by Jo Beverley
He pushed into her, deep into her, into the flaming clutch of her.
He groaned something. He hoped it was flattering, because he meant it to be—she was bloody perfect, and she was giving him perfect pleasure—but at the moment she was only that. His pleasure. He took and took, holding her hips to use her, until he dissolved into her and she into him, snared to him by his arms, her hair sticky in his questing mouth.
Dammit, but he wanted to kiss her!
He dragged back her head, wrenched up the bottom of her mask—something ripped—and put his mouth to hers. She cried out, struggling, but he kissed her anyway, claimed his right to kiss his woman, and after a moment she surrendered.
Bliss.
He drew back at last, feeling himself slip out of her below, sated, dissolved, complete. “I tell you true, sweet lady, I will always recognize you if we chance to kiss.”
She fumbled, and he knew she was pulling her silly mask back into place. “That’s safe enough, then,” she snapped. “I don’t go around kissing strange gentlemen.”
“I’m no stranger to you. Not anymore.”
He’d broken the rules, however, so he seized her skirts in case she tried to run.
All she said was, “Promise you won’t do that again.”
“Didn’t you like it?”
“Yes.”
He groaned at her wonderful honesty, pulling her into his arms. “Then why not? Why? What point to a mask in the dark?”
“I have my reasons. You must promise.”
“But you are my slave. You surrendered.”
“Not to that.”
“To everything.”
“No.” She tried to move and found she couldn’t. “Don’t…” she whispered. “Don’t spoil this.”
He wanted to insist, to truly master her to his will. He thought he could. Despite that, he knew he couldn’t. “Tell me why you must wear the mask.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s dark. I can’t see you. Blindfold me, if you want!”
“It’s not that. Stop this! If you don’t, I’ll have to go.”
He froze the angry words that burned at his lips. “But you don’t object to kisses?”
“Not as such.”
“Then tell me how I can kiss you. I need to kiss you.”
She lay against him, her breathing as fractured as his. After a silence he made himself not break, she said, “Let me go, and I’ll try to fix the mask.”
He wanted to argue further, but this clearly was her limit. Much as he hated to, he helped her to stand, then listened as she left the room.
She might not return.
What did it mean when a man risked a night of luscious sex for the chance of an honest kiss?
He sat and sank his head in his hands, hardly able to believe all this. He’d never had a taste for overwrought drama.
He didn’t have a taste for it now.
He was sunk in a genuine tragedy.
He believed this magic between them would have sprung up no matter where they’d met. If fate had been kind, it would have been at an assembly, a tea party, or even a country fair. He could have wooed and won her in the proper manner.
Instead, they had this. Masks, drama, and tormenting secrets in the night.
Chapter 12
The door opened and he said a brief prayer of thanks that at least she had returned. She fumbled her way over, and a searching, unsteady hand brushed his cheek. Catching it, he drew her gently back onto his lap, realizing with a wince of embarrassment that his clothes were still disordered. A courteous gentleman with a trace of brain left would have tidied himself while she was away.
“You can kiss me,” she whispered, “if you still want to.”
Hardly daring to hope, he explored the path with his fingers, up her arm, across her shoulder, up the front of her slender neck, to her firm chin. Skimming to one side, he found the mask still there, cut so only her chin and lips were exposed. Despite her tension, he followed the ragged edge up, over her nose and down the other side.
It was a more common style for a Venetian mask than full face, and he wondered why she hadn’t worn one like this in the first place. Curiously, he explored a little more with his finger, and found full, soft lips. Kissable, vulnerable, generous lips. He’d known how they would be. Tracing around them, he detected no secrets except that her lips twitched as if he was tickling her.
He longed to demand an explanation of her strange obsession, but he wouldn’t risk this precious gift. Tilting her head, he put his lips to hers, hovering a moment as if at a shrine. It was she who wove her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.
Though still aware of the mask, he surrendered. Perfect, perfect lips soft under his. A treasure of a hungry mouth. Deepening and blending, the kiss became a mating of its own, perfect in its way, so that when they slid apart, he felt almost as satisfied and drained as after sex.
Almost.
Her hand traced his face. “Thank you. You were right. I would hate to have missed that. Any of this. I want you to know that. It has to stop at dawn, but whatever follows, you have given me something very precious.”
So suddenly it should have been audible, his willpower broke. “It doesn’t have to stop at dawn.”
Her hand stilled. “It does.”
Holding her palm to his lips, he said, “Come away with me. It will be a scandal, yes, but in my circles, people accept scandal.”
“Your circles. Someone told me Brand Malloren is a lord. That his brother is a marquess.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He was surprised that it might have hurt her. “No bad reason, I promise. I didn’t want to discomfort you. And I’m not so elevated. I’m my brother’s land manager, that’s all.”
“Manager of a great deal of land, I’m sure.”
“If we’re talking of honesty, why not give me your true name?”
Her hand slipped free. “I can’t. That’s the simple, honest truth. Not for my sake, but for others. And for their sake, I cannot run off with you.”
Anger stirred. This was no dithering, tempted wanton. This was a woman who would hold by her intent. Had he actually liked the fact that she was strong?
What confined her so absolutely?
How could he break it?
“Would you run off with me if you were free?” he tried. “Not unmarried, but free of whatever binds you?”
“Is anyone ever free…? But yes, if not for heavy obligations, I might. It’s bitter to me that I could be so weak, but that’s the truth. I am bound, though. I want you to promise never to try to contact me once we part. Please. It’s important.”
He put her gently off his lap and stood to disrobe her. “I can’t promise that. For the sake of what we have, for your honesty, I will try to do your will. I promise to try, but I can’t promise to succeed. I’m not used to being weak either, but you have made me something of a stranger to myself. I have no control.” His fumbling hands on her gown echoed his words.
As did her tremors. “I am the same. It’s wrong…”
He only half heard her, being more intent on the urgent loosening of her corset strings.
“I’m discreet,” he argued, tugging the strings until the corset was loose enough to pull over her head and toss away.
“Discretion isn’t enough. I wish you would promise.”
“I don’t make promises I cannot keep. Do you?”
“No.”
“Then promise me one thing.”
“What?”
He put his arms tight around her from behind. “If you don’t leave with me,” he whispered into her neck, “promise to send for me if you are ever in need. Of anything. Promise.”
After deep breaths, she asked, “How could I?”
“A message to Malloren House in London will always reach me. Marlborough Square. Or addressed in care of the Marquess of Rothgar. Promise.” He knew his arms were tightening. He couldn’t stop them.<
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“We shouldn’t—”
“Only in need. Promise!”
“It won’t happen!” Struggling against him, she gasped, “I have a good husband and loving family. I won’t need you. I’m not alone in the world!”
Abruptly, he loosed her. “Then I wish you were.” He fought the petticoat strings at her waist and managed to knot them. Frustrated—with the lace, with the dark, with her—he snapped them with his bare hands.
“Stop that!” she protested. “You’re going to leave me in rags!”
Ignoring her words, he lifted her so the petticoat dropped, then dragged off her cotton shift so she was finally, perfectly naked to his hands. He stilled them at her waist, caught almost breathless by the moment.
“Promise me,” he said again, trying to sound like the reasonable man he generally was, not the wild one he was in danger of becoming. “Promise me that if ever you have need, any need, you will send for me.” He slipped his hands up slowly to fill them with the perfect generosity of her breasts. “Promise me.”
He could hear her breathing, feel it through his hands. “What if I summon you to be my love-slave any time I feel the need?”
“I can imagine nothing more delightful.”
“This is folly. Folly beyond reason!”
“Promise.‘”
“Oh, very well!” she snapped. “But it will do you no good. I will never be in that desperate a state.”
“I should hope that you’re right, but I don’t. I’m not sure I can live without you.” He was mad to reveal that. Clearly mad. He didn’t care.
“This is all. Tonight is all we have.”
Rage flared because he feared she was right. He didn’t understand her situation, her family, her husband, but he knew her. With his soul and his bones, he knew her. Whatever had driven her to this—and “driven” was not too strong a word—she wasn’t a woman who could live openly in sin.
Intolerably, she would never be his. With the dawn, she would disappear, pick up the pieces of her life, and banish him from her thoughts. But not from her memory or her dreams. He’d make damn sure of that.
He let her go and began to strip. “Our situations are different,” he said, choosing words like weapons as he pulled off his drawers and stood finally as naked as she. More naked than she. He wore no mask. “I’m not likely to stay celibate. I can find release tomorrow if I want it. What of you?”
“I don’t need release.”
“Liar.”
He took a step closer to her shadowy shape, and she inched back. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be snatching the time to give her sweet loving, not loosing his anger. Not trying to push her into admitting her need, her temptation. Not trying to whip her into wild ruin.
She stopped her retreat and her chin went up. “I didn’t find release in what we just did.” Now her tone was as harsh as his.
She was right. He’d not given a thought to her satisfaction. A dismal first.
“I suppose it’s as well,” she continued coolly. “After tonight, I will not do this again, so it is better, really, that it be something of a disappointment.”
He captured her wrist. “Don’t poke a lion, sweetheart, unless you want it to roar.” He dragged her toward the bed. She fought him.
“Slave?” he reminded her.
“Mistress?” she spat back. “My lord?”
Abruptly, unfairly, he let her go. “Leave then.”
His breath stopped. Might she actually… ? If he sank on his knees and begged… ?
But after a silent moment, she stepped closer, found his hand, and linked it once more around her wrist. “My lord?”
He almost swept her into his arms, but that wasn’t the game they were playing just now. “Slave,” he whispered. “Love-slave.” Let her interpret that as she wished.
Then he pulled her toward the bed, the bed he’d already turned down in welcome.
Pushing her down on her back, he tugged her hips to the edge then spread her thighs wide with his hands. He heard her suck in her breath, and waited. He wasn’t so far out of his mind that he’d truly assault her.
Abruptly, she relaxed, surrendered. Touching her hand to be sure, he found it limp by her thighs on the sheet. He raised it, kissed it, then kissed her inner wrist as he had done so long ago, brushing his lips up to her inner elbow.
Then, her hand still in his, he slid his other between her thighs. “Are you obedient to my every wish, slave?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then I command you to surrender. To enjoy.” To himself alone, he added: To remember.
She didn’t fight, so he roused her passion with his hand, pleasuring her breasts with his mouth. Her crushing grip on his other hand spoke her passion, flexing and squeezing wildly, guiding him to go fast or slow, soft or hard. As her hips’ wild dance rewarded him, he eased the pressure, hoping she had her other hand ready to cover her mouth if she screamed.
Hell, if she screamed and brought witnesses down on them, perhaps that would get him what he wanted—her as his wanton mistress.
Then he was rewarded with a deep groan, a sound he’d go odds she’d never made before. A secret, guttural groan for him alone. He’d have more. He was in control, he could do this for hours if necessary.
He drove her on, to bone-aching, tendon-straining tension, easing again to hold her back. Her feet came up to the edge of the bed and she arched off it. He stopped entirely.
“Down, come down, sweetheart.”
With a sob, she settled her hips, rolling. “Don’t… Please…”
“Hush. hush. Quietly,” he murmured, nipping at her wet, swollen nipples.
“Beast.”
“Slave.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
He began to pleasure her again, and was rewarded immediately with a shudder of desire. “I won’t.” She wasn’t referring to hate but to orgasm. She was going to fight him.
He grinned. “Yes, you will.”
And she did, though she fought him so that it became a wrestling match across the bed, one with very strange holds.
Only after her surrender—when she lay hot, sticky, limp, and completely his—did he move over to enter her.
“When I’m dead,” she muttered, “tell Diana. She’ll help you get away.”
He had no idea who Diana was, but he had a true appreciation of her mettle. What a zest for life lay under her quiet manner. She deserved more than the half-life she lived.
“Come with me when I leave,” he said, hovering, the tip of his erection teasing her. “We can do this every night. Every, single, night.” He eased in, inch by inch. Her hips yearned toward him.
“Then I’d surely die.”
“No, dammit. You’d live!” And he thrust deep.
She climaxed again abruptly, long before he’d expected. Freed, he pumped to ecstasy, too, and sealed it with a kiss as desperate as everything else between them.
She was right.
It could destroy a person, this.
But he’d die in ecstasy.
“What time is it, I wonder?” she asked.
Time had passed, he knew, without any idea of how much. Minutes? Days? It was still dark, and she sprawled limply beside him, still entangled. Her voice sounded like he felt, drained almost to unconsciousness.
A distant church clock saved him the effort of trying to answer. Twelve strokes.
“Midnight.” She stirred slightly, as if adjusting her body to a new skin. He put his hand on her belly and stroked the silky curve, wishing he could see her like this—luxuriating in her sated body.
He would see her like this. She was his. He only had to prove it to her. Before dawn.
“Six hours or so to go,” he said, sliding a fingertip into her navel.
She squirmed away. “Don’t!”
He trapped her. “Why not?”
“It tickles.”
With a laugh, he weighed her down and kissed her navel, flicking h
is tongue inside. She shoved him and they wrestled until he let her pin him down. She was agile and strong, and not afraid to fight dirty. Another delightful surprise.
Then, straddling his legs triumphantly, her hands pinning his arms to the bed—though she must know he could break that hold any time he chose—she lowered her head to kiss his navel, to tease it with her tongue. His belly muscles tightened and his penis stirred again.
“You like that?” she asked.
“I like that.”
With what sounded like a purr she began to lick his torso, long strokes and short, wriggling sinuously over him as she tried to reach every little spot.
“Why are you gasping?” she asked, mischief in her voice.
“Because I feel like a landed trout.”
“Wet?”
“Desperate.”
“Should I stop?”
“Never.” He deliberately echoed her earlier words. They were both fighting the dawn.
“What else would you like?” she asked, tongue back to swirling around his navel.
“Touch me.”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Releasing his wrists, she shifted to explore his genitals with curious, sensitive fingers. He concentrated on holding back need as long as humanly possible, letting her cup and flex his balls, stroke him to the tip and back.
His control broke. He grabbed her, rolled her, and plunged into her, into orgasm.
And so it went through the night—playing, exploring, teasing, tormenting. It was the wildest, sweetest passion he had ever known, with a woman made for love, and ready to love with joy and abandon. She found delight in every new twist he thought up for her, and added a few of her own through sheer inventiveness.
There had to be quiescent times, however, and in the sleepy deep of the night, he found himself cradled in her arms, talking. He was perfectly aware that she was giving little in the dreamy flow of words, but he was willing to use his own story to win her if he could. He’d strip himself down to his soul if it would make her his.
He told of his pleasant childhood, and received some unspecific memories of her own in return. He was glad to hear that she’d enjoyed her younger years, and not at all surprised to find she’d been something of a terror.
He told her of his parents’ sudden deaths from fever, the abrupt and absolute change in everything, and was comforted by her hands and her gentle kiss in his hair.
