He sought her mouth with his, his tongue more urgent. She abandoned the last of her self-control and cinched her arms around his back, tugging him closer, skimming her hands up and down his strong back. She rocked her hips to the hypnotic rhythm of his stroking tongue.
He grasped her bottom, her sex now pressed hard against his taut thigh. His kisses became feverish, searing. A groan escaped her; she became lost in those kisses. And they were everywhere. She soared in the sensation he created, that she created. That they created together. The sensual rhythm, the urgent pressure against his thigh so hard, the hunger there became a palpable thing as it pulsed, pulsed against him. The ache tightened, spiraled, shattered her in that instant, her body convulsing.
She wrapped her arms tighter around him and let the sensation roll off her, trembling, vulnerable. Oh. My. God. She’d just had an orgasm against his leg! What would he think of her? Don’t look at him.
“Oh, Isabelle, sweet Isabelle.” His hot breath and rumbling voice by her ear sent more delicious shivers through her body. Hearing her first name spoken by him for the first time, and in that husky voice, was surprisingly erotic. He cradled her in his strong arms and stroked the small of her back as the aftershocks dissipated.
How sweet could he be? She wanted him inside her. Now. Her pleasure had given her only a taste of what she craved. She was by no means through with him. And she sensed he’d be too much of a gentleman to seek his own after she’d had hers. Again, she must initiate. His body tensed and shuddered alongside hers as he visibly fought for control.
By God, he’d lose that damn fight. She gripped his shoulders and pushed him onto his back. Surprise flashed in his eyes. She kissed the strong column of his neck, streaking a path to his ear. She nibbled his earlobe, and he inhaled sharply and tightened his grip around her waist. His hands roamed her back, the cotton of her shift adding extra friction against her fevered skin, sending more shivers coursing through her.
She licked and tasted her way to his left nipple and flicked it with her tongue. He stiffened. She smiled. Sensitive nipples were such a turn on. Lightly stroking it with her tongue, she tugged gently with her teeth, and he jerked under her. She slid her hand down his taut stomach, stopping just shy of his breeches. What to do with all the strangely-placed buttons?
She traced the skin along the top of his breeches and a moan escaped from deep within him.
He flipped her onto her back and crushed her mouth with his, a hungry passion pulling her along in his urgency. He brushed his hand up her waist and gently captured her breast. His finger and thumb teased her nipple through the delicate cotton, while his tongue teased her mouth. She locked onto his biceps and delighted in the feel of his muscles shifting under her palms as he moved.
He eased the edge of the shift downward, the fabric dragging over her breast. He tore his mouth from hers and kissed his way down her neck. Looking down, she could see the strong curve of his jaw poised above her breast, so achingly close, her nipple moving closer to his lips each time she drew breath. She felt beautiful, desirable.
She arched slightly, a plea for him to claim her, ease her mounting tension. Instead, his strong, blunt fingers lightly circled her areola, teasing, making her ache further. His hot breath fanned her skin. As his mouth got closer and closer, Isabelle’s breath came faster and faster, and she thrashed her legs. She skimmed her hands feverishly along his broad shoulders, across the back of his neck, and cupped his head, her fingers tangling in his soft black hair, urging him down.
He finally captured her nipple in his warm mouth. Molten heat burst from her breast and shot downward. She moaned and gripped his head tighter, arching her hips. Yes. He let out a soft chuckle, his breath further teasing the heated skin. He swirled his tongue around her nipple. Caught it again and sucked. Hard. The sensation made her buck.
He skimmed her side until he reached the bottom hem of her shift. While his mouth sucked, flicked, and teased her nipple, he slowly drew the feathery cotton up, his fingers scraping the delicate flesh of her inner thigh along the way. Her urgency built again.
He confidently moved toward her center. Yes. He brushed against her curls and probed her delicate folds, the heat of his finger slipping easily along her aroused flesh. She writhed beneath his skillful fingers.
“You are so wet. Isabelle, I... Oh God, I want to be inside you.” His breath whispered against her wet nipple, eliciting fresh shivers. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
“Don’t,” she managed to gasp, wrapping her free leg around his.
He levered up to his knees and scrambled at the fall of his breeches, his breathing ragged, until he freed his straining erection. She couldn’t help it, she had to touch. She reached across and felt the velvety tip, smoothing the small bead of moisture. He choked out a groan and raised his head, eyes shut tight. The next instant, he’d fallen to one elbow and gripped her bottom, positioning her.
Her ragged breath mingled with his. He nudged where she ached for him most and his gaze snapped to hers. Time stood still. Anticipation coursed within, making her tighten and arch. She would have buried him deep in her in that movement, in that moment, but his strong hand pinned her hip, preventing her from moving more than a fraction up his hot, hard length. Oh, God, she couldn’t stand it.
His head moved lower until their noses touched, his dark hair falling forward and brushing her cheeks. Tension coiled in the muscles of his arms. And slowly, ever so slowly, he eased into her, his eyes boring into hers, into her soul, just as he physically bore into her, filling her.
The slowness, oh, how it made her seize around him, holding onto him with all her strength. She savored this moment, savored this sharing, savored feeling him, Phineas, enter her for the first time. Somehow, it seemed so right that he was inside her now, here in her house and his. It pulled all the jagged edges of her soul together and snapped them into place, right where they joined as one.
When he had buried himself deep inside her, his hot length stretching her, he remained still for a single, exquisite moment, and she reveled in how full he made her. His head lowered a little more and his lips gently brushed against hers, but still he didn’t move, as their heartbeats pulsed—Boom. Boom. Boom—as if it made up the entirety of their being.
“Isabelle...”
Oh God, this was torture! She shook. His mouth moved on hers in increasing urgency, his tongue flicking in and out. She couldn’t take it any longer. She thrust her hips to take more of him, pleading with him, squeezing him.
Slowly, he eased out and the exquisite torture shifted, changed, his hard length stroking her flesh as he exited, the friction and sense of loss acute. He paused just shy of her entrance and plunged back into her, hard.
“Phineas. Oh, God...”
The utter sense of possession rocked her. Her legs shot up and wrapped around his waist to allow him deeper access. Arms trembling, she clung to his back. His mouth moved hungrily over hers, possessing it as he possessed her in the most fundamental way, stroking out and back in, a heady rhythm that increased in tempo, the butter-soft texture of his breeches grazing her inner thighs, as they both sought the ultimate connection, the ultimate release.
A pulsating wave built inside her, emanating where they joined. She rode it as it took her higher and higher, coiling tighter, the promise seemingly unattainable, unreachable. Yes, so close. So close it was almost painful.
He wrenched his mouth away and his ragged voice in her ear breathed, “I can’t hold off much longer.”
He moaned and swiveled and flexed his hips in a circular motion, grinding against her clit. The pieces of her soul that had knitted together with him swelled, coiled, and burst apart, splintering her. She gasped, her arms wrapped tight around him, the acute aftershocks feeling as if they would continue forever. He pumped harder into her once, twice, and one last time. His body went rigid and his warmth exploded deep inside her.
He shuddered and collapsed atop her, his mouth above her ear, breathi
ng in deep gasps, whispering her name over and over. Her heart beat fiercely and she could feel his pounding against her chest. She fought to catch her breath and kept her arms and legs twined around him. She wanted to keep him inside her as long as she could, to keep the feeling that had whipped through her, leaving her exhausted and sated. She sighed and held on tighter.
He wrapped his arms around her and turned onto his back, pulling her with him. Still joined, he nestled her against his side, his hand on her head. She smiled, her ear on his chest, and listened to his heart return to a normal pace.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood.
Lord Byron, The Prisoner of Chillon, 1816
Shreds of sleep fell away as Phineas drifted awake, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of contentment, of rightness. He smiled with the memory of their recent love making. He’d been appalled to discover his lack of control—he’d made love to her in his breeches—and while he couldn’t erase that telling symptom, he attempted to by removing them and making love to her again, slowly.
Of course, he would secure a special license without delay. He had planned to marry someday, but now the prospect did not seem so ghastly and bleak. To spend his life with someone like Isabelle... He grew aroused just contemplating the concept, the way she had so passionately responded to him. Yet the physical passion was only part of the attraction: her passion for her friends, for history, for learning, for life had ensnared him, awakened him.
The scent and warmth of their recent passion still surrounded him; he reached out to pull her close, to nuzzle his face in her hair and neck, his erection stirring. His hand felt nothing.
He bolted upright, now fully awakened. The storm outside had ceased, but evening’s gloom shrouded the room. In the dim light, she emerged from behind the dressing screen, wearing only her shift.
He smiled, his whole body aglow at the sight of her. A hot thread of unease whipped through him, however, when it became evident she avoided his gaze.
“We need to talk,” she mumbled.
She pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat. She drew her legs up inside the shift and wrapped her arms tight around them, resting her chin on her knees. She finally looked at him, and her eyes were bleak.
His heart hammered in his chest, this time with panic rather than passion. He struggled to appear calm, but lying prone, naked, made this difficult. He felt as if more than his body were exposed, vulnerable. Whereas, in contrast, she had retreated, her body wrapped tightly around itself, protecting, shielding, closed to him. What was amiss? Certainly, not the reaction he had anticipated.
If the talk was as serious as she conveyed with her manner, he desired a more even footing. “Indeed. Do you mind if I dress first? I shall instruct Cook to send refreshments to the drawing room. Shall we meet there in twenty minutes?”
Her feverish gaze held his. “Sure, okay.”
She did not move from her position. He had no recourse but to stand and pull the sheet around him.
She blushed. “Oh, sorry. I’ll give you a moment.” She disappeared behind the screen.
Donning his clothes with all due haste, he exited and headed for his suite. What in the devil plagued her? He could swear an oath he had not forced her. What transpired was of her own wishes as well as his, of that he was certain. He had made certain. He had been a little surprised only at her experience—she had not been a virgin—but he had no cause to judge her.
Really, she was in her late twenties, if he guessed correctly. Polite Society would deem her as firmly on the shelf. If she had discreetly taken a lover in the recent past, who could blame her? Perhaps social customs differed in America. Or, perhaps she had been a victim of a seducer, like his sister. It might explain her unmarried state. Could this be her secret? For a secret she definitely possessed.
His own experience with his beloved sister’s seduction had caused him to be more liberal than others of his set on such matters. He viewed the common outlook as the height of hypocrisy.
Whatever was the case with Miss Rochon—with Isabelle—whatever she had to discuss with him, he was resolved to be open-minded and understanding.
“You are telling me you are from the future? Are you mad?” Phineas practically shouted. Of all the hare-brained notions he had ever heard, this crowned the whole. Was she so desperate to protect her secret, or, worse, to push him away?
Isabelle’s face tightened, eyes flashing. “You promised to be open-minded.”
“Open-minded to reality, yes!” And this time he did shout.
“Oh my God, I should have known better.” She stormed to the window and glared at the moon-washed landscape.
Her shoulders shook and he very much feared she might be crying. At the very least, his lack of forbearance had upset her. Guilt lashed him—for her sake, he must calm himself.
They had met in the drawing room as planned and in silence ate some of the repast Cook prepared. He felt he should let her broach the topic that had her so concerned, and waited patiently.
Telling him she had something to confide in him, something he would have a hard time crediting, she had extracted a promise from him to be open to what she was to reveal. He had agreed without hesitation.
And now he had broken his promise.
He went to her and put his arms around her from behind, holding her. She stiffened. “I am sorry, Isabelle.” He pressed his head against hers and spoke in her ear. “Can we begin anew? I wish for you to start from the beginning and explain your trouble, help me to understand.”
She turned in his arms, looked at him, and sniffed. “I’m not sure I can trust you.” Her voice wavered. “I made a big mistake sleeping with you, I just felt so lost, and I...”
He deserved that, he supposed, since he had interrupted her with his ill-advised and ill-mannered outburst. However, hearing her speak of their time together as a mistake did not sit well. He did not view it as such. Quite the opposite.
“My dear, I promise to listen fully this time.” He took a deep breath and held her tighter, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing the delicate shell. “If it helps, know that I grew up with four sisters, and have an idea of some of the trials ladies face.” He clenched his jaw, thinking about what Letitia had borne. “Trust me. Whatever situation you found yourself in, in the past, or still find yourself in now, I understand. I will not blame you. I promise.”
She pulled away. “Blame me? You won’t blame me? For what? You think I’m ashamed of something and don’t want to talk about it?” She crossed her arms below her chest. “What the hell are you imagining?”
He stepped toward her. “You are not listening, Isabelle. I am telling you that you need not be ashamed.”
“Of what?” She flung her arms into the air. “You seem to already know what I’m going to tell you. Care to enlighten me, because I’m at a loss. Truly.”
Phineas took a deep breath and let it out, running a hand through his hair. She was going to make him say it. He cleared his throat. “Isabelle, it, ahem, it did not escape my notice that I was not, ahem, your first.”
She frowned at him. “Huh? My first what?”
He pivoted and paced to the other side of the room. She could be so exasperating at times. He supposed it was her American upbringing. He turned back, determined to see this through.
He gentled his voice. “I want you to know I fully understand. Someone of your years, a spinster, to discreetly take on a lover, I think it is understandable. I know many gentlemen who would not, but I believe they are hypocrites.”
Her face turned a charming shade of red. “Oh. My. God. This is about the fact I’ve had sex before? You think I have some big secret about that and was ashamed to tell you? And where do you get off calling me a spinster, for God’s sake? I’m only twenty-nine!”
Now he was truly perplexed. “Well, yes.”
To his surpris
e, she sat quite abruptly in a nearby armchair and laughed hysterically. So hard, he wondered if she was not crying.
“Oh, this is rich,” she said between gasps, a giggle escaping.
So, she was laughing. He supposed that was better than crying, but devil take it if he could comprehend what she found so amusing.
“Oh God, I keep forgetting how you guys were. At least you guys aren’t as bad as Victorian men will get.”
“Victorian?”
This sent her into further fits of laughter.
“Miss Rochon, I do not understand what you mean. You make no sense.”
At hearing herself addressed formally, she paused and hiccupped. “I know, to you I make no sense. And to me, you make no sense. So, you see, this is why it was such a big mistake to get more involved with you. Because it can’t work.”
And to his great distress, she burst into tears.
He bounded across the room and knelt before her chair, gathering her in his arms. She stiffened at first, but leaned down and wrapped her arms around his neck and cried against his shoulder. He cradled her until she regained control. What else could he do?
Her tears eventually subsided. She straightened and dried her face with the handkerchief he handed her. He stood and poured her a glass of sherry, which she sipped, obviously endeavoring to regain her composure.
She sniffed, and said, “Thank you. Will you, uh... oh man, this is hard, but, will you promise me you will sit over there and listen to me, really listen to me?”
He nodded, “I promise, Isabelle.” And damn, he would. She deserved it of him. He had behaved abominably by not fulfilling his promise of earlier.
After he took his seat, she drew a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “I was born in the year nineteen hundred and...”
He would not say anything. He would not.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
Must Love Breeches Page 22
