A Kiss from a Rogue

by Elisa Braden

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Frankly, had I known what awaited me, I might have suggested marriage sooner.”

  —Dorothea Bainbridge, Countess Bainbridge, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter acknowledging that some men’s talents are unusual and some men’s wives are fortunate.

  Her skin pulsed with every pounding beat of her heart. She’d tried to gather enough courage to tell him everything. But she’d found it impossible.

  Merely standing here with him now, in his chamber, holding his hand and staring at his well-worn boots made her belly quake.

  Suddenly, he released her. Paced to the other side of the bed. Began tugging at his … cravat? Yes. He was trying to loosen what appeared to be a lovely Osbaldeston knot.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Let me loosen this damnable noose.”

  She took a deep breath and followed him, circling around to reach for his hands. “Allow me,” she murmured. His fingers dropped away, and she went to work unraveling the mess he’d made. “The problem is the starch, you see,” she explained. “It makes everything stiff and a bit sticky.” She felt his throat ripple on a swallow. “Apply too much force, and the tightness will work against you.”

  “God Almighty,” he rasped.

  As she often did when she was concentrating, she pressed her tongue against her lower lip. “Almost there.” One tug. Another. A pluck and a long sigh. And, at last, the cloth came free. “You see?” She grinned up at him, triumphant.

  His eyes—oh, heavens, his eyes were afire. Silvery and ravenous. They devoured her with lust. Need. Possession.

  Her head began to float. Recede.

  No! No, no, no.

  She grasped his neckcloth and yanked him closer.

  He grunted.

  She wrapped the white, starchy linen around her hands tightly. Tighter and tighter. Forcing it to bind her fingers together to the point of pain. Then, she tugged him down to her, rose up on her toes, and breathed his name against his lips. “Jonas.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I must close my eyes, now.” She did so, needing the darkness. “Then, I should very much like you to kiss me.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Afterward, I want to touch you. Naked. To be clear, I should like for you to be naked, not me. If you don’t mind.”

  “You are killing me, love.”

  “When you touch me, you must move slowly. I—I startle easily. Soon, I hope that we needn’t be so cautious.”

  “I hope the same.”

  “Eugenia was frank in her explanations. Frightfully so.”

  “Was she?”

  “Yes. I know what to expect. I am not ignorant.”

  “Good. That is good.”

  “One day, I shall be an excellent lover, Jonas. You shan’t regret the necessity of performing your husbandly duty.”

  “A relief, I assure you.”

  “I shall apply myself with great diligence.”

  “Diligence. Aye.”

  “Am I choking you?”

  “No, though perhaps we should sit. May I hold you, love?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and braced herself. Then, she nodded.

  Strong hands slid slowly along her hips, trailing firmly across her buttocks and up to her waist. He grasped her there, his fingers digging in just a bit. She liked it. Strength. Pressure that spoke of tension. He backed up several steps, pulling her with him. Then, she felt him lowering to sit on the bed. He drew her forward until she sensed their faces were aligned. His breath fell upon her forehead, her cheeks. Its rhythm was fast.

  “You mentioned kissing, did you not?” His voice held a teasing note as he brushed his lips against hers.

  She felt a flush of heat rising everywhere—breasts, thighs, cheeks—as she nodded. “Please.”

  “Such politeness.” He chuckled, the sound warm and resonant. “Shall I remove my coat?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth went dry. She wanted to open her eyes. To look at him. The frustration ate at her. “Can you do so while you kiss me?”

  “I think you’ll find I have unusual capabilities in that regard.” His mouth took hers. His tongue, slick and strong and flavored with spiced peach and strong tea, became an explorer.

  Her head began spinning, but only in the most delicious way. She moaned against his lips, gripped his neckcloth harder and pulled him deeper. Heavens, she was starving for him.

  Vaguely, she felt his hands leave her. His shoulders shifting. Then, his hands returned, curving around her lower back and pulling her deeper into his embrace. His teeth tingled her lower lip. His fingers wrapped around her nape. His thumbs controlled her jaw. Caressed her cheeks.

  Gently, slowly, with sweet strokes of his tongue and his lips, he brought their kiss to a conclusion. Withdrew from her.

  She wanted him back. She wanted to growl her protest. Instead, she grunted and dug her fingertips into his shoulders. “Jonas.” Her voice was hoarse. Breathless. “Why did you—”

  “First, I kiss you. Then, I unclothe myself. Wasn’t that the command, love?”

  Her skin felt tight. Her breasts swelled against her stays. “I want to see you.”

  “Then, open those beautiful eyes.”

  How she wished she could. “I cannot,” she whispered.

  He fell silent for long seconds. His hands gripped her waist. Explored her hair and her jaw. His fingers traced her lips. “I’m going to take your hair down,” he rasped. Immediately, his fingers began plucking at her pins. She felt him remove pearls and ribbon and rosebuds. She heard him gasp when her curls came down.

  “By God, you are exquisite,” he breathed.

  Her heart raced as his hands skimmed down along her throat, gently along the upper curves of her breasts, then down lightly—so lightly—across her straining nipples. She gasped at the sensations. The need they stoked. The weakness in her thighs and knees.

  “I—I want to see you,” she repeated. “Touch you.”

  “Let go of the neckcloth. There’s no need for a leash. You have me firmly in your power, Snow Queen.”

  She didn’t know what that meant, but he was right—he couldn’t very well disrobe if she refused to loosen her hold. With effort, she released first one end then, reluctantly, the other. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Her voice sounded small.

  “No.” He jerked the linen free, his movements rougher than before. “Hold steady.” His motions shook the bed. She heard a wad of cloth plop onto the carpet. “Now, then. Take those pristine hands and put them on me before I bloody well expire.”

  “I want to see you,” she said again.

  “God, Hannah. Open your eyes.”

  “I—I need you to cover yours first.”

  Silence.

  “Please, Jonas. This is the only way.”

  Several heartbeats passed before she felt him leaning, reaching for something. Then, he sat up and a moment later, said, “There. Covered.”

  When she finally gathered enough courage, she opened her eyes. Oh, heavens. Her hand reached for him of its own volition. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. His muscles leapt as she felt him with fascinated fingers—thick, lean, hard. Dark hair. Heated skin.

  He reached for her. She gasped and flinched away, despite her determination not to. He withdrew, clenching his fists beside his hips, panting and frowning.

  As her heart settled, she resumed her explorations. “How lovely you are,” she murmured, unable to help herself.

  “I prefer handsome. Deific also works. Herculean.”

  “When you were injured, much of you was covered in b-bandages. I knew you were strong because of your arms.” She traced the swells of his forearms, played with the hair along his wrists. Then, she slid higher, sweeping over biceps, pausing over the scar left by a poisoner’s arrow. This, she circled and circled with her fingertip. “You were beautiful then. More so now that you’ve healed. So strong, Jonas Hawthorn. I want to p
ull you inside me. I want your strength to become mine and mine to be yours.”

  With a long, low growl, he leaned back on his hands and lifted his hips up as though reseating himself. His head fell back on his strong, naked neck as his chest worked like a bellows. The muscles in his shoulders and flat belly rippled. The white linen of his neckcloth shone starkly against his skin and hair.

  He’d blindfolded himself. And he was obviously keeping his hands virtually bound. For her. Given the state of the veins along his chest and neck, this was generating significant distress.

  She granted herself a moment to look. To savor the sight of him. Behind the fall of his breeches, the source of his distress was visible. Intimidating. It swelled against the cloth, a massive stalk thrusting upward to demand its due.

  Her heart fluttered. Her thighs squeezed against an ache.

  “I think we should join now, Jonas.”

  “Bloody, bleeding hell.”

  “I shall loosen your fall. Stay as you are.”

  She sank down between his splayed knees. First, she permitted herself a slow, gliding stroke of his thighs. Swallowing against a dry throat, she marveled at the thickness, the hardness there. Her palms swept upward. The buttons were easy, if a bit tight with all the strain. Then, his naked member was in her hand.

  She’d never seen or felt anything like it. Soft as satin. Hard as stone. Swollen and veined. Hot and flushed. She’d viewed drawings in some of Phineas’s scientific texts, but the subjects had to have been much smaller men.

  Jonas’s member, by contrast, was alarmingly long and much, much thicker than she’d been led to believe possible. Hannah frowned as she recalled Lady Wallingham’s reference to “girth.” Was there such a thing as too much girth? This could be a problem.

  Hannah nibbled her lower lip as she ran her hands over his length, enjoying the sensation of silken skin, pulsing veins, and the small bead of fluid emerging from the head. Beneath, still tucked inside his breeches were his ballocks, tight and full.

  He was certainly ready for her. Was she ready for him?

  The aching heat in her lower belly was similar to what Eugenia had described. Her breasts felt full, her nipples tight and sensitive.

  Perhaps she was ready.

  A queer sensation struck her chest—a squeeze, a flip, a pang. It was all three at once. “Jonas?” She stood. Ran her hands over his chest. Caressed his hard, straining neck. “I shall straddle you now.”

  His skin was fiery along his cheeks. “Let me touch you,” he growled. “Fuck. I need it. I will fucking beg if that’s what you want.”

  She’d heard the word before, of course. It was vulgar—a sign of his crumbling control. Other signs were his fists wadding the velvet coverlet and his hips subtly thrusting.

  He needed her. She was his wife. She must give him comfort. Ease.

  She clasped his right wrist and brought his hand up to her breast. While he groaned and squeezed and pleasurably caressed her, she gathered her skirts higher, bunching them at her waist. She started by placing one knee upon the mattress beside his hip. Then she held onto his shoulders and climbed atop his thighs the way a man might mount his horse. It felt strange, but not bad.

  While Jonas’s right hand pleasured her nipple through the layers of her gown and stays, his left moved to clutch her bare thigh. She didn’t want him exploring too much, so she kissed him and drew his hand between their bodies. Then, as she’d dreamt of doing nearly every night since Jonas Hawthorn had first entered the drawing room at Holstoke House, she laced her fingers with his and drew his fingertips to her center.

  He groaned into her mouth. “You are so wet, love. God Almighty.” Lightly, he traced her folds with his fingertips, swirling and testing, pressing and pulsing. “I need inside you.”

  She ran her fingers over his blindfold in a dappling motion. Kissed his lips—the ones she hadn’t been able to resist. “Yes. I need you, too.”

  His right arm circled her waist. Lifted her high against him. His left hand positioned his member at her opening.

  He paused. Strain shook his whole body. “All right, love?” he rasped.

  Around her heart, heat and light burst and expanded. He’d halted at the furthest point of desire to ensure she was well. She kissed him again, caressing his jaw and his neck. “Yes,” she whispered in his ear. “Now, Jonas.”

  Breeching her maidenhead was a painful sting, but she noticed the stretching more. He was very big, and the pain of the unaccustomed intrusion stole her breath. He groaned, long and deep, as he sank inside her.

  “Sweet, bloody Christ. I’m going to come.” He sounded amusingly alarmed, as though he’d never had such a problem before.

  She smiled, though he couldn’t see. Kissed him. Ran her tongue along his lower lip. Began to move, despite the discomfort of having him inside her.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “You are very big.”

  He grunted and thrust deeper.

  “It feels hot. Burns a little.”

  He thrust deeper.

  The thought occurred to her that he hadn’t actually put himself fully inside her yet. She moved her hips experimentally. “How much more of you is there, precisely?”

  “I’m not going to … make it,” he panted. “This is bloody disgraceful.”

  She frowned. “Am I doing it wrong? You must tell me so that I may improve.”

  “So wet. God, so wet and tight and mine.” His hand came back and touched her directly upon the little knot that held limitless pleasure.

  She gasped as the sensations began to coalesce and expand.

  He sank deeper.

  “Oh! That—that is … it aches a bit, but … I like that, Jonas.”

  Deeper.

  She groaned. “Hmmm. Yes. What is that you …?”

  Deeper. A hard thrust upward.

  She gasped. Dug her nails into his shoulders. “Oh, sweet heaven.”

  Another. And another. And another.

  His hand stayed and pleasured. His other hand braced her waist and controlled their movements. Set a rhythm that started slow then gained momentum.

  Soon, she caught it, too. This feverish pace, this grinding of him against the deepest part of her. This beauty. The beauty of them together. Of his surrender and hers.

  And, as she gazed upon her blindfolded man, felt him filling her past the point of comfort, past the point where there was even a breath for anyone other than him, she gathered up every drop of pleasure he gave her, threw back her head.

  And rode.

  It felt like flying.

  Wave after wave, crashing like Primvale’s waters after a storm. Shifting entire shorelines and long-embedded stones with its force. She took the pounding thrust of his hips, all pain a distant memory. Rippling, cascading, rolling waves of ecstasy burst through her body. She gasped and moaned and reveled in the power of the pleasure he gave her.

  Finally, she held him and reveled in his pleasure.

  Perhaps that most of all. Because she’d given him this. For all she’d taken from him, for all the distress and difficulty he’d suffered before—and all that might still come—she took his seed inside her, heard his deep roar of completion, and savored the knowledge that in this one thing, she could be a normal wife.

  She could take him. Ease him. Pleasure him.

  And in this way, he would always be hers.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “On the contrary, lending you my assistance is an act of generosity. If one man helps a slightly less clever man rebuke the Prime Minister, is that termed ‘interference’? I think not.”

  —Dorothea Bainbridge, Countess Bainbridge, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter protesting erroneous definitions and abrupt departures.

  Jonas left the only coaching inn in Alnwick with little hope and abundant frustration. But, then, frustration appeared to be his lot. The innkeeper at the White Swan hadn’t recognized his sketch of the thief, offering only the
advice that Jonas “inquire at the public house, sir, where thieves are more likely to be found than in a fine establishment such as mine.”

  The pompous innkeeper had been insulted, of all things. Perhaps Jonas had been a trifle short with him, but after the past three days, his patience was more battered than his boots. He collected his hired horse and walked the short distance to the ramshackle public house around the corner from the inn.

  Inside, the smell of wood smoke and fish mingled with the scent of beer and the grime of local villagers who spent their few farthings in ramshackle public houses.

  It wasn’t a “fine establishment,” but it felt familiar. Jonas had spent his life in places like this. During the hot part of the day, it had customers, but not many. Alnwick might be a market town, but it was small and remote.

  After requesting a pint, he spoke to the tall, thick-armed man behind the bar. “Looking for this man.” He unfolded the sketch, sliding it across the wood. “Have you seen him in the past fortnight or so?”

  The barkeeper squinted at the sketch. Started to shake his head. Then paused. “Mayhap. Looks a mite familiar.” He glanced up. “Bit like you. He your kin?”

  Bloody hell, it was the same response he’d had again and again. “No,” he replied, plucking another sketch he’d completed the day before from his pocket. “What of her?”

  It was a likeness of Elly Allen, the missing maid.

  When the barkeeper’s eyes widened, a prickle lit upon Jonas’s nape.

  “Aye, indeed. She was here three days past. No, four. Load of haddock arrived shortly before she left. Bad lot. Sat in the sun too long. Went foul.”

  “Was she with anyone else?”

  “Aye, a man. Not him, mind.” He tapped the thief’s sketch. “Lighter hair. Rough sort.”

  It was the first hint of a trail since the maid had disappeared, and he chased it eagerly. “Did either of them say anything? Ask for a direction, or mention where they might be heading?”

  The big man scratched his chin and shook his head. “Not as I recall. Though, I did think it a mite peculiar when he asked about the tides.”