by Darcie Wilde
Leannah shook her head, and Harry suited actions to his words. She felt herself staring. An unfamiliar sensation rose in her as he doffed his burgundy coat, and unwound the strip of linen that secured his collar. It was a species of hot hunger, and it made the desire they’d shared at the Three Swans seem a fleeting, paltry thing. That need had made her weak, this hunger made her fierce.
He was removing his collar now, and undoing his shirt laces, providing her with a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. The skin there was bronzed, just as it was on his face and hands. She had been right. Harry did strip down and expose himself to the elements, and the gaze of the world. Leannah had a sudden vision of him in a summer meadow, wearing nothing but a pair of thin breeches. A wave of dizziness swept through her. She was starving for his touch and for his naked body. Her hands itched to hold him, to show him that he was not the only one with a knowledge of intimacy.
Harry met her gaze, and he had the nerve to smile at her as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and laid it on the chair with his other discarded garments.
Considering how unceremoniously they had just dropped her clothing on the floor, this really was the limit.
“Does Mr. Rayburn intend to finish his toilette sometime today?” she inquired.
“Oh-ho, is this pique I’m hearing?” Harry arched his dark brows. “Does Mrs. Rayburn perhaps wish to register a complaint?”
“Certainly not.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “But if Mr. Rayburn is feeling in some way unready . . .”
“Unready?”
“Oh, dear.” Leannah blinked up at him. “Was that indiscreet?”
He advanced on her. Leannah did not let herself shrink back, or allow the placid mask of her expression to shift. He grabbed hold of her wrists and leaned her back, bearing her down against the mattress, kissing her all the while. There was nothing slow or languorous about this kiss. He crushed his mouth against hers, taking charge without hesitation or permission. He pressed his knees against hers until her legs opened and he could step between them. He kept kissing her as he raised her arms over her head. When she was positioned as he wanted her, he pressed his forearms against the counterpane on either side of her head. He rubbed himself against her, hard. She gasped as the ridge of his erection ground against her damp folds. It was a rough, rude gesture, and it was exactly what she wanted.
“Do I feel unready to you?” he growled.
Leannah made herself roll her eyes. Where did this impish willingness to play come from? Under Harry’s sensuous attentions, she was turning into someone quite new—an impulsive woman, unafraid of the most daring sort of games. “I don’t know,” she drawled slowly. “Perhaps if I could see some evidence . . .”
“You little minx.” He spoke the words with a burst of surprised laughter. “Very well. Since you see fit to doubt your lawful husband, I shall have to teach you a lesson.”
He seized her, and in one swift motion, flipped her over so she was facedown on the counterpane. The suddenness of it made Leannah squeak, and he snickered. She struggled, but he had her wrists again and was pressing them down firmly against the shifting feather mattress.
“Oh, no. You stay just as I have placed you, or I shall have to tie you down.”
“You wouldn’t.” She’d meant to sound outraged, but it was difficult with the covers muffling her voice.
“With much less provocation than you are currently offering.” He ran his hands down her back to her corset laces, and she sighed as she felt him work the knots. His legs pressed between hers again, and she sprawled open, indecent and inelegant. He leaned close over her, lifting and pulling until her corset opened and he could draw it out from around her belly. The absence of boning and lacing allowed her to breathe freely, to stretch and writhe, and while she might still be facedown, she knew Harry watched every motion.
“Wicked woman,” he whispered and grabbed up handfuls of her shift, bunching it up, to expose her thighs and derriere to his view. His hands closed possessively around her, pressing and working her so that the covers slid provocatively underneath her bared skin, adding a fresh sensation to his exciting, indecent caress. “You should be spanked for your impudence.” He ran his hand slowly around the curve of her buttock. “But that’s for later.” There was a rustle of cloth behind her. “Turn over. Let me see you.”
She did turn over. Harry had discarded his shirt, and stood before her naked to the waist. He stripped magnificently. A light dusting of golden hair decorated the sculpted planes of his chest. But the sun bronze highlighted the starburst of white at his waist, and a long, thin line down his right arm. From this angle she could clearly see the shape of his erection. Impatience filled her. He was taking his time, enjoying his mischief, and making her wait. She didn’t want to wait. She had waited for him long enough, for years, for her entire life. She lifted herself onto her elbows and opened her mouth to make her own demands. He must strip the remainder of his rumpled clothing away, and he must hurry.
But Harry was already busy with his breeches fly. She sucked in a hissing breath as he shoved the unneeded garments down and kicked them away to stand before her, entirely naked and entirely magnificent. His member stood tall and proud against his taut belly and Leannah felt her mouth watering at the sight of it. Heat and anticipation tightened her center unbearably, and her legs fell open of their own accord. She longed to touch him and stroke him and take him into her. She hated her shift. She wanted to be as bare and unashamed for him as he now was for her.
Harry advanced, slowly. Leannah laughed and scooted backward in mock alarm until she was pressed against the bolsters. Harry climbed onto the bed, on his hands and knees. There was nowhere to go, no escape, even if she’d wanted one. He lunged forward, caught her around the waist and rolled, bringing them together so he could grasp her breast through the soft cambric of her shift. Leannah moaned and arched her back, forcing her aching nipple against his palm.
“Yes, like that, Leannah. It feels good, doesn’t it?” He rolled them again, pressing her back against the mattress so he could straddle her, capturing her thighs between his.
He had her arms, and raised them over her head, crossing the wrists just as he had the night before. “Now, you stay like that,” he said. “Or I will have to be very stern with you.” Before she could protest, he had her breasts in both his hands, and his calloused, clever fingers found her ruched nipples and began at once to pinch and play.
“Oh, yes.” Her hips writhed, but he did not loosen his thighs at all. The burning confinement forced her legs to rub together, and that raised her desire as surely as if she’d been using her hand. Combined with his plumping and petting of her breasts, the feeling was entirely decadent. “Yes.”
She couldn’t stand to be still anymore. She must touch him. This heat, this need, would kill her if she did not. Mindful of his care of her hands, she chafed his arms with her wrists, reveling in the strong shape of them. He allowed it, and it was wonderful. Harry gathered up the wrinkled cloth of her shift, and drew it over her head. She was fairly certain she heard fabric rip, but she didn’t care. She looped her wrists around his neck. He let her draw him down without protest, to kiss her and lay the whole of himself against her. This was what she wanted. His warm chest, his belly, hips, thighs, all pressed tight against her and it was wonderful. His hands caressed her back and sides, as hungry for her touch as she was for his. His member rubbed against her damp curls and the hot pleasure of it filled her, driving out breath and thought, and all other feeling.
He slid down her, kissing her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. He gathered both tightly and closely into his knowing hands. His tongue darted out to curl around her hot nipple, drawing another low moan from her throat. He tasted, he lapped, he sucked, and, gently, he nipped. The play was driving her into a divine madness. She could not touch him with her hands, but she could wrap her thighs around him and pull him against her. She could rub and writhe and urge him on. His body was hard and smooth agains
t her softer flesh. She ran her heels down the back of his legs. She arched her hips, moving, adjusting until his shaft fitted into her slick folds. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to know how he would fill her, how he would feel when she tightened her core around him.
“Patience, Leannah.” Harry nuzzled her wickedly. “You will have what you want. I swear it.”
“Now, Harry.” She arched her hips again, circling them against him. Oh, it felt good, but it was not enough.
His hand slid down her belly and lower. He cupped her curls, stroking and fondling her until she cried out and pressed into his hand.
“Yes,” he hissed and his fingers slipped between her drenched folds. “You’re very wet aren’t you? You’re ready for me.”
“Yes,” she cried. “Now!”
His hard fingertips ran up and down her folds again, stroking, exploring, enticing. He found her entrance and dipped inside. Pleasure suffused her and she felt herself opening wider for him. “Please, Harry.”
“Well, since you ask so nicely . . .” His fingers withdrew, but before she had a moment to regret the absence, the blunt tip of his member pressed through her curls. Leannah arched her hips, opening, adjusting her own position so she could meet him. Even as she did, she knew a sliver of doubt. It had been over two years since she’d lain down with a man. Harry was much bigger than Elias had been, and much stronger. She wanted this with every part of her, but was she strong enough to take him in? Would he even fit?
But he was kissing her again, long, slow, languorous kisses. Thought retreated, and took uncertainty with it. Her body, it seemed, knew exactly how to accept him. Her inner folds, swollen with lust and want, loosened and opened. He took his weight on his elbows, and yet still managed to cup her breast in his hard hand. Fresh delight sang in her and she opened farther.
Slowly, determinedly, Harry’s shaft sank into her heat. It felt too good. Her core tightened around him, as if her body had been starved, and now must take him all at once.
“Yes, Leannah,” he gasped. “Oh, God, yes.”
Power filled her in a rush as heady as all the other pleasures. Leannah wrapped her calves around his legs. She thrust her hips upward and that abrupt motion seated him entirely inside her. Harry gasped and Leannah grinned.
“Wicked. Wanton,” he moaned.
“You have only yourself to blame . . .” She shimmied her hips under him and entirely forgot what she meant to say after that. It felt too good. He felt too good. She must have more. Her body tightened again, greedy, demanding, and so very ready for the pleasure he could bring.
Apparently aware she had reached a limit, Harry began to move. He pressed his hands on the mattress on either side of her head, holding himself on straightened arms. He gazed down on her, his eyes darkened with need, but strangely clear. He was here with her in this moment of pleasure and desire that was theirs alone.
Harry began to move. He thrust, slowly at first, making sure of her. She answered him, pressing her hips tight against his, using her legs to pull him close and hold him so he must fight her to move at all. She wanted him to feel her strength, as she felt his. Her own doubts had vanished. She had taken him in, and she knew her own power now. Harry must be made to realize she was his match, and more. He must know there was no need for restraint.
Not that he was showing much. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, driven by her urging, and his own need. His breathing was ragged and his skin glistened with sweat. He felt so good, so right inside her. Heat and pleasure filled her to the brim as he pressed and held her, sinking so deeply into her that his balls pressed against her folds and his weight crushed her back into the feather mattress.
It was too much. There was no more room for pleasure in her body. She felt the first tentative, trembling waves of her climax.
“Yes, yes!” cried Harry. “Yes, come for me, Leannah!”
That heated command tipped her over the edge, and set her sliding down into those hot, honeyed waves. She cried out as the pleasure washed her beyond desire, beyond thought. Harry’s thrusts grew frantic and her pleasure dragged him after her. She felt the throb of his climax echoing and brightening hers, heard his own shout of pleasure and release.
Slowly, the waves subsided. Harry’s elbows buckled and he sank on top of her, gathering her to him, rolling them over once more, so he could cradle her body against his. Leannah sighed and snuggled close. Slowly, the warmth and relaxation took her, and Leannah drifted away into sleep.
Eighteen
There followed a long, timeless space of peace and darkness. Leannah drifted in and out of awareness. At one point, she felt herself being bundled into quilts and comforters. She swatted lazily at the hands that smoothed down her hair. She was so tired, and the pleasures Harry had so shamelessly bestowed had relaxed her so deliciously, that the only desire remaining in her was for sleep.
Slowly, however, several sensations dragged her reluctantly back into the waking world. The first was that her derriere and the backs of her thighs were cold. The second was that something important was missing from the bed, although she could not at the moment think what it might be.
The third was that she was unbelievably hungry, and she smelled bacon.
It was only then she realized what was missing. Harry was not beside her anymore.
Leannah scrambled to sit upright and push her hair back from her face. The room was awash with a gray twilight, but that was only because the drapes were still closed. The bright glow of watery daylight streamed around and under the closed curtains.
Clearly, she had slept through the night and well into morning. Leannah knuckled the sleep from her eyes. The chamber door was shut, but through the gap by the floor, she saw more light flicker. She kicked away the covers and got to her feet. The fire in here had died. The chill air raised gooseflesh on every inch of her, reminding Leannah she had no wrapper, or nightdress, or anything else to wear.
There was a knock at the door.
“Leannah?” called Harry. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” she answered, looking around for something to cover herself with. Not that she was ashamed, not really. She was cold, and, if she was to admit it, an absurd sort of bashful uncertainty was creeping up her arms along with the gooseflesh. Now that he was no longer looking at her through desire’s lens, what would Harry see when that door opened? She’d heard tales of ladies who engaged in passionate nights only to be profoundly disappointed with the man who they woke up beside. Some of these stories had been from the ladies themselves. She also knew the men could be disappointed just as easily, and just as frequently.
What did Harry feel about what had passed between them? Her own need had taken a near savage hold, driving out propriety or hesitation. She’d never felt anything like it. She was used to polite consideration from her partner, a swift completion of the act and a leave-taking that carried the feel of an apology. Not like this. Nothing like this.
“May I come in?” asked Harry.
“Yes.” Leannah found herself crossing and uncrossing her arms, absurdly uncertain what to do with herself—just as Harry had been yesterday.
Harry opened the door. He wore a dressing gown of gray silk, and carried a bundle of claret satin slung over his arm. When he saw her there, he stopped dead. Leannah blushed, brightly and instantly. She turned to retreat to the bed.
“Don’t,” said Harry. “Please. There’s no need.”
“I’m cold.” The words sounded exactly like what they were; a feeble excuse. Without their passion, she felt awkward—all knees and elbows and sagging breasts.
“I thought you might be. I brought this.” He held up a wrapper of claret brocade with cream lace at the cuffs and hem. When she didn’t shy away, Harry stepped forward. She turned, and let him help her into the gown. He closed it tenderly across her, bringing the sash up around her waist and tying it in a neat bow. The ease with which he folded his arms around her dimmed Leannah’s worries. She could feel the entire hard length of
his body at her back. A host of warm tremors rippled through her.
Harry gathered the entirely disheveled spill of her tresses, drew them out from under the wrapper, and spread the untidy mane across her shoulders.
“I love your hair,” he murmured. “A thousand strands of silk.”
“Hopelessly tangled silk.” Leannah laughed. “It’ll take a year with a brush to get it set to rights.”
Harry settled his hands on her arms. “I could help.” He planted a playful kiss on her ear. “In fact, I think I’d like to help.”
“If you helped, I have a feeling it might take two years.” He was nuzzling her cheek, and her neck. His hands caressed her arms possessively.
“So, it will take two years. I’ll make sure you enjoy them.”
She sighed, and relaxed backward. Harry cradled her, rocking them back and forth together in a motion that was provocative and yet sweetly soothing. His warmth embraced her as securely as his arms did. Lazy pleasure unfurled inside her. Unfortunately, her stomach chose that moment to emit a most undignified rumble.
Harry laughed. “Yes, I feel the same.” He ran his palm across her belly. “Fortunately, precautions have been taken.” He released her so that he could bow and gesture toward the sitting room. “If Mrs. Rayburn would care to follow me into breakfast?”
Leannah felt her cheeks blanch. Mrs. Rayburn. It was morning, and she was still Mrs. Rayburn. That was all very well and good. But it was also true that the world still waited right outside the doors, and those doors could not possibly remain closed for much longer.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” Leannah shook herself. “I’m sorry, and I’m famished. Please lead the way to breakfast.”
Harry bestowed an uncomfortably thoughtful look on her, but said nothing more.
A round table laid for two had been set before the sitting room fireplace and a lavish breakfast now graced the sideboard. Covered dishes held poached eggs in hollandaise sauce, mutton chops, and cold ham, as well as the rashers of bacon that had smelled so enticing. There were fish croquettes with a boat of their own sauce, stewed greens, conserved fruits, cold rolls, and plum cake still warm from the oven. Of course there was a pot of tea, but there was also one of chocolate and another of coffee.
