by Sophia Nash
“Not really,” she breathed. She was glad he didn’t turn her over. She clamped her eyes shut.
The bed dipped and she knew he sat on the edge of the frame. Again, his hand traced the curve of her spine, only this time his other hand joined the first. He singled out every last quivering muscle of her back to ease the tension. As she relaxed, his touch became smoother, and he traced the contours of her back over and over in a figure eight until she grew warm.
And then suddenly, he was pushing the chemise and gown gathered at her waist even lower, exposing her bottom.
She heard a muffled sound escape him. Every muscle in her back reengaged.
“Oh, Roxanne,” he murmured.
She dug her face into the covers, mortified.
“You take my breath away. Truly, you do.”
And then his mouth took the place of his hands before she could tell him again that she didn’t fancy compliments. He was kissing every last inch of her back and her bottom, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. She turned her head to inhale a huge lungful of air.
She knew she should be lost to these feelings, but she was too busy wondering what he was really thinking and also what she should be doing to him. How could she even touch him if she was too shy to turn over and expose herself to him?
And then, she just didn’t care. She remembered that soon he would never see her again. And she knew enough about a man’s anatomy to know that when it came to the critical point, he would not be able to feign interest that was not there.
He ran his fingers through her hair, and she could feel his breath on her back. Slowly, she eased over to face him and managed to somewhat gracefully cross her arms over her breasts at the last minute.
He paused and stared into her eyes. “Everyone has something they don’t like about their physique, Roxanne. You’ve made it easy to divine yours.” He paused. “Soon, you might guess mine.”
His brown eyes had grown darker in the night. She silently released her breasts to grasp the sides of his nearly translucent white nightshirt and inched it up. He stayed her hands. “Not yet,” he insisted.
“Why?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own.
His voice was raspy. “Because I’m not done.”
She knew nothing about turns. “Am I not to touch you?”
“Later,” he growled, and then dipped down to taste her. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip at the pleasure of it. She wanted to twist against him, but didn’t dare because she didn’t want him to stop. She curled her toes instead and could not stop a moan from escaping her lips. His warm palm massaged her other breast and tweaked the crest as he gently bit the other’s tip. Her entire body convulsed on the bed and warmth flooded her womb. “Ohhhh . . .”
“Mmmmm,” he murmured as he continued his torturous ministrations.
She could not stop herself from arching her back to get closer to him and he complied with maddening leisure, feasting on her for such long minutes that her flesh ached and became even more sensitive to his tongue. She crossed her legs and squirmed. And her hands clenched his arms, clasping him still closer. She was afraid he might stop, and there was something achingly elusive about what he was doing. She wanted him to continue but she also wanted him to stop.
As if he could read her mind, he glanced up at her, his mouth covering her nipple, and gazed at her with . . . with reverence. Yes, that is what she hoped it was.
All sensation was centered on her small breasts, and he would not stop the pleasure pain of it. It seemed forever that she strained against him as he touched her with his tongue, his mouth, his teeth, and his firm fingers. She was ready to scream from the white hot desire.
All at once, she realized one of his hands had drifted to her navel and then . . . lower.
He stroked the blond curls at the apex of her thighs, and she inhaled sharply.
Yes . . . That was where another ache had grown.
The candlelight flickered over the features of his beautiful face, which appeared strained.
He nipped her breast again and again and then soothed it with his tongue and his lips. Oh, was there a more wonderful feeling?
And then, just as he sucked hard, his hand slid fully between her thighs, and two of his fingers entered her, his thumb pressing higher.
She shattered into a thousand points of light, and cried out his name. He plunged deeper, and sucked harder and she convulsed, great pulses throbbing deep inside her, clutching his fingers, which moved within her relentlessly.
She couldn’t breathe, afraid it might stop. Slowly, the last undulation echoed through her, and she gulped air inelegantly like a drowning woman.
He gently released her and drew her into his arms, rolling her until they were side by side. He was still clothed, while she was more naked than not. He pushed away the rest of her rumpled gown from her legs, using his foot.
“I’ve been a very patient man,” he groaned, kissing the tip of her nose.
“Mmmm,” she said, unable to speak coherently.
“I’ve been longing to see certain parts of you since the day I met you. All right, perhaps it was the next day when I saw you without all that dust.”
She snuggled into the crook of his neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know you never longed to see my breasts.”
“No, you’re correct,” he murmured frankly. “I didn’t have to fantasize about them as I became un peu fou after touching them the—”
“Un peu? That means little. You don’t need to remind me of the size—” she interrupted.
“Hush,” he interrupted right back. “I said they drove me a little crazy. And no, you are not to tell me I’m not allowed to give compliments while in bed,” he insisted. “You must allow the Gallic in me to overcome the dour English, who cannot come up with an original observation at the point of a dagger.”
She said not a word.
“It’s hard to decide,” he said, as if trying to decipher a complicated algorithm, “if I’ve wanted more to see your derrière or your legs, which I still have not examined, by the way.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I had not paid homage to where you wanted attention.”
“How did you know?” She was whispering so softly, he had to bend his head toward her.
“I knew. Every person secretly longs for someone to adore the one part they do not find attractive.”
She was silent for a long moment before she spoke. “Your legs,” she said softly.
“What about my legs?”
“That’s the part of you that you don’t like.”
“I can’t imagine why I would not like my legs. They are very fine legs for a man,” he said with hauteur.
She smiled. “I’m sure they are.”
“Well, then, why did you suggest I would be embarrassed by my legs?”
“To stop you from uttering some ridiculous compliment again.”
“You’re very sure of yourself now, eh?”
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Pourquoi?”
“Please don’t do that. French makes me nervous.”
“Why did you thank me?”
“I finally understand what you were trying to explain to me earlier about completion.”
“Good.”
She wondered why he wasn’t trying to cover her with his body now. He had far too much control over himself for someone who truly lusted after her. Well, she was done being embarrassed. She would address the issue straight on.
She grasped the side of his nightshirt and tugged it up.
He stopped her hand. “Don’t you think that was enough of an education for one night?”
“Oh, my God. It’s your—your manhood,” she whispered, shocked.
“What about it?” His entire body tensed.
“What you’re embarrassed about,” she replied with compassion.
He immediately sat up and removed his shirt. “No, bloody hell. It’s not that. Good God, woman, don’t you k
now enough to never, ever suggest something like that to a man?”
She looked at the gleaming sheen of bronzed, muscled flesh in front of her and swallowed. Dear Lord, he was perfect. She could see the fast pulse of a vein near his neck, and dragged her eyes down across the defined ridges of his chest and abdomen. There were so many ripples with each tiny movement. A sprinkling of dark hair dusted the planes of his chest.
She just couldn’t bring herself to drop her gaze lower than his navel, and the defined V of his hips. There was a trail of dark hair . . . She jerked her gaze up to meet his.
He didn’t know how to tell her that he wasn’t embarrassed about a single inch of his physique. He could not care less about his form. As long as it accomplished the tasks he set out for it to do, he was satisfied.
The problem was that there was a certain part of him that he had pushed long past the task he usually assigned it, and he was as unsatisfied as a soldier on the march for two years.
He growled and reached down to lift her leg in the air and rolled away the stocking. “I knew it.”
She pointed her toes reflexively.
“It’s a bloody toss-up,” he declared.
“What is?”
“I can’t decide if I like better your lovely long legs, or your derrière. Both are perfection.”
“You, Alex, are impossible.”
“Then again,” he continued, “there is the matter of your breasts. Extraordinarily responsive. I think we should check on them again, don’t you?”
“Enough! You must stop dishing out this muck. I’m immune.”
“Ahem, I think we already proved you are not.”
“Why can’t I be immune, if you are?”
“Who said I was immune?”
“Well . . .”
“Oh, for bloody hell. How can you be embarrassed to say anything to me after tonight?”
“All right, why haven’t you taken me in the usual fashion? Do you not want to?”
He rolled his eyes. “Are you blind?” He reached for her hand and guided it to his arousal. And then regretted it. “Oh God. Don’t move,” he ground out.
“I’m not a virgin. Remember, Alex? You seem in pain. Let me ease you.”
“No,” he insisted roughly.
“How ridiculous,” she whispered.
“We’ve proved what you came here to find out.”
“What? That I’m not frigid?”
“Exactly.”
“Why are you considered a rake again? Do I have to beg you?” She searched his face, and he felt like the idiot he was. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Just touch me then, cherie,” he groaned. He covered her hand with his own. “Like this.” He guided her for a few strokes and then he released her hand to clench his. He shouldn’t have shown her. It would be over far too fast. But then, it would be better that way. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on all the stupid breeds of dairy cows in Cornwall.
In alphabetical order.
The Aberdeen Angus, the bloody British White, and the . . . Devon . . . No, the South Devon . . . Oh, God.
He felt the warmth of her other hand cup his bonbons and he was lost in that delicious sensation tightening his lower back.
He was like a fountain under pressure, exploding in a never-ending series of long bursts. Warmth filled his veins as it continued in strong pulses. He breathed in as the pulses slowed to a stop. Alex felt lighter than air and couldn’t move for the heaven of it.
After long moments, he finally gathered an edge of linen sheeting and swiped away the evidence of his spilled seed before grasping her close to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said in all seriousness.
He bit back a smile. “I can’t wait to hear why.” Alex stroked her hair, and felt the strong stirrings of happiness in his chest. He pushed it away and tried to find humor in the scenario. He failed miserably as they stayed there, silent. He could almost hear the grinding of the gears in her head.
“I’m sorry I took advantage of you,” she finally uttered. “I fear I only came here to prove Lawrence wrong. I might have used you to get back at him.”
“You could just use the more traditional approach of lying, you know. You could suggest you succumbed to my virile charms,” he uttered, not believing a word she said.
“If it makes you feel better, we could employ that excuse. Go ahead and add another notch to your bedpost. Who am I to deny you your measure of male pride?” She placed her hand over his heart.
“Actually,” he admitted, trying to keep a lightness in his voice he did not feel. “It’s only a half notch as we did not truly engage in relations.”
“It was more intimate than anything in my woeful history,” she replied quietly.
He nuzzled her head and kissed her lightly. Her hand was now caressing his chest and abdomen as she appeared lost in thought. She had no idea what it was doing to him. She had no idea what the mere thought of her did to him. He couldn’t stop the groan as she traced the trail of hair down past his navel.
She abruptly stopped. Her eyes flew up to meet his and she smiled with surprise. “Don’t tell me you require another half notch?”
His lips twitched on her neck, and then he lightly nipped her. “I’m known for my pride.”
“Well, I’m not at all sure I can do this to you,” she whispered in a light tone that did not match the seriousness of her eyes.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I don’t want to let you down. I fear I shall hurt you too badly when I leave.”
“I believe I’m the one who is supposed to say that, cherie.”
“No. You have too much male in you and would never dare say it—even if you feel it. It’s a well-established fact that a man would rather chew off his own hand than tell a woman he has tired of her.”
“Who told you that? It sounds like something that vixen Lady Mary would say.”
She tried to look away but he would not let her. “We both know I’m leaving and I have another life to begin living as do you with someone on that marriage list. I told you I’m going away as soon as I recover my fortune. So . . .”
“So . . . what?” Her breast fit the palm of his hand perfectly.
She inhaled with a hiss when he pinched the tip. “So I shall apologize now for any hurt I cause you later when I take my leave.” Her huge eyes glittered in the candlelight.
Now he wasn’t sure if she was acting or not. “All right. I’ll play this game if you insist,” he said evenly. “But I’m not certain I’ll recover. I sense a decline in my future.”
He had no earthly idea how those words would come back to haunt him in such a short period of time.
“I like you better when you are English. The French in you is un peu too inclined to spout nonsense.”
“That’s not how to say it, cherie.” He whispered something wicked and incomprehensible in her ear while he did something very explicit with his hands.
She gasped.
But tonight’s game would soon be over and they both knew it.
Chapter 13
She pursed her lips. Lord, how was she to withstand him?
She was not falling in love with him. She was merely in love with the idea of him . . . of an honest to goodness gentle man. A sheep in wolf’s clothing.
Oh, she was a complete idiot and knew it. But there was nothing she could do to stop her emotions. Shouldn’t a woman whose husband had tried to kill her nearly a month ago take a little more care to guard her heart?
But no. She never had, had she? It wasn’t in her nature, or in the nature of her father. Love was everything. Love was grand. And she would rather love and then leave than leave without having loved.
Not that she would ever admit it. Mary had been wrong. It was a woman who would chew off her own hand rather than tell a man she loved him without knowing he loved her, too. And there was not a chance of her ever hearing those words from Alexander Barclay, the ninth Duke of Kress, the man who had lock
ed away his heart more thoroughly than the Bank of England guarded the country’s wealth.
But his pride was nothing to hers. When she left, she would leave with her head high, and her pride intact. Yes, it would be the only thing keeping her warm this winter. And she would refuse to spend a single second wondering about his future life with a well-chosen young wife.
There was only one thing that was certain. If she made the mistake of making love to him, she would lose herself in the process. Her heart might very well be already lost, yes, but not yet her soul. She must extricate herself before it was too late. He had been strong enough to stop her earlier, now she must be strong enough for herself.
“I’m sorry, Alexander,” she whispered. “I just can’t do this to you.” To me, she wanted to shout.
He searched her face and tucked her into his arms. “Of course. But, I insist you stay here just a bit longer, won’t you? You look so very tired.”
She usually slept unevenly and woke at dawn’s first light. It was a habit born of years working with her father and then of managing her own household. Papa had taught her the importance of keeping similar hours to the mine workers and the servants. And so she was surprised to wake with sunlight streaming through the gap of the heavy curtains.
Good Lord. She was still in the Duke of Kress’s bed. She turned her head quickly only to find he was gone; the indentation of his head imprinted on the long bolster they had shared was the only indication that he had been there. Her eyes noticed a teacup resting on the walnut table next to his bed. She dragged herself to his side and noticed a note.
The door is locked. The tea is for you.
See you at supper.
A.
That was it . . . The most extraordinary night of her life, and all that remained was an impersonal note of three sentences left on a bedside table. It might as well have said, “Wonderful to see you. Do take care. So busy, must go.”
She sank back into the bed and pulled the sheet over her head. Oh, why was she surprised? Really, what did she expect? Flowers, a solution to her impossible situation, and a grand proposal?
Why, she had practically forced herself on him. Had he not made it perfectly clear that he did not believe in love? Had he not told her the very first day they had met that he was under orders by His Majesty to marry a rich, titled heiress? And had she not told him a thousand times that she loathed compliments and that she was leaving? And there was no need to add that she was married and dead.
