He winced. “I never went anywhere near her girls. Christ, the British are— My tastes are a little more respectable than that. Mrs. Berkley has a tendency to want things she is never going to get. She wants a demonstration. She came across an old box of my nawa ropes and started asking all too personal questions. I can assure you, I have not roped a woman in well over fifteen years.”
Thérèse was quiet for a long moment. “How did you get into ropes?”
How the hell did they get on this topic? He sighed. “A Japanese stowaway was on my ship. He was part of some law enforcement specializing in the art of restraint and would sit there all day with a bunch of nawa and do nothing but knot ropes. He sidled over to me one morning, shoved some nawa into my hands and insisted I learn. The knots were elaborate and…kept me from thinking about my face.” He hesitated and then admitted, “I was trying to fill voids. I was always trying to do things that did not remind me of you. Or us. If that makes any sense.”
“I am ever so glad to hear ropes do not bring me to mind,” she chided.
He smirked. “I am ever so glad to hear you still have a sense of humor. I appreciate that.”
“My sense of humor is the only thing that kept me alive.”
“Amen to that, madame. Amen to that.”
Her skirts edged in closer. “Are you interested in taking off that coat and kissing me?”
He paused, momentarily wishing he had the coat off his head just so he could see her face. “Well, I…” He cleared his throat. “You really want me to kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“As in right now?”
“Not through the coat, mind you.” She leaned in.
Her nearness, which he could feel through the damn wool, made his chest tighten. He wasn’t ready to let her see him, but he also wasn’t ready to let this moment go. “What if I want everything else first and kisses last? Would you agree to that?”
She tsked. “You never were one to take things slow.”
“In that, I have not changed, ma biche. You either dance with the devil or get out.”
Her voice became sultry. “Surely you know the devil and I are good friends. I survived the revolution. As did the devil standing before me.”
He shifted his jaw, tightening his hold on the coat. “I dare you to unbutton my trousers.”
Edging in close, her hands casually undid the buttons on his trousers. “Anything else?”
An ache he had carried with him since he left France overtook his ability to breathe. All he wanted was to touch her. If only to make himself believe this was real. “We are going to have to get creative, because I am not going upstairs to get my mask. Can you turn around?”
She dragged her hands down his chest through the coat. “Remove your coat.”
“No. I am not ready to—”
She pushed down the flap of his trousers and pushed down his undergarments, her soft fingers grazing the skin above his cock.
Christ. His cock grew hard. “Are you really wanting to do this right now?”
“I can always come back tomorrow.”
“No.” He grabbed her wrists, then turned her away with the jerk of his arms, letting his coat fall from his head. Before she could glance back, his one hand jumped to her eyes and the other to her throat, to keep her from moving or seeing anything. Her soft bundled hair grazed his chin, that sultry scent of jasmine and mint tingeing the air.
He paused, realizing white ribbons were tied into her hair.
His pulse roared. It was like feeling his heart beat again. He molded her possessively to his frame and chest, pressing his erection against her backside. “Are the white ribbons your way of saying you missed me?”
“My, you always were clever.”
By God, how he had missed her. “My heart has not changed,” he murmured. “Not by a beat.”
Her chest rose and fell visibly before him, those breasts taunting him. “Neither has mine, Gérard. My heart is still yours. It was always yours.”
His throat tightened. He buried his face into the softness of her jasmine scented hair. “How much do you remember?”
“Everything.” She quieted her voice. “How much do you remember?”
“More than everything. Including what should have been.”
A shaky breath escaped her. “Make love to me. Erase the years.”
He kissed the soft skin on her neck. “Are you certain you want to do this right now?”
“Did I not wear enough white ribbons?”
He bit back a smile and gently guided her forward and toward his writing desk. “Keep your eyes closed and do not look back at me.”
Her voice softened. “Gérard,” she said in French, her full lips moving beneath the hand he held against her eyes. “Your face is not what I fell in love with. Let me see you.”
He tightened his hold on her, the shock of hearing her speak French coupled with those words made him bury his face into her hair and breathe in deep. “Thérèse,” he replied in French. “By not showing you my face, I am protecting you from a past you have yet to understand. Let us embrace that we are back together first and return to my face last. At another time when we are both ready. Can you do that for me? For us?”
She nodded against the hand that still covered her eyes. “Oui. Yes.”
He kissed her throat. “Good,” he murmured. “Stay where you are.” He released her and unraveled his cravat, sliding it loose from around his throat and linen shirt. Snapping the silk tight, he lifted it over her head and wrapped it around her eyes twice, to ensure her sight was taken. He tied it firmly in place at the back of her head, pushing away her hair.
He gently traced her shoulder with a finger, dragging it down toward the front of her breast. He circled her nipple through the fabric of her gown. “Do you think we should try to make our way upstairs?”
Her lips parted in between breaths. “A desk is as good as any bed.”
It certainly was. He turned her toward himself and dragging her into his arms, lowered his gaze to her lips and kissed her. Slow, at first, to match the beat of his heart. Her hands jumped to the expanse of his back and tightened their hold, her mouth sensually working against his.
She still kissed the same.
He staggered and frantically molded his hands against her curves. He tongued her harder, trying not to doubt any of this was real.
Her hand slid between them and grasped his rigid cock, stroking its length.
He gasped against her mouth, knowing he had to slow them down. Breaking their kiss, in between ragged breaths, he set her onto the lacquered desk, letting her slippered feet dangle and gripped her hands hard. “No more stroking or this man will not be able to deliver.”
She puckered her full lips beneath the mask. “Has it been that long for you?”
He leaned in close, tracing his tongue across her lips and breathed out, “Yes. It has.”
She paused, unable to see past the blindfold. “Did you leave the door open?”
“Did you need it closed?”
“That would be boring.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Jerking up her skirts, he exposed her completely to himself and paused, perusing her pale shapely legs. “Very nice. How old are you again?”
A knowing smile touched her lips. “I walk three miles every day, regardless of whether I need an umbrella or not, drink my red wine and no longer touch meat. Meat ages a woman. This butcher girl should know.”
Gérard shifted his jaw and quickly leaned down and kissed one thigh and the other. The scent of powder made him drag the tip of his tongue across her skin. “I do not remember you ever powdering your legs,” he murmured. “When did that start?”
Her slippered feet and stockinged legs primly came together. “Legs need just as much attention as the face does.”
God. If only he had been able to find her sooner. If only— “You were supposed to stay in France, damn you. Do you know how long it took and how much fucking money I spent trying to find yo
u? Do you?”
She said nothing.
A breath escaped him. “We should have been together sooner. We should have—”
“No more regrets, Gérard. We have too many of those.”
True. But it didn’t hurt any less.
Kneeling, he dragged his hands down her thighs and dragged his lower teeth against the softness of that powdered skin. He closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of her and tried to remember that day in the forest when his horse came to skidding halt and he first saw her standing there in bare feet, her long, unraveling blond braid draped over her shoulder and a wicker basket in her hand. When her playful blue eyes had met his and she smiled—
He’d almost fallen off his damn horse.
Now, it was about to start all over again.
Opening his eyes, he continued to skim his hands across her bare skin. “Touching you is an honor. As it has always been. Do I have permission to make to love you, madame?”
Her voice smiled. “Oui, Monseigneur. I have been waiting a long time.”
Rising, he slid his hands down her smooth pale thighs and slid his entire hand between the wetness of her slit.
She swayed in between breaths and grabbed his shoulders hard.
He shoved down his undergarment that was already exposed due to her earlier advance and readied his body and mind for what he was about to do. Gripping her open thighs, he laid her back against the desk, kissing her and slowly slid deep into her, chanting to himself to go slow.
She rolled her hips up into him.
He gasped. “Thérèse. I am trying to go slow.”
“Why?” She rolled into his cock again. “Will this be the last time we are doing this?”
He hissed out an exasperated breath, realizing she always had the last say when it came to his mind and his heart. “No.” He moved in and out of her faster, claiming her. He stroked harder and harder, eliciting gasps out of both of them.
Sliding his hands all over her body, he shoved away her gown which had bundled between them and pushed his cock deeper into her wetness, increasing his pace.
She moaned, pushing up into him.
“This is me taking back your body.” He thrust. “You are mine again.”
“And you are mine.”
“Tell me you thought of me every time you fucked another,” he rasped. He thrust.
“I did,” she gasped. “No eyes were ever blue enough. No hands ever strong enough. No pleasure was ever…great enough.”
Those words made him realize they had both been living their lives wanting nothing but each other. It was too much. “Every woman I ever touched was you. You.”
She panted and trembled beneath him, her hands gripping his hair hard.
His pleasure overtook his ability to breathe. His rhythm became uncontrolled and frantic. His limbs trembled refusing to stop until he spilled.
She cried out.
Feeling her body tremor beneath his own, Gérard unraveled. He spilled seed into her as pleasure rippled through his entire body. He gasped, spilling more seed, working his cock faster in an effort to enjoy every pulsing coil of sensation that seemed to stop his heart. He stilled, trying to catch his breath and swallowed hard.
Dearest God. They were together again. Just like that.
It was the most glorious moment of his life.
Smoothing his hands across her face several times, he pulled out. He kissed her lips softly, then slid off the desk, tucking his cock away and buttoning his trousers back into place. He dragged her skirts back down in exasperation, covering her and puffed out a breath. “We went a bit fast.”
She remained against his desk. “We can go slow next time.” Her flushed face now turned toward him. Her cheek remained pressed against the lacquered desk, her eyes still blindfolded. “Kiss me again,” she whispered up at him.
His chest tightened. He slowly draped himself beside her on the desk again, resting his marred face against the cool wood of the desk and touched her full lips with his thumb. “Ma biche,” he whispered, taking them back to a time when they were both young. He dragged her arm over his shoulder, while ensuring her blindfold didn’t slip, gently set his mouth against hers.
Tears burned his eyes knowing they were finally claiming what had once been theirs.
Their mouths made love.
The hardness of the desk and their awkward positioning made him enjoy the luxury of the velvet heat of her working tongue even more. How he missed being hers.
He molded his mouth harder against hers, edging her head up off the desk enough to be able to deepen his kiss. If he didn’t stop he would only end up ripping the clothing off her body and tying her into a submissive position so he could touch her all morning and all night.
He broke away, smoothing her hair. “Nothing has changed between us, has it?”
A breath escaped her. “No. Nothing.”
“What happens now?”
Her lips curved into a smile. “We live happily ever after.”
He pressed his lips against her forehead.
She grinned. “Are you still up for an outing?”
He sighed, then slid her hand off his shoulder and sat up. “Are you certain you want to be seen with me in public? People stare.”
She shifted against the desk, toward him. “Given the name I have made for myself, people stare at me, too. So you will be in good company.”
God love her. God. Love. Her. He cradled her waist and gently lifted her off the desk and guided her body toward himself, tucking her against his chest. “Are you certain you want me back in your life, ma biche?”
She set her head against his chest and leaned into him. “I wanted you back the moment you left. You and I both know I only let you go to save you.”
He closed his eyes at the unexpected reply and tightened his hold around her, savoring the feel of that softness. A softness he thought he would never feel again. “I missed you. So much.” He lingered.
Seeing the chair he had earlier tossed and the books and everything from his desk strewn on the floor, he eventually asked her the one thing he had wanted and needed to know most. The thing that had haunted him the most. “What was our son like?”
She trailed a hand across his chest. “Henri had your eyes,” she whispered.
“Did he?”
“Yes. I have a portrait of him back at the house that you can have. He was so dashing and charming. Very much like you. There was not a girl who did not adore him. He loved to read and was a gifted swordsman. He started competing when he was seven.”
His lips parted. “A swordsmen? My son?”
She nodded against him. “He collected antique swords and would always ask me if his passion was something you would have approved of.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “What did you tell him?”
“That you were proud. And that one day, you would come back and see him fight.”
He squeezed his eyes shut harder, tears overwhelming him. “Was he happy? Prior to his illness?”
She was quiet for a moment. And then sobbed against him, her shoulders trembling. “Yes. But he…he was always overly serious in nature. Over the years, I think he pieced together the story of what happened to you and me. I think he wanted to ensure he never lost out the way we did. He lived life too fast, too desperate not to miss a single beat. He left me and France too early.” Her voice cracked. “Nothing I said or did would have stopped him. He had a path and he wanted to carve it out. He even…he blamed me for being the reason as to why you never came back. He said it was because I was a courtesan.”
He swallowed, opened his eyes and smoothed her hair. “Remove that burden from yourself, Thérèse. I did not stay away to punish you. My face kept me from— It took me too many years to accept what had happened to me. And when I finally did try to find you, you had already left France and no one was able to tell me where you had gone. So I went back to Russia and stayed there thinking maybe…” A breath escaped him.
She nudged up her
chin as if trying to see past the blindfold.
He knew she couldn’t see anything.
“What happened to your face?” she whispered. “What—”
“I will tell you. But not now.” The last thing he wanted was for her to blame herself. “No more crying for either of us. We are done with that. Come with me upstairs.”
Angling toward her, he swept her legs and back into his arms, startling her as he tossed her into the air high enough to fully straighten himself. He paused. She felt lighter than what he remembered. But then again, he was physically stronger than he had ever been. Rolling her toward himself, he swung around and carried her out of his study and up the stairs.
One of her hands patted his arm, smoothing her hand against it. “You have more muscle than what I remember.”
He almost bit her. “I worked with scythes in Russia for almost fifteen years. Every spring, summer and fall I was in the fields with my laborers. I own a lot of land in Russia. Prior to that, I invested and sailed merchant ships to the West Indies. Despite owning well over ten ships, I was moving crates and barrels like any other man.”
She hesitated. “Were you at all happy? Despite us being apart?”
What a question. “I would be lying if I told you my life had been glorious without you. It took a few years to define what happy meant, but once I found it, yes, I was happy. I had my mother’s family and they helped me through a lot. I got to travel the world and grow my own fortune. I was happy. As happy as a man can be without the love of his life.” He glanced down at her, noting that her head was wistfully leaning against his shoulder. “What about you? Were you happy?”
She sighed. “As happy as a woman can be without the love of her life. I managed.”
He savagely tightened his hold and carried her down the corridor, eventually veering into his bedchamber. He slammed the door shut with his booted foot. Striding her over to the bed, he laid her on it, tucking her head against the pillows to ensure she was comfortable. “Allow me a moment to get decent.”
She hesitated. “And then what?”
“We go out for those ices and sit in a paddle boat like you wanted. We have ‘fun’.”
“And after that?”
“We come back here, make love, eat and lounge.”
The Duke of Andelot Page 30
