must give her assurance. "You must be with me because you want to, Liv. I'd have you no other way."

  She got to her feet and pulled him close. “I find that I need you, Killian. I'll gladly come."

  Chapter 14

  Place du Tertre

  Montmartre, Paris

  “You look wonderfully rested," Liv told Marianne as she kissed her on both cheeks. Two happy people, the duc de Remy and his duchesse of only eight months looked sun-kissed in their informal white summer clothes.

  "Andre insists I go to bed every hour!" Marianne’s green eyes twinkled as she cast her husband a grin and went to embrace her uncle Killian. "He is a pest!"

  "The rest works," Killian said as he hugged his niece. "How about you, Remy? Any sleep?"

  The tall blond Frenchman clasped Killian's hand. "Very little."

  Liv and Killian had taken the train from London to Paris two days ago. The holiday with Killian proved a whirlwind of delights. Dining alone with him in noisy, fragrant, sumptuous restaurants. Attending the theatre, thrilled at his taste, his looks, the way other women glanced at him and tossed her knowing glances of appreciation. Walking with him once more under the stars. Every moment was a delight.

  "The two nurses he hired are excellent," Marianne put in as the four took chairs around the little table on the veranda of the restaurant. "But he insists on supervising their every move. So, no, Uncle Killian, Andre is haggard. Not completing his latest work."