The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  Five steps, four…

  “I wanted to tell you this before,” she persisted.

  He stripped off his jacket, tossed it over a chair as he passed. “Tell me what, sweetheart?”

  Her gaze landed on the prominent bulge in his trousers, and her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. “It’s about the bed.”

  “An apropos topic.” His waistcoat went the way of his jacket, and he advanced another step.

  She retreated accordingly.

  …three steps… two steps…

  The back of her knees hit the mattress; nowhere left for her to go.

  “I didn’t have time to have it changed,” she blurted.

  “I don’t give a damn.” He gave her a gentle push, and, with a little squeal, she tumbled backward onto the bed. He followed, careful to keep his weight from crushing her. He nuzzled her ear, inhaling her fragrance greedily. “In case you’re worried, my servants are well trained. I’m certain they changed the sheets without your instruction.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the sheets.”

  He raised his head, puzzled. Cheeks rosy, she wordlessly pointed upward.

  He twisted his head around—and let out a bark of laughter. “Good God.”

  “I know. It’s terribly wicked, isn’t it?” Primrose said in a rush.

  Her flushed cheeks and sultry eyes betrayed that she wasn’t quite as scandalized as she wanted to be. He slanted another glance up at the enormous looking glass affixed to the ceiling. The image of their entwined bodies—hers nude, his clothed—magnified his lust.

  Her eyes met his in the reflection, her lips parting. When she squirmed, his thigh nudged into the cove of her legs; he nearly groaned when her dew soaked his skin through the trousers. Despite her primness about certain matters, Primrose was a firebrand in bed.

  Recalling her reaction to the viewing holes in his club, he decided it was an excellent time to broaden her horizons. To show her that she didn’t need to hide behind fashionable trappings and inhibitions. To guide her in the exploration of her desires.

  “Who’s to say what is wicked?” he murmured. “In the bedroom, there are no rules between us, sunshine, except what we choose.”

  “But you must admit a mirror above the bed is scandalous,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “Perhaps. Is it not also arousing?” Deliberately, he shifted onto his side, giving her a full view of herself in the mirror. Anticipation simmered as he saw her gaze transfixing upon the image. “Let’s play a game, shall we? Keep your eyes on the mirror, and don’t stop looking until I tell you to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Tell me what you see, love,” Andrew said.

  As Rosie looked up at the image, she saw with growing horror that all her beautifying efforts had gone to waste. She had nary a stitch on, her carefully contrived ensemble scattered somewhere between the sitting room and the bed. And her coiffure—Dear Lord. The Apollo’s knot had disintegrated, her hair tangled across the blue satin sheets in a messy riot of waves and braids. Unseemly color blotched her cheeks, and her breasts were surging, the tips brazenly erect.

  When Andrew had made love to her in the past, she’d been so lost in the experience that she’d forgotten to care about her appearance. Now she was confronted with reality. The woman in the looking glass wasn’t perfect or composed or ladylike.

  She looked like a wicked trollop—like a flower that had been plucked.

  Mortified, she tried to cover herself—only to find her hands pinned above her head, her wrists held in Andrew’s large hand. Her gaze flew to his.

  “Let me go,” she said urgently. “I have to tidy myself. I’m—”

  “Perfect.”

  “How can you say that? I’m at sixes and sevens.” To her shame, her voice wobbled. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Please, I have to get up.”

  “Primrose, you’re always beautiful and never more so than at this moment.” He looked at her so intently that she squirmed. “Why would you doubt that?”

  “Because everything I spent three hours perfecting is in shambles!” she cried. “Now I’m… I’m just…” Me. Fear welled from some deep place inside. “Please, let me go freshen up—”

  “No.”

  At his firm reply, she blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Whatever you mean to do is unnecessary,” he stated. “You could spend another three hours fussing over your toilette, and it wouldn’t make a difference. You couldn’t be any more beautiful than you are right now.”

  Flabbergasted, she stared at him. “That… that isn’t true.”

  “It is. Your beauty has nothing to do with your fancy gowns and coiffures. It has to do with you.” His knuckles brushed along her jaw, the warm authority in his gaze mesmerizing. “Your eyes alone could launch a thousand ships. Your body makes a man want to take on that entire fleet for the privilege of calling you his own. Add in your spirit, intelligence, and madcap tendencies,”—his lips quirked—“and, plainly put, sunshine: you’re irresistible.”

  Was it possible that he believed what he was saying? She scrutinized his chiseled features and saw only earnestness. She recalled all the times he’d told her she was beautiful—that she had nothing to hide from him. His words sank into her like a balm, soothing her fears.

  Flummoxed, a bit giddy, she blurted, “I’m not a madcap.”

  His smile reached his eyes. “You’re a wee bit daft now and again; it’s part of your charm. Now do you want to spend the evening arguing about this, or do you want me to make love to you?”

  As much as she wanted to debate the finer points of her nature—she was definitely not daft in the slightest—there really was no contest.

  “Make love to me,” she breathed.

  “With pleasure.” His approval thrummed through her. “Keep your eyes on the mirror, darling.”

  She did, watching as Andrew’s big hands cupped her breasts, his fingers skillfully teasing the rosy peaks. It was scandalous. And also… beautiful. From the outside looking in, there was nothing ugly or dirty about the lovers in the bed. As she witnessed the lovemaking unfold, her inhibitions loosened like a corset, and that first breath of freedom was heady.

  Her back arched as his tongue worked lazily over her taut nipples.

  “I love your tits,” he murmured. “Do you like the way I’m touching you—licking you?”

  Her gaze instinctively sought his. “Y-yes.”

  “Eyes on the glass, love,” he ordered.

  Aroused, curious, she obeyed. It was sinfully titillating to watch him, fully clothed, doing as he wished with her naked body. What he was doing was wicked… but it also made her feel worshipped. He gave her breasts one last lingering kiss before pressing his lips between her ribs, down the pale valley of her belly. She twisted restlessly, clutching the sheets; her nipples, still damp from his suckling, strained upward, wet and glistening.

  “Do your breasts ache, sweeting?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, hoping he would ease that sweet throbbing.

  “Then touch them.”

  Her eyes widened in the reflection. “Pardon?”

  “Pet your tits, love. Help me give you pleasure.”

  Her breath stuttered. She couldn’t possibly… could she? Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own, moving toward the full mounds. Her trembling palms cupped the needy curves, pleasure tingling through her. What she was doing was depraved—and powerfully arousing.

  “That’s right, darling. Touch yourself for me,” he encouraged in a guttural voice. “Play with those pretty nipples.”

  In the reflection, the woman shamelessly caressed her own breasts, rubbing the stiff pink tips between her fingers. Hot sparks danced from her nipples to her pussy. Knowing that Andrew was watching her, hearing the hunger in his growled praise, unspooled her remaining inhibitions. Pinching and playing, she abandoned herself to the pleasure that her body could give her.

  Large hands clamped on her thighs, spreading them. Panting,
she watched as he parted her blonde curls, exposing her vulnerable center. He ran a long finger along the slick seam, and her entire being shivered.

  “Look at your beautiful cunny,” he rasped. “Pink and wet with your cream. Can you see, love?”

  Heavens, she could—and the fact made her even wetter. Need coiled in her belly. She was desperate for the relief he could give her.

  “Look at me, Primrose.”

  Her gaze flew to his; the primal possessiveness in those dark depths made her pulse race.

  “What do you want? Tell me, and it’s yours,” he commanded.

  “Make love to me,” she whispered.

  “You can do better than that, sunshine.” His thumb nudged upward, skirting around the peak of her bliss, teasing her. “Give me the words. The ones I taught you. The naughty ones running through your head right now.”

  Desire tore fear to shreds, tossing it to the winds.

  “Put your cock in my pussy,” she pleaded. “Please, Andrew.”

  Triumph burned in his eyes. “God, yes.”

  He tore off his shirt, and her mouth pooled at the sight of his virile beauty, those carved slabs and ridges of muscle. His boots thumped onto the floor, his hands working on the waistband of his trousers. He stripped them off, baring his erection.

  She couldn’t help but gawk at the extent of his arousal: the thick, turgid shaft stood tall against his flat belly, the head engorged and glistening. He wrapped one hand around his member, the other taking something from his discarded trousers. Puzzled, she watched as he brought a white tube with dangling red strings toward his straining cock.

  “What is that?” she said.

  “A French letter.” At her blank look, his lips curved. “It prevents conception, love. I promised to protect you, remember?”

  As understanding dawned, her cheeks heated—and her belly did as well as she watched him don the sheath, which barely accommodated him. He deftly tied the strings and then he lunged over her. He pushed inside, and she gasped at the steady invasion, the unrelenting stretch of his cock opening her up. When he hilted fully inside her, she moaned, discomfort chased away by bliss. By having him where she needed him.

  “Christ, that’s good. The best bloody feeling in the world.” His gaze smoldered into hers. “Being inside you, Primrose—there’s no place I’d rather be.”

  The force of her emotions was almost too much to bear.

  “I want you,” she said achingly. “So much, Andrew.”

  “Then take me, love,” he growled.

  The rhythm of his hips whirled her senses. Gentle at first, then harder and harder, his thrusts pushed her toward that sparkling edge of abandon. Her mind blurred as he whispered hot, naughty words into her ear: how sweet her pussy was, how he loved its hungry kiss, loved feeding every inch of his prick into her tight little hole. She held on as best as she could as he pounded into her, grinding against her mound, making her see stars. The sound of smacking flesh mingled with her moans and his harsh breaths, and her gaze suddenly caught the reflection overhead.

  Her slender limbs were wrapped all around Andrew. Her hands clutched his hard, flexing shoulders, her legs circling his lean hips as he rode her. The ropey muscles of his back rippled, his buttocks hollowing as he filled her again and again with throbbing joy.

  The power of their mating surged through her. Their lovemaking was carnal, raw.

  Beautiful.

  Something broke inside her. She moaned his name as torrents of pleasure set her free, carrying her over the edge.

  “Yes, Primrose,” he groaned. “I can feel you coming.”

  Tremors of bliss shook her, yet he didn’t stop. He continued to drive into her, his burning gaze her only anchor in the maelstrom. She absorbed the potent pummeling of his hips, the focused momentum of his thrusts, wanting to give him the same rapture he’d given her. Suddenly, he pushed her knees back, opening her further to his commanding incursions, and, incredibly, her spent nerves rekindled.

  “So bloody beautiful,” he growled. “This time, you’re coming with me.”

  “But I just…” She gasped as his heavy stones slapped her sex, setting off new quakes.

  “You can do it again.” He leaned over and captured her right nipple between his lips. The hot, hard suckling caused her lower muscles to tighten, and he groaned, “Yes, squeeze me just like that. Stroke my cock with your sweet pussy until we both go over.”

  Molten pleasure rushed through her. She was so close… almost there…

  He reached between their heaving bodies, strumming her pearl as his cock drilled into her.

  “Oh, Andrew—it’s happening.” Sensations overflowed, and, with a cry, she came again.

  “Goddamn, it is.” His head snapped back, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief. He roared as he slammed into her again and again and again.

  Finally he stilled, buried deep inside her. The rich satisfaction in his gaze curled her toes.

  “Well, love?” he said huskily. “Have I scandalized you sufficiently?”

  “No.” She dimpled at him. “You’re welcome to try even harder the next time.”

  Her reward was his laughter filling the room.

  ~~~

  After Andrew disposed of the French letter and cleaned Primrose with a moist cloth, he returned to the bed. He doused the lamps and tucked her soft backside against his front. For the first time, he prepared to fall asleep with a partner after sex.

  He’d made it a policy never to sleep with customers. If women wanted to fall asleep in his arms and paid to do so, he’d wait until they dozed off before leaving. With lovers, he either left after the act, or they did. He’d never even slept with Kitty: both of them had understood the limits of their intimacy.

  For sleeping together was an intimate act. More intimate, in some ways, than sex itself. To be in that unguarded state with a woman, to hold her through dreams and nightmares, to wake tangled up in one another—it wasn’t something he’d wanted to do… until now.

  He cuddled Primrose closer. He felt mellow and satiated, his eyelids heavy.

  “How does the French letter prevent conception?” Primrose chirped.

  He blinked away the beginnings of sleep. Then his lips curled. Her innocence and natural wantonness were a unique blend, to be sure, adding to her subtly off-kilter charm.

  “It catches my seed. Prevents it from reaching your womb where it might take root and grow into a babe,” he explained.

  “Oh.”

  He could almost see the cogs turning in her head as she took this in. An image sprang into his own mind: of Primrose, her belly ripe with his child. The notion of siring a babe had never appealed to him before. For one, he wasn’t certain what kind of father he’d make, having not known his own, and for another, he wouldn’t get a woman with child unless she was his wife. And he’d never met a woman he’d wanted to marry.

  Until Primrose. He shoved aside the thought, which was neither here nor there. Regardless of what he wanted, he knew marriage was not an option; she’d been perfectly clear on that, and he’d understood and accepted her terms.

  Then why did the image of her, glowing and round with his babe, stir some unholy desire in him? Why did it make him want to mount her again, this time without the damned letter, and plow her until she was full of his seed? Until she was dripping with his essence…

  “And the time before… when you, um, reached completion… externally, so to speak, was that also to prevent getting me with child?”

  Despite his growing desire, he had to grin at her delicate wording. “Yes. Although,” he said in the spirit of honesty, “it was also arousing to see my seed on your skin.”

  “Oh.” This time the word had a breathy edge. “Is that a normal way of proceedings?”

  “Perhaps not normal but also not unusual,” he said judiciously. “When it comes to sex, there are many variations, and I’m of the mind that as long as the parties are agreeable and no one is harmed, there is no right
or wrong.” He stroked her shoulder, savoring its smoothness. “I meant what I said before: there are no rules in our bed except those we make. I want you to be free to explore your desires with me, Primrose. Tonight’s experiment didn’t turn out so badly, did it?”

  “Not badly at all. In fact, I’ve grown rather attached to the looking glass.”

  Her sultry giggle dispersed wisps of heat through his blood. He’d never known a woman to be so chatty after intercourse. Primrose, however, seemed intent upon reviewing their sexual activities, and, instead of putting him to sleep, the conversation was having the opposite effect.

  He’d climaxed vigorously not a quarter hour ago, and already he had a cockstand. Goddamn. Such recovery was exceptional, even for him.

  “This is lovely, isn’t it?” she said with a happy sigh. “I feel so free. I never thought having a lover would be fun.”

  His arm tightened around her waist. “Don’t get any ideas. It’s only fun with me.”

  She giggled again, turning to face him. Even in the dimness, he could see the gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Possessive, are you?”

  “You’re mine,” he stated unequivocally. “In bed, you may play any games you want. Outside of bed—I won’t tolerate it.”

  “You needn’t be so serious.” A pout entered her voice. “I was only teasing. I have no intention of taking other lovers.”

  “Good. Because I won’t allow it.”

  “Come to think of it, isn’t the pot calling the kettle black?” she said with a huff. “After all, you’ve had plenty of lovers.”

  “That was in the past.”

  There was a pause. “How long ago in the past?”

  Damn, she’d caught him off guard. His jealousy had distracted him from the fact that her hand had crept slyly and directly onto the lid of Pandora’s Box.

  Apprehension prickled his nape, but he said dismissively, “It’s been two years.”

  “Who was she?”

  Christ. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. To bring into their bed a figure that ought to have disappeared from both their lives long ago. He couldn’t allow the beauty blossoming between him and Primrose to be tainted by his weakness—by his sheer stupidity. Perhaps later he’d tell her; there was no reason to do so now. Not when they were just finding their balance in what had been a tempestuous journey.