The Dove Formatted

by welis

  “There’s my little dove,” he whispered against her intimate flesh. “Stop fighting and feel me.”

  Her eyes sank closed on their own accord, as if they, too, could not help but obey his every command. Her body disconnected from her mind, from thoughts of what it meant to surrender to him, and she simply allowed herself to revel … to feel.

  He moaned against her, as if the wetness smearing his lips were ambrosia, as if he’d never tasted anything sweeter. She made an answering sound deep in her throat, the early flutters of a climax beginning in the place where his tongue touched her body. The muscles in her stomach clenched, and she stiffened before falling apart, trembling and groaning around her gag. He sank a finger into her and slowly pumped it in and out, strengthening her finish, drawing it out and making it last.

  She fell apart, her body going limp as she sank to the carpet, no longer fighting his hold or the tight squeeze of her stocking around her wrist. On the heels of her fading spasms, a new hunger awakened within her—the need to have him inside her. He had stoked the embers left over from their encounter last night, and now, she was on fire again, going up in smoke and ash.

  Glancing down with heavy-lidded eyes, she watched him unbutton his fall, feasted on the sight of his cock revealed inch by inch. First, his flared head, swollen and angrily reddened, seeping with moisture, then the long shaft, thick with pulsing veins and covered in skin she knew to be smoother than silk. But he was all hard on the inside, just like the rest of him—hard and straining toward her.

  Daphne raised her hips and made a small, helpless sound in the back of her throat, silently begging him to give her every inch of his cock. Smirking at her, he chuckled, coming up to straddle her hips, one hand wrapped around his prick.

  “You want this,” he declared, stroking himself with slow, rhythmic pulls that made her inner channel clench in tandem. “Don’t you, little dove? Tell me you want it.”

  She released her breath on a frustrated huff, but answered him the only way she could, her head moving in a jerky nod of confirmation. He grinned, moving further up her body, his legs now on either side of her shoulders. Reaching down with one hand, he snatched the gag from her mouth, letting it fall to hang around her neck. She licked her lips to moisten them and stared up at him, knowing what he intended without needing to be told.

  “You so rudely refused my generous offer, so you do not deserve to be fucked,” he said, reaching down to grasp a handful of her hair. “But I do believe I once promised that if you did not mind those impertinent lips of yours, I’d put them to better use. Open, little dove.”

  He thrust toward her face, the blunt tip of his cock forcing her mouth open. He met the resistance of her teeth, but tugged her hair hard enough to spur her into action. Her scalp tingled, her teeth parting to allow him inside while his scent and taste overwhelmed her palate. There was no going easy on her, no taking his time and letting her grow accustomed to the invasion of his length or girth. He shoved toward the back of her throat while pulling her hair again, tipping her head back and opening her up for him.

  She choked, struggling to catch her breath and catch up with him, but he did not allow it. He fucked her mouth the same way he would her cunt, taking what he wanted, first with long, slow thrusts, and then with short and swift ones. His breath quickened, his chest heaving and his legs trembling on either side of her as he adjusted his position, angling himself deeper, his hips thrusting him in and out of her mouth. She tightened her lips around him and let her tongue stroke his underside, forcing a guttural groan from deep in his chest. A few more spasmodic thrusts, and he seated himself in her, holding her head in place and spilling down her throat in a rush.

  She swallowed around him, and he issued a hoarse cry, throwing his head back and rotating his hips, grinding against her as if wringing out every drop of seed he contained. He slowly shrank against her tongue, pulling his sated cock out of her mouth once he’d given her the last of his climax. Rolling from on top of her, he fell to the floor, bracing himself up on his elbow as he caught his breath. She had no choice but to lie there, her arms stretched up over her head, breasts heaving and legs shaking.

  He’d let her climax, but it hadn’t been enough. She needed to be filled, stretched, torn open and pounded until she splintered. But, the hard glint in his eye when he came up on his knees and began buttoning his fall told her she would not get what she wanted—not today.

  Once he had tucked in his shirt and straightened his waistcoat, he crouched over her, pulling down her gown, untying his cravat from around her neck, then releasing her hands. He rose to his feet as she slowly sat up, rubbing at her wrists and working the blood back into her hands. She glared at him, her channel throbbing and yearning, her heart hammering in her chest. She could not decide whether to attack him or wrap her arms around his leg and beg him to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture and stuff her full of his cock. Biting her lip, she suppressed the urge to do either.

  “You may as well cease fighting me, little dove,” he urged, extending a hand to her. “I will get what I want from you, one way or another … and we both know it.”

  Ignoring his hand, she managed to stand on her own, backing away so that they did not stand quite so close. The scent of sex hung in the air—his musk mingling with the tang of her arousal. A heady aphrodisiac that made a mess of her senses.

  “What do you expect from me, Adam?” she challenged. “To allow you to come in and out of my home whenever you want to fuck me? I will not play your mistress.”

  “There are far worse things to be in this world,” he retorted, inclining his head and scowling in response to yet another refusal. “As my mistress, you would be protected, provided for … well-fucked.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she raised her chin. “I can protect myself, provide for myself … and if I want someone in my bed, I can have him.”

  He edged toward her, that dangerous glint returning to his eyes, making the amber and green swirl together like flickering flames. “And you’ll go to sleep every night unsatisfied, longing for things no other man can give you. You will still dream of me, and miss me, and want me. Why suffer needlessly?”

  “Because to let you back into my bed is to suffer,” she spat. “Especially when we both know you only want me because it gratifies you to debauch Bertram Fairchild’s little sister.”

  His jaw tightened, nostrils flaring as if he barely kept a grip on his tempter. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she replied, edging farther away from him toward the drawing room door. “Just as I know that I would be mad to allow you back into my life when all you seem capable of doing is destroying things … people. Go home, Adam. Go back to Dunnottar, and to Olivia and Serena. I am happy with my new life and grateful for what you gave me, but we are finished. Please … just leave.”

  Pushing open the door, she stood aside to allow him through the opening. Just outside, Rowney lingered, waiting to open the front door and allow their guest out. She did not meet the butler’s gaze, not wanting to see the censure in his expression if he’d heard what had gone on in this room.

  Scowling at her, Adam stomped toward the door. He paused in the opening and glared down at her, his jaw jutting out stubbornly as he ground his teeth. One hand flexed at his side as if he wished to wrap it around her throat. She almost leaned into him and tilted her chin up, offering her vulnerable neck.

  And that was why she had to stand her ground. Adam was dangerous to her in every possible way—her body, her mind, her soul. She had barely survived their last arrangement.

  “When you finally fold, I am going to punish you for this,” he whispered. “The longer you put me through this—the more you refuse me—the more creative I will be in making you pay. And, little dove, you will fold. You always do.”

  With that, he sauntered out into the corridor, giving her butler a sardonic smile before blowing past the man and letting himself out.

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nbsp; Ignoring the questioning glance of the servant, she slammed the drawing room door and leaned against it. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the carpet, hands coming up to cover her face. They shook violently, and her pulse thumped at the base of her throat. Apparently, her body would need time to recover from the encounter.

  She hoped Adam would heed her words and give up his pursuit. For her own sake, but also for his. She had seen the way revenge had consumed him, had witnessed the evidence of how it had changed him. Now that it was over, they would both do well to move forward and put all this behind them. Nothing good could come of their being together in any way … even if a part of herself longed for it with every fiber of its being.

  CHAPTER SIX

  dam leaned back in the chair he occupied and took a long, luxurious inhale of the cigar between his lips. The dark atmosphere of the club he sat in combined with the relaxing effects of the cigar and brandy he enjoyed to loosen his tense muscles. After leaving Daphne’s townhome, he’d been in a foul mood all afternoon. He’d shaken the walls of his inn suite when he’d slammed the door, the floorboards shuddering beneath him as he’d paced and scraped his fingers through his bedraggled hair. His palms had begun to sweat, his body wracked with shudders as he’d fought not to lash out at the nearest object. He would rather not have to pay to refurnish his hotel suite after turning the furniture into kindling.

  Daphne’s refusal had not surprised him; he had expected her to fight him. But, for her to continue her pretense after he’d so effectively proved to them both that she wanted him … for her to say those things about him …

  He had not been this angry at her since the day he’d caught her in his niece’s nursery, in a wing of Dunnottar he had expressly forbidden her to enter. That day, he had thrown her out on the front steps and commanded her to go home, refusing to give her one penny of the money he’d promised her for breach of their agreement. But, she’d stayed, sleeping in his doorway and refusing to be turned away. When challenged to convince him to let her back in, she’d seduced him so thoroughly, he’d had no hope of pretending she did not affect him the way he did her.

  The reminder of that calmed him, helped him to see things more clearly. She refused him because of the perceived slight he’d committed by not saying good-bye at the end of their time together … not seeing her home safely himself, or thanking her for the things he’d given her.

  Peace. Companionship. A bedmate unlike any he’d ever had—and for a man who’d tasted just about every flavor of woman in England, Scotland, and the entire Continent of Europe, that was saying quite a lot.

  Still, one would think she’d be astute enough to see the things he felt without him having to say them. He wanted her. Badly. He was willing to shelter and protect her—a far better offer than a woman in her position was likely to receive.

  What else did she want from him?

  Deciding that it would only make matters worse to remain locked away with his anger and wandering thoughts, he’d taken dinner in his suite, then dressed for an evening out. He had set out on foot, seeking diversion in the form of cards and drink.

  Hours later, he sat in one of his favorite clubs—one that was not quite so exclusive as Brooks’ or White’s. He found establishments such as these to be more to his liking—lacking the strict dress codes and stuffy atmosphere, where a man could enjoy a drink and a few turns of the dice without worrying about seeing or being seen. He had just trounced several opponents at piquet and had begun to think of walking back to his suite upon finishing his cigar. The distraction had been just what he’d needed to get his head on straight, and the brandy had loosened his limbs. He sat just south of inebriation, still possessing his faculties, but feeling enough of a tingle in his veins that the sensation proved pleasant.

  After a decent night’s sleep, he would be ready to adjust strategy in the morning and think about how to sway Daphne into accepting his offer. The sooner, the better, so he could return to Dunnottar and look in on his sister. Maeve, the woman who had acted as lady’s maid to Daphne during her stay, did a splendid job of caring for Olivia in his absence, but he did not like being away from her overlong. He also did not like depriving her of Niall, who seemed to calm her in a way no one else could.

  He’d been aware for years that the butler loved his sister, and that she at least felt affection in return, if nothing else. However, the differences in their stations had made it impossible for them to be together. Now, he would give anything to see her happy, even if it meant marrying a bloody servant. Bertram Fairchild had ruined any other chance she might have had.

  Slouching deeper in the soft leather chair he occupied, he scowled. If he did not adjust the path of his thoughts, he’d drag himself back into a dudgeon.

  Shifting his mind to the sister of the man he hated above all others, he took another drag from his cigar, smirking as he exhaled through his nose. She’d been exquisite that afternoon, arms tied above her head, body stretched out and spread open for him. And her taste … he’d forgotten the taste of her, how a single drop of her honey could cause him to crave more and more, unable to ever drink his fill of her.

  He’d almost floated away into the memories, reveling in his triumph, when the sound of his name dragged him out of his reverie.

  “… Hartmoor, the blackguard.”

  He perked up a bit, inclining his head and listening in to a conversation happening at a table behind him.

  “…surprised they even let his sort through the doors.”

  “If it were my sister he had ruined, I would not allow it to stand.”

  “Hear, hear! I’d stride right up to him, slap him across his face, and demand satisfaction.”

  His nostrils flared, his teeth grinding together as he turned his head, leaning just far enough to see around the back of his chair. At the table behind him, a group of young men sat playing whist, several decanters of brandy and sherry resting between them—half empty. Narrowing his eyes, he studied them, finding them to be insipid little pups with weak chins and smooth faces. He would not be surprised if they were young enough to have only just graduated university.

  Sitting in their midst, holding court, was Bertram Fairchild. His pale skin and shock of red hair drew Adam’s eye like a beacon. His jaw began to ache from how tight he clenched his teeth, and he had to turn around and lean against the back of his chair to keep from leaping across the small space separating them and thrash the man within an inch of his life.

  Stubbing out his cigar in a glass ashtray resting on the arm of his chair, he gulped down the dregs of the brandy in his tumbler and set it aside. He needed to leave, before he committed murder. As much as it would satisfy him to strangle Bertram in front of his idiot friends, he had no desire to hang for it.

  So, he unfolded his long limbs and adjusted his coat, prepared to walk away and put his nemesis behind him. He had delivered the final blow by debauching Daphne … he had no reason to turn around.

  And yet …

  “I fully intend to confront the bastard,” Bertram said before Adam could take his first step toward the doors. “You see, gentlemen, a man like that … one who preys on unsuspecting women …they’re the worst sorts of cowards. When faced with a real man, they fold like a deck of cards.”

  Adam’s hand curled into a fist, and he swiveled, glaring over his shoulder at the man who had ruined his sister. The irony of Bertram’s statement wasn’t lost on him. He wondered if the fool realized that his words applied to himself. Because, even if Daphne had been prey, she’d been willing prey. His sister most certainly had not.

  The good intentions he’d had upon deciding to leave fell to the wayside as he loped toward the table, fixing his face with a sardonic smirk.

  “Well, now,” he declared as he approached their table. “Far be it for me to deprive a gentleman of the chance to say his piece to my face.”

  Bertram blanched, his tumbler slipping from his hands and falling to the carpet with a thud. His cheeks reddened, his mouth o
pening and closing like a fish out of water. The men seated around the table glanced at him, then to Adam and back again, waiting for the promised confrontation.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Adam raised an eyebrow. “Do you have something you wish to say to me, Fairchild?”

  The fool proved as dense as Adam had known he was, shooting to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at him in a fine display of brotherly outrage for the benefit of his audience.

  “Hartmoor, I warn you,” he blustered. “Leave now, or I shall be forced to remove you bodily. This club is for gentlemen, the ranks of which you do not belong to.”

  He couldn’t help a dry bark of laughter at that. “Yet, they allowed you inside, so their standards must not amount for much.”

  Glancing down at the cards and bank notes scattered over the table, he pursed his lips.

  “Careful at the tables, dear Bertie,” he taunted. “You would not want to lose what little you have left, would you?”

  With a snarl, Bertram rounded the table, his chest puffed out, his self-righteousness on full display. As he drew near, Adam could see the terror in his eyes, the weakling hiding behind the façade. He stood two seconds away from pissing himself, but did not wish to back down and have his friends realize that the man they kept company with was a coward.

  Adam stepped forward to meet him, towering over Bertram by several inches. Glaring down at that simpering idiot, he sneered.

  “Please,” he whispered, so only they two could hear. “I’m begging you, give me a reason to expose you to everyone here … to tell them all who the true blackguard is.”

  To his credit, Bertram held his ground, clenching his teeth to get his trembling chin under control. “Do you think anyone would believe you, when all the ton is fully aware of what you did to my sister?”