Addicted

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Perhaps he was just like his father. What if he had found something other than alcohol to lean on when he was confused or wishing to escape the pressures of his world? He supposed that did make him just like his father, for those were the reasons his father had sought solace in the bottom of a brandy decanter—escape.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes and listened to the soft ticking of the clock that sat upon his writing desk. It had been hours since the house had settled and Lord Darnby’s wounds had been dressed. Hours since he had lain in this room, ignoring his mother’s pleas that he take one of the other chambers. He had told her he was too tired and the silk cushions and the divan would provide him with the rest he needed. But the truth was, he wanted to be close to Anais.

  Listening in the quiet, he tried to think of anything other than Anais lying in bed—his bed. He knew he was being a pathetic wretch internalizing all this angst and acting like a beardless boy after losing his first crush. He should have listened to Wallingford when he had given him advice. Find yourself a woman, Raeburn. Willing, available flesh is the best cure for your affliction.

  He had tried, despite the sickness that settled in his stomach whenever he touched his mouth to another. But those women never tasted right, never felt the way he wanted them to feel beneath his hands. He had left more than one Turkish beauty bewildered and unsatisfied during his time in Constantinople.

  There was no other woman for him. No other could replace her in his heart. No other woman came close to Anais.

  The muffled sound of the bedroom door opening and closing once again made his body stiffen, knowing it was likely Ann had left the chamber this time. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard Ann and Middleton whispering in the hall outside his sitting room. Middleton was ushering Ann to her own chamber. It seemed that the good doctor was confident his patient was safe enough to spend the night alone.

  Alone. Hunger uncurled in Lindsay’s belly and he rose from the cushions and walked silently, if not a touch unsteadily, to the connecting door. Reaching for the knob, he twisted it and let himself inside the room. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting peach-colored shadows on the walls. He stood by the bed and felt his chest grow tight when he saw Anais curled up in a ball, her face so white he was hardly able to discern where the sheets left off and her skin began.

  As if in a trance, he continued to watch her sleeping as he shrugged out of his jacket, then reached for his cravat. Her breathing was shallow. He counted the movements of the blanket and knew that she was breathing slow, but easy.

  He had tried his best to keep her warm on the ride to his estate, but not even the thick flannel nightgown and the heavy wool blanket had been enough to protect her from the snow and wind. He had done everything he could think of, even covering her with his own cape, but the wind had whipped about them, ruthlessly penetrating the layers meant to protect her.

  He should have done more to care for her. Perhaps he should have listened to Broughton’s command that he wait for the carriage, but damn it, he hadn’t been thinking straight. The only thing he had thought of was saving Anais.

  Lindsay stood there studying her, his eyes unblinking, drinking in every facet of her white skin, every golden curl that lay in disarray on his pillow. She was where she belonged. In his bed. But she should not be pale and cold. She should be warm and aroused—restless— her legs tangling in the sheets while she watched him disrobe for her. She should be studying him hungrily with bright sensual eyes as he drew out the minutes before he would come and join her in bed.

  He wondered if she would have raised herself on her knees and reached for him, hastily helping him disrobe. Or would she have smiled secretly and allowed her gaze to rove along his body, taking in his torso and waist as he pulled his shirt over his shoulders. Would those shining eyes have boldly slid down his naked body and fixed on his cock? Would she have looked away in shyness, or would she have reached out to him and captured him in her hand, her mouth?

  He closed his eyes, imagining such a welcome. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he imagined what she would look like lying beneath him, his ring glinting on her finger while she traced her fingertips along his chest.

  Hearing her whimper in her sleep, Lindsay strolled to the door and locked it, then removed the key. The candle flame blew out when the door closed, and he used the shaft of silvery moonlight filtering in from the window to guide him to the side of the bed. Pulling his shirt over his shoulders, he let it drop silently to the floor. Reaching for his trousers, he freed the buttons, feeling his shaft fill as it escaped the confines of the wool.

  His mind was filled with innocent images of providing Anais with heat. His body, on the other hand, was preparing itself for the feel of Anais’s supple curves against him. He was a man. He had needs. He could not hide those needs—needs that not even the opium could take away from him. Perhaps his mistress had robbed his body of its sex other times, but never when Anais was near him. When she was close, nothing could dampen his ardor.

  Naked, he reached for the blankets and placed his leg on the mattress. It creaked beneath his weight. His gaze shot up and he saw that she still slept. He did not want to awaken her. He wanted her lying beside him, weak and still so that he could smell her and wrap his arms about her.

  With a moan she brought her knees up to her belly, burrowing her chin into the blankets. He scoured her hair, rumpled against the pillow, concealing her unnaturally pale face. He did not dare to look beneath the covers. If he stole a glance he knew he would not be strong enough to resist her. Temptation was something he found so difficult to defy, especially when it was Anais offering it.

  Swallowing hard, he lay on his side and allowed his hand and arm to snake beneath the covers. His fingers hesitated only briefly above her shoulder before they lightly grazed her alabaster flesh. The thick flannel gown she wore had slipped down, leaving her upper arms exposed. She was so cold. So still. Suddenly he could not stop himself, he reached for her and placed his arm along her breasts, moving her so that her back met his chest. He flinched at the coldness of her body as it curled into his. Even through the flannel he felt the chill that gripped her.

  Holding her tighter, he squeezed his forearm into her breasts, wrapping his thigh along her legs while he pressed his face into her hair and smelled her—country flowers and skin. Anais’s scent.

  She moaned, a weak, husky sound that came from the depths of her chest. He felt the vibrations of it against his arm. Fitting his body even tighter around hers, his erection swelled and his scrotum drew up in pleasured agony as his body absorbed the chill from hers. He ignored the urgings of his cock, focusing instead on supplying her with the warmth she needed.

  Turning suddenly in his arms, Anais crushed her breasts against his chest and wrapped her cold arms along his waist, seeking more of his warmth. It felt so damned right to hold her like this, as if they were man and wife and had shared the same bed for years. But he knew that it was not the right thing to be in bed with her. He had just smoked opium, something he had never done before coming to her. He had never wanted to be with her while the opium ruled him, had never wanted to love her body while his mistress swam in his veins. Excluding that extraordinary lapse in judgment the night at Wallingford’s, Lindsay had never come to Anais high on opium.

  Besides, even if he had refrained from smoking, Anais was not aware of what she was doing. She only craved the heat he could provide.

  Christ, she was such sweet torment. The way her belly cushioned his erection—an erection that was painfully engorged and throbbing was a pleasure his body had not experienced since that night in the stables with her.

  How many times had he thought of that night? How many other nights had he dreamed of?

  Her flesh began to warm beneath his hands and he pressed the side of his face to her chest, listening to the dull thudding of her heart. His mouth was so close to her nipple, and he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the image of his tongue flicking it.

/>   “I need you,” he whispered, unable to silence the words. “Will you ever need me again? Will you ever see what sort of man I could be for you?” he asked, giving voice to the fears he had harbored for months.

  “You’re just a dream,” she mumbled sleepily. “This isn’t real.”

  He lifted his face and looked down into her sleeping face. He brought her closer to him, his cock pressing impatiently into her soft belly. The reality of the hardness—he was certain—would awaken her. But it did not. Instead, she snuggled closer and pressed her cheek against his neck. He could feel the moist heat from her mouth as he curled her hair around his hand, trying to fight the physical need he felt swimming in his veins.

  He groaned softly. Losing the war against his honor, he brought her face up from his neck. She did not open her eyes, but her lips parted as if she were waiting for the touch of his mouth against hers.

  He should not be doing this. He had taken her virginity, then had broken her heart. They needed to talk, there was so much to be explained, so many things to be said, but he needed her, as well. He was not strong enough to resist her. Not the way she was now, sleepy and disoriented, soft and supple, the faint arousal of her sex drifting up between their bodies and the sheets.

  “Do you ever think of me?” she asked sleepily.

  He watched her lashes flutter, then slowly lift. Her gaze was unfocused. It would be so damn easy to take advantage of her, of the situation he now found himself in. But it would be dishonorable. He had already dishonored her once before.

  “Do you ever dream of me, Lindsay?”

  He traced her lips with the pad of his finger. “Every day,” he whispered against her mouth. “Every night.”

  He kissed her, a slow, savoring kiss with an open mouth that captured her lips. She softened and placed her palms on his chest. Stop, his mind called, but he could not. He could not end something that felt this right.

  She opened her mouth, enticing him to possess her and he submitted to her, sliding his tongue into her mouth and rubbing it against hers. A kiss that had been slow and loving was now frantic and erotic.

  She mewled, he clutched her hair in his hand, angling her head so that he could penetrate the depths of her mouth. She breathed deep and he stole her breath, pressing her back so that she was lying beneath him. His hand, which had come free of her hair, was sliding down the smooth column of her neck toward her breast.

  Tearing his mouth from hers, he set his lips to her throat at the same moment he felt her heart begin to pump faster beneath his palm. His fingers slid down the crest of her full breast so that he could cup her. He was desperate now, too far gone with passion.

  “Love me, Anais.” He captured her mouth, kissing her hungrily as he cupped and squeezed her breast. It was full and much heavier than he remembered and so perfect for what he wanted to do with her. Shifting his palm so that her nipple grazed the center of his hand Lindsay watched her as she arched beneath him, enjoying the sensation of having her nipple teased. She was sensitive, and he repeated the action, slowly arousing her until the nipple had furled.

  He moved away from her in order to slide down her body. His own was shaking with sexual need, but she reached for him, her nails digging into his shoulders.

  “Don’t leave me,” she cried out. “Don’t end this dream.”

  “I won’t ever leave you again,” he said against her silken navel that was covered by her nightgown. Her belly contracted as the warmth of his breath penetrated the fibers. Setting his mouth to her, he kissed, then sucked at the rounded mound as he reached for the hem of her night rail that had ridden up to her thighs.

  He paid homage to her belly, just as he told himself he would. He mouthed her, kissed her, nipped at the tender skin and felt it quiver in pleasure. Her belly was lush, rounded, tempting him to imagine how soft it would feel beneath him. His hand stroked her thigh while he rubbed his erection along the tops of them until he could feel the silky hair of her mound tickle his cock. He felt the hot, silky length of her coat his cock and he pressed his eyes shut, struggling for control, fighting the urge to sink himself between her lush thighs.

  In the still-functioning part of his mind he knew that he was bringing disaster upon himself. With the light of morning his actions would cease to be pleasurable. In the morning he would be the defiler once again. Lindsay knew that he could not make love to her like this—when she was not fully awake. But he couldn’t stop touching her. She needed release if the restlessness of her body beneath him was any indication. And God, how he needed release. And she was so wet. Her nipples hard, pointed little buds, and her breaths were aroused pants that told him she needed to feel passion.

  He pressed the head of his erection between her swollen sex and her breath got caught up in a husky pant. He looked up at her, her neck arched back, her swollen mouth parted in ecstasy. He was about to spread her thighs with his knee when suddenly they fell open and he felt her sex part and capture him. He looked down then, saw his hand—tanned from the hot Turkish sun—between her white thighs. He smelled her arousal. His finger sought her opening and he ran his fingertip along the edge of it, teasing her with the lightness of his touch, with the possibility that he might enter her with his finger, or possibly two. Could she accept three?

  He studied her sex as he spread her wide, seeing that she was glistening and her clitoris was swollen and pink. It was begging to be tongued and worked with his eager fingers. He was aching to oblige her.

  Her body was ready. He felt it. Could almost taste it. And then he lowered his mouth and flicked his tongue along the erect little nubbin and listened to her wanton moan. He placed his fingers so that they ran along the edge of her clitoris and then he stroked her, running his fingers along the raised bud while he swirled his tongue in a slow circle that made her buck wildly beneath him.

  So beautiful. So perfect. He studied the way his fingers glistened in the folds of her wet, silken sex as he brought her higher and higher. What a gorgeous little cunt she had, too gorgeous not to taste once again.

  Grasping handfuls of his hair, she held him to her and she came for him so easily he thought he might have imagined it until he tasted her. He plunged his tongue into her quim and sucked until he tasted more, until she was gasping and shaking and he felt the vibration of her clitoris beneath his fingertip. He felt the first drops of his seed begin to seep out from the swollen head. With a growl, he held his cock in his hand, pressing it against her pulsing clitoris until he could stand the torture no longer. Needing to find release, he stroked himself until he came, pouring his seed on her silken belly while he sucked the crest of her breast in an attempt to muffle the sounds of his shattering climax.

  Slowly he came to his senses as his body accustomed itself to the languor of orgasm. He held her close, breathing hard against her breast while he slowly laved the little mark he had created with his mouth. She soothed him with her gentle fingers in his hair.

  “It’s never felt this real—my dreams,” she clarified in a whisper. “I’ve never felt so complete after dreaming of you. Garrett must never learn of my dreams,” she murmured in a broken whisper as she clutched him to her. “Never…”

  No, he could not have heard her say Broughton’s name. Not while she was lying with him. She could not be thinking of Broughton. It was him she had shared her body with. It was him in bed with her.

  Much has changed since you have left…

  Broughton’s words ran through his head and he wondered just how much had changed. Was Anais now Broughton’s lover? He thought of the way she had willingly allowed herself to fall into Broughton’s arms—implicit trust. He had seen the faith in her eyes when she’d looked down to see Broughton waiting for her, his arms outstretched. He remembered the wariness in her eyes as she had looked up at him. She had not reached for his hand. She had not trusted him.

  He looked away from her face and saw a brown bottle and spoon that lay atop her night table. Laudanum. His gaze returned to hers. She was on
ce again asleep. How had he mistaken the glistening in her eyes for sleep and sensuality? Awareness had not rendered her eyes glistening—laudanum had. Damn it, she truly would think that she had dreamed what happened this night if she even recalled it in the morning. Perhaps she would even attribute it to Broughton, this completion she felt swimming in her veins.

  Flinging back the blankets, Lindsay untangled his limbs from hers, wondering if he would ever feel warmth in his body again, or would he forever be cursed with the numb coldness that had settled in his veins when he realized that Anais might very well be lost to him.

  He scoffed at the absurdity of his thoughts. For nearly a year he had been consumed with the desire to be numb, until now, until he had felt his body come alive with Anais.

  8

  Anais squinted against the bright beam of sunshine that bathed her cheeks with warmth. The mattress sagged with the weight of the person beside her. Tension made her jump as she felt her nightgown being raised, felt the slow rise of the hem slide along her calves and shins, then over her knees to rest along her thighs. In a bid to forget what was happening, she lifted her face to the warm sunbeams and pretended she was anyplace but there.

  “Part your legs, and try to relax. It may be uncomfortable at first, but I will do what I can to lessen the pain.”

  Swallowing hard, Anais nodded and squeezed her eyelids firmly together until she could see tiny bright floating sparks. Her breathing slowed and she tried to let her body go limp, tried to think of something other than the fact that Robert Middleton was examining her most intimately.

  After several minutes, the mattress creaked again, even louder than before. Anais felt his weight shift away from her. The sheet—cold and smooth—slid against her skin, exposing her thigh. He righted it so that she was covered and she felt the mattress lift as he left the bed.