If he’d not turned to anger, he might have wept at the sweetness of the gesture.
He had fought so long to be strong, not to need anyone, especially anyone in his own family—because they always seemed to disappoint—and yet, there he was finding himself needing Claire.
And that awareness terrified him, made him more vulnerable than he desired to be.
Anne cared only about Anne. He knew where he stood with her, would always know. They shared few emotional ties. It was the physical that bound them.
With Claire, there was so much more. She was like the river flowing before him. He could study the surface all afternoon, but unless he waded into it, he’d have no idea what ran through it.
Claire’s flirtations were innocent, naïve, and touching. She did not possess the sophistication of other women with whom he’d been intimately involved, and yet he had a sense that she would be far more satisfying. The thought of taking the steps to learn the truth terrified him. Yet he had to admit that the more time he spent in her company, the more he yearned to have her. But everything would change.
Shoving himself to his feet, he grabbed the reins. “Come on, old boy. Back to town we must go.”
“Oh, Fen, please go to sleep.”
It was after two o’clock in the morning, and the puppy was whining and yelping as though his heart were breaking. Claire had placed him on a mound of blankets in a box in her bedchamber because somehow the little rascal had already managed to steal her heart, and she couldn’t stand the thought of handing him over to a servant, who might ignore him.
It was obvious Westcliffe didn’t want him. He’d not arrived home until long after supper, and based upon the cigar smell emanating from his clothes and the languid look in his eyes, he’d been enjoying himself at the club. They’d passed in the hallway, and he’d said little more than good night.
At least he’d said something. She took comfort in that.
But now, sitting on the floor in her nightgown, petting the puppy, trying to comfort it, she was exhausted and desperate for sleep. She’d managed to catch a few snatches, perhaps half an hour in all.
A rap sounded on her door. Probably Beth again, asking her to silence the dog. “Yes?”
The door opened, and Westcliffe came in. Barefoot, he wore only trousers and a shirt that was half-buttoned. It wasn’t even properly tucked in. The hem just flowed around his lean hips. His hair was disheveled, sticking up at the back on one side. He was all rumpled, and she thought he’d never looked more delicious.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is he keeping you awake as well? I’ve tried everything. Warm milk, taking him for a walk. I’m at my wit’s end.”
His feet made not a sound as he walked over the carpet, which surprised her as his feet were so large, long, yet lean. He sat on the floor beside her, bent one knee, draped his wrist over it, and unfolded his fingers to reveal his pocket watch.
“What?” she asked caustically. “I just need to make him aware of the time?”
He gave her a self-mocking smile that tugged at her heart. Then he slipped the watch beneath the blankets in the box. The puppy went quiet and curled around it.
“Oh,” she whispered in amazement. “Wherever did you learn that trick?”
“The servant who looked after the hounds at Ainsley’s estate. When I first acquired Cooper, he was just as unhappy as this little fellow, and Mother, bless her, banished him to the stables. Of course, I’d not leave him to sleep alone, so I was there as well.”
He reached toward the box, and she grabbed his wrist. “Don’t wake him.”
“Did I hear you say earlier that you’d named him Fenimore?”
She nodded. “After James Fenimore Cooper. It didn’t seem right to name him Cooper, but as he’s you’re favorite author, I thought using another of his names would serve just as well.”
With her fingers still wrapped around his wrist, he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek. “I owe you an apology for earlier. I’d received some unfortunate news—”
“Worse than your dog dying?”
“No, not worse than that actually. But I did not take well to the news. Some of my investments have taken a turn I’d have rather them not. It put me in a foul temper.”
“They’ll turn back around.”
“I thought you were the pessimist.”
“Only when everyone else is being an optimist. I like to be different.”
“You’ve always been that.”
She’d not seen him move, but he was suddenly nearer, close enough that his breath caused the strands that had worked free of her braid to lift slightly and tickle her temple. She’d left only one lamp burning low, but it was enough to see the seriousness in his gaze.
“It wasn’t only your dowry,” he said softly.
She furrowed her brow, and immediately his thumb was pressing out the creases. “Pardon?” she asked.
“I didn’t marry you only for your dowry or because of an archaic contract that was signed by our fathers. I wanted laughter in my life.”
“And you’ve had little enough of it.” She closed the distance between them, taking his mouth with a boldness that stunned her.
But she was tired of waiting for him to forgive her, tired of waiting for something monumental to happen between them, tired of waiting for him to come to her bed. Coming to her bedchamber was close enough.
Despite the tautness of her braid, his fingers were suddenly threaded through her hair at the side of her head, wrapping around to the back, holding her in place as his mouth plundered hers with far more efficiency and far less decorum. His tongue swept through, exploring and conquering every nook and cranny, every corner. Taking her cue, she dared to do her own exploring. As always, his taste was rich and flavorful.
Drawing her mouth from his, she trailed it along his jaw, his neck, until she was able to pinch his earlobe between her teeth. He issued a low groan, his hands behind her back, tugging on her hair, loosening her braid.
“Westcliffe, is the puppy the only reason you’re here?” she asked with what she hoped was a sultry voice.
“No.”
“Then you’re here—”
“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Pure unadulterated joy shot through her. She couldn’t contain it, didn’t want to contain it. She wanted him to see everything she felt.
But first, she had to kiss him again. Just as her lips met his, he pulled her onto his lap. Once again, he took over the kiss, deciding the direction in which it should go, and she found herself in uncharted territory. How many different ways could there be to kiss? This time he was suckling on her tongue, silk and velvet at the same time.
She tugged on his shirt, working it off his arms, lifting it to his neck. He had to break off the kiss so she could remove it completely, whisking it over his head. She expected his mouth to return to hers, and instead it went to her throat.
Just below where his mouth was, his fingers were making short work of loosening her buttons, and as the material began to part so his mouth followed the path until it reached her navel. While his tongue dipped inside, her breasts rested on the soft, thick strands of his hair. She ran her fingers through them.
Lifting his head, he slid the gown off her shoulders and down her arms. She saw awareness and anticipation light his dark eyes.
Without warning, he stood and pulled her to her feet, leaving her gown pooled on the floor. With no modesty whatsoever, he removed his trousers and cast them aside. Before she had time to completely take in his magnificence, his mouth captured hers again as he brought her flush against him, heat and hardness molding against the softness of her stomach. The sensations swirling through her were incredibly intense, but she knew no fear, perhaps because she had no reservations, no doubts.
Putting one arm at her back and the other behind her knees, he swept her up and carried her across the room. He followed her down as he laid her on the bed, his body half-covering hers, his leg wedged between her
thighs. He skimmed his hand along her side.
“Where exactly is it?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your ticklish spot.”
“You’re mad. I can’t laugh at a time like this.”
“I want you to. Just once.”
Releasing a burst of laughter, she raised her head and ran her tongue along his collarbone, relishing the saltiness of his skin. His arm came around her, pressing her closer to him, his hand holding the back of her head so she could linger at his throat. She nipped his skin, then soothed the spot with her tongue. His breathing grew harsher, his groans deeper. Turning herself into him, she skimmed her sole up his calf.
He was so firm, everywhere. He’d been gangly as a boy, less so on the day they married. But now he was all man, hard and muscled, toned and fit.
Pressing her back on the bed, he took his turn at torturing her by laving the side of her throat, journeying along the soft underside of her chin, then kissing his way down the other side of her throat. Each touch awakened something deep inside her, something that had been slumbering. Although she wasn’t certain that was an accurate description of what she was feeling. She was holding nothing back. She wasn’t afraid of him, wasn’t wary of what he might deliver. For the first time, she felt up to the challenge of giving as much as she was given.
She’d seen him as a god, a man who knew his way around women, while she’d felt a novice. She’d equated physical experience with exquisite results. But she knew now that it didn’t matter if she’d never touched another man intimately. It only mattered that she wanted to touch him, know the feel of him, bring pleasure to him.
She might not be accomplished, she might even be clumsy in her efforts, but they were honest attempts. The man she’d thought he was would have laughed, perhaps ridiculed her. The man she now knew him to be would appreciate her and urge her on.
He nibbled his way to her right breast, kissing the inside of it, his rough bristle abrading the skin, heightening her pleasure. With his tongue, he circled her nipple. It hardened, pearled, seemed to beg for something. She raised her hips, pressing herself against his thigh, the pleasure traveling from the center of her womanhood to her breasts, creating a tension that had her writhing.
He closed his mouth over her nipple, and she released a small cry as desire poured through her. Her nerve endings danced. Her skin had never been as sensitive. Her breasts felt swollen and heavy. Cupping the one he was suckling, he began kneading it, stirring passion that demanded something more.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, clawed her way down his back. Growling, he pressed his rigid manhood against her thigh, and she wondered if the sensations were as unbearable for him as they were for her. She longed to reach the end of the journey, and with the next stroke of his tongue, touch of his fingers, she wanted them to continue traveling this path until it built into an inferno.
It was so close, so close. Their flesh had grown slick with the heat of their passion. She held him near while he slid his mouth across the valley between her breasts and began to give his sweet attentions to the other one. A suckle, a bite, a pinch, a stroke.
She scraped her fingernails across his hardened nipples, and he murmured, “Yes.”
Lifting her head, she licked what she had scored, and he growled low in his throat as though she tormented him.
These moments were nothing like her aunt had described. There was no lying back while he lifted the hem of her nightgown. It was constant movement, constant stroking. It was giving and receiving pleasures. It was groaning while he growled, whimpering while he moaned. It was joy and satisfaction.
Again he took control, grabbing her wrists, raising them over her head, holding them firm with one hand. Her eyes captured his, and she watched as his gaze took a slow sojourn over her body. She saw the heat of passion burn more intensely as his nostrils flared, his jaw clenched. Her own breathing became labored. She thought she should have felt shame or embarrassment to be exposed like this, but all she felt was desired. He looked at her as though he’d never seen a more exquisite creature.
Dipping his head, he blanketed her mouth and his tongue delved more deeply, more passionately. Slowly, he trailed his hand down her hip, her thigh, and brought it around to rest heavily between her legs, his fingers gliding intimately—
She gasped as the pleasure speared her and shot through her until it felt as though there was no part of her body that he was not touching. Still kissing her, he swallowed her cries, her moans. He tormented her, but it was the most heavenly torture imaginable.
He returned his mouth to her breasts while his fingers elicited further sensations and cries from her. When she was near, so very near, to exploding like a thousand fireworks in the sky, he eased between her thighs and took her mouth with astounding eagerness, while she exhibited more boldness than she ever had expected of herself. It was as though they were parrying, then waltzing. With him, there was no single movement, no repetition. Each kiss was different from the one that had come before it. Sometimes shallow, sometimes deep. Each touch was a surprise: a gentle caress, a firm stroke, a desperate urging. The dance of their bodies dictated the rhythm. What amazed her the most was that they seemed to be listening to the same music, that there were no missteps, no awkwardness. It was as though they’d been together a thousand times before while being together, truly together, for the first time.
She loved his rich, dark flavor, loved the musky scent of him heated by their passion. His skin was slick and velvety beneath her fingers, dampened by a light coating of dew.
Rising above her, with his knees, he spread her thighs farther apart, with his fingers he probed intimately. He rested his mouth near her ear, his harsh breathing echoing off the pillow. “Let me know if it hurts. I’ll stop.”
She nodded, even as she knew that if they stopped now, she would die from lack of fulfillment, and she was fairly certain he would as well. Why had she feared this? Why had she feared a man who would give her such consideration?
Then she felt the pressure as he pushed into her, the discomfort quickly following—
Then he gave a powerful thrust, and she cried out. They both stilled. She watched his face above hers, saw the agony outlined in his features. Working her wrists free of his hold, she cradled his head. “It’s all right.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s better now.” She gave him a timid smile. “Is this it then? Is this how it ends?”
He grinned. “It is far from over, sweetheart.”
Before she could nod or respond, he slid a hand beneath her bottom, lifting her slightly, burying himself more fully inside her. He was thick and heavy, and she’d not thought she could take any more of him, but somehow her body accommodated his size. Then, slowly, he began to rock against her, pulling himself out, pushing himself back in, a little deeper, a little more insistent, a little faster.
The discomfort gave way to pleasure, jumping in leaps and bounds, and she was reminded of water playing over rocks in a nearby brook at the estate. The water splashed higher as the rocks got larger.
Her body tightened. She wrapped her arms around him, then moved her hands down to hold on to his firm buttocks. She eagerly met his thrusts as he pounded into her.
She lifted her gaze to find his eyes concentrating on her. His jaw was clenched, his breathing labored. There was a feral look to his features, a ferocity to the deep growls that rumbled through his throat. She thought she’d never seen anything as magnificent.
Watching him heightened her own pleasure until it became almost unbearable. She wanted to close her eyes, but he was so magnificent. And she suddenly knew what was driving him, why he was so focused on her face: He wanted to witness pleasure taking her over completely.
Then her body exploded, a thousand fireworks in every color, sparking throughout, dancing through her veins, tingling her flesh. She felt her body pulsing around him as he cried out, his thrusts going deeper, deeper—
Unt
il he threw his head back, the tremors shaking them both. He collapsed on top of her, rose on his elbows to keep some of his weight off her. She wound her arms and legs around him, holding him near. Tiny rivulets of pleasure continued to journey through her, and she wondered how it was possible to still be conscious after what she’d just experienced.
His hands closed around her head as he held her in place and pressed his forehead to hers. “All I wanted to do was stop the damned dog from whining so I could get some sleep.”
Laughing, she hit his shoulder. “Instead, you nearly woke him up.”
When he lifted his head, he was smiling, the most glorious smile she thought she’d ever seen. “I never did find your ticklish spot.”
“Perhaps you need to go exploring again.”
“Perhaps so. But first, some sleep.”
Rolling off her, he grabbed the sheet, flicked it over both of them, and tucked her up against his side. Before she even blinked, he was gently snoring near her ear.
Claire awoke to find herself alone in the bed. She couldn’t stem the tide of disappointment that slammed into her. She’d hoped that tonight their marriage had crossed a threshold, that they could truly embrace their roles as husband and wife.
Sitting up in bed, she realized she wasn’t alone in the room. Westcliffe was sitting on the small sofa before the fireplace. He appeared to be staring into the empty hearth. Surely lying in bed, staring at his wife would have been more pleasing.
As her nightgown was on the floor near the sitting area, she grabbed her wrap from the foot of the bed and slipped it on. As quietly as possible she glided over to the sitting area. He was wearing his trousers but no shirt. His elbows were digging into his thighs, his chin resting on his balled fists. His gaze was indeed on the cold, empty hearth.
Passions of a Wicked Earl Page 17
