He hoped she felt his touch as acutely as he felt hers.
She looked at him, studied him, pushed him around to view his back. With insatiable interest, she formed his shoulder blades, ran a fingertip over each vertebra of his spine, explored the juncture of skin over biceps.
She was an artist. He had given her what she wanted—a living model.
His heart thumped hard and languorous. His blood rushed to the surface. That part of him in which he held such pride and which she had so insulted stirred and grew in a sudden, adolescent rush of anticipation. She wanted to see him. She adored him, not for his money or his mind or his title, but for his body.
It was a heady notion.
Her hands guided him again to face her. She stroked his arms, noting the direction of each hair, the color of each vein. With her gaze and her touch, she explored each tendon in his hands. She manipulated him as if each part were precious to her. “Look. You have a scar here.” She touched the old, whitish proof of a childish folly. “What did you do?”
“Fitz dared me to—”
She stared at his lips. She was watching the movement.
He was contemplating yesterday’s kiss. “He dared me to climb out the dormitory window. Jane?”
“You were hurt!”
“Broken bone. Some blood. Jane?”
“So perfect, and yet so human.”
“Jane!”
His desperation penetrated her absorption. “What?”
He took her wrists and guided her fingers to the flap of his trousers. “Here.”
Frowning, she looked into his eyes. No embarrassment flickered there. No doubt, no self-consciousness, hindered her. She didn’t know what she would see, but she was vitally, vibrantly interested. “Yes,” she said. “This is what I want.”
He had never desired a woman like this in his life.
With sure, easy strokes, she unbuttoned him, then slid her hands along his hips and pushed his trousers down.
“Jane, untie the drawers.” Expectation left him hoarse.
He prompted her, but she didn’t need his advice. She thought no more of viewing him than she thought of viewing a marble statue.
But marble was not so hard as he. She was already freeing him from his last scrap of clothing. Except for his boots, and he didn’t give a damn about his boots right now.
He just wanted her to see him. Really see him, as he was, not as she imagined him to be.
Then she did.
“Oh!”
Just “oh,” but that one word made him grow when he thought he could grow no more.
“I’ve had the proportions wrong.” She put her hands on her hips, and she tilted her head to the side as she studied him. “How stupid of me. Of course.” She moved around to view him from the side, then walked to the other side and stared as if enthralled. Slowly her hand extended and she touched him with the tip of one finger.
She might have been burning him with a branding iron. His balls twisted tight, his diaphragm clenched. Without thought or pride, he groaned.
She started and snapped her hand back. “Did I hurt you?”
She sounded so anxious, he had to chuckle. Pain could not describe the sensation. “Remember when I touched you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“It hurts…like that.”
Her eyes, beautiful, green, grew brighter. She looked at him again, her artistic abstraction suspended by the memory of that oh-so-real encounter. “Really. So you like this.” Gently she wrapped her palm around the head, and slowly she slid it down to the base.
“Far too much.” Putting his hands on her waist, he looked at her, alive, bright with curiosity, and ready to live the life he had denied her. He would not deny her ever again. “Jane, let’s finish this.”
“I can be who I want to be.” She gestured to the statue. “I can live where I want to live. I’ve been stifled, shut in, cut off from sunlight. But I can grow once more.”
“Me, too.” He sounded a little too fervent, but she didn’t understand.
“I want your boots off.”
She wanted him totally naked.
“I want to see your feet.”
He was bribing her to copulate with him by allowing her to see his body.
Did he care?
Sitting down on the wooden floor, he grasped the heel of his boot.
Kneeling at his feet, she pushed his hands away. “I’ll do it.”
A man’s boots were made to fit tight, and normally it took both Blackburn and his valet to get them off. But Jane was strong. As she tugged, each muscle in her upper arms was delineated, clean and pure in its beauty. She was no useless bit of fluff, his Jane. She was a woman, capable and healthy, and he luxuriated in both her ingenious regard and her quiet confidence.
The boots came off, one at a time, and Jane tossed them aside. Each skidded and clattered, contact with the floor no doubt marring their perfect finish.
His valet would be crushed.
Blackburn exulted.
She didn’t pretend to be coy. She was unblushingly eager, and his conceit expanded as rapidly as his manhood.
She tugged at the hem of his trousers, stripping them away, then untied his garters and removed his stockings.
He was nude, without a stitch on, sitting with one knee raised and the other extended, in a garret with the westering sun streaming through the windows and a woman kneeling at his feet. It should feel odd.
With Jane, it felt just right.
She laid her hand across his toes. “I never sculpted feet because I didn’t think them attractive, but yours are quite handsome.”
If it were anyone but Jane, he would suspect seduction.
She was too direct for that. He was not. “Are yours?” he asked with the intention of easing her out of her clothing, and found, to his surprise, he was truly inquisitive.
He wanted to know about her feet. Had his interest grown to obsession?
“My feet are large for a woman’s.”
“You’re large for a woman.” He stroked her hand. He touched the knuckles, noting how the clay clung in the creases. Clay filled the cuticles and under her fingernails, too. It stained the skin and flaked off in small patches. It itched, he knew, for she’d touched him when the clay was wet and now he itched, but the discomfort was minor compared to the miracle of her hand, and the delicate, pale skin that belied the power beneath. “I like knowing I don’t overwhelm you.”
“No.” She said it, but her gaze fell to his organ.
“Jane, I promise…” What would he promise? That he wouldn’t hurt her? He probably would, but his need had grown to such proportions he couldn’t deny himself.
She might have been reading his mind. “I want to do this. I may have to flee to the continent afterward, and be scandalous, and live by my art, but I will have some satisfaction out of England.” Her hand stroked his calf, massaging and seeking after each thread of muscle. “And out of you.” She probed his knee, seemingly insatiable about each bone and ligament that formed him.
Ever so subtly, she ran her palm up the inside of his thigh.
Torment. Or bliss. He didn’t know which. A red fog formed before his eyes.
Her thumb traced the cord back to his knee.
The fog cleared slightly, and he said, “You’ve been studying this.”
She leaned forward, closer to him, and her hand dallied on its trip back up. “Art?”
“No. How to make me demented.”
“I’m only doing what you did to me.”
Disappointment twisted inside him. “Revenge, then.”
She paused. She lifted her hand so it hovered over the sensitive skin at the junction of his thigh and his belly. “Is that what it was yesterday?”
He’d said the wrong thing, he realized. She gave the appearance of having forgiven him everything—all the insults, the public compromise, his insulting abandonment. He couldn’t have done it, and he assumed she could not, either. But she had never given him rea
son to doubt her; in this matter, at least, he insulted with his distrust.
“Never.” Taking her wrist, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. Looking into her eyes, he tried to gratify her with the truths of his soul. “Yesterday was not revenge, Jane. Yesterday was pure pleasure.”
Her white teeth bit into her lower lip as she tried to subdue the blossoming of her smile.
With his thumb he touched that lip, and when she released it, he smiled back.
Now happiness shone from her, and he fed on it, bathed in it, absorbed it as his own. “Come, sit on me,” he commanded.
“No. You come.” She rose and extended her hand to him.
He stared at it, steady as the earth. Then, knowing the significance yet believing in paying his debts, he put his hand in hers and stood.
“There’s a sofa back here.” She led him behind the screen.
It removed them from direct sight of the door, and in some vague, still functioning corner of his mind he thought that a good thing.
Dropping his hand, she dragged at the long seat cushion until it lay on the ground. “There.” She pointed.
He felt odd, almost as if he were the virgin, not knowing for sure what she wanted. He sat down, then stretched out to full length. She just stood there and looked at him. “Jane?” This time he extended his hand.
She took it. Sinking down on her knees beside him, she touched him once more. This time neither art nor respectability distanced her from this reality. Eagerly she ran her hands over his chest, and followed the path of hair down his belly. Again she clasped his rod, then slid to the base. She weighed him in her hands and squeezed.
He grabbed at her. “Softly!”
“Of course.” Her touch gentled as she explored the contents inquisitively. “This is so fascinating. I never imagined—”
“Obviously.” Rolling onto his side, he clamped his hand over her wrist and lifted it to her buttons. “Disrobe.”
She stripped off her apron to reveal a gown even uglier than the previous day’s sage monstrosity, and streaked with clay.
“Hurry.” She moved efficiently, but not efficiently enough, and he attacked the buttons, too, dragging them free and pushing at the gown. He’d used up all his patience the day before, and he wanted her now.
“I’ll do it.” She took the gown off over her head.
While her arms were up, he tangled his fingers in the ties of her chemise. “I’ll help.”
Tossing the gown, she shoved at him. “No!”
He jerked her toward him. She landed on top, and suddenly they were wrestling, fighting for control. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she wasn’t easy to subdue. He wanted control, but she wouldn’t cede him that. They rolled, and he thumped off the cushion onto the floor. While he gasped for breath, she straddled him, and laughed, low and deep.
Leaning down so her face was close to his, she said, “You do as I say.”
“Yes.” He realized the slit of her pantalettes gaped, and her loins pressed against his. “Whatever you say.” He grabbed the back of her head and pulled her the rest of the way. Their open mouths met. They fought for the kiss. She sucked his tongue. He surged upward in agonized carnality.
Everything was sharper, fresher, newer, with Jane. He wanted her with all his youthful vigor, and he held her face in his hands. “Jane, I can’t bear to wait.”
“You will.” She nipped his chin.
Her chemise hung half open, tantalizing him with the sway of her breasts in the shadows. He reached for them. “Let me—”
“My turn.” She slipped down him and flattened herself against his body. Her flesh pressed against his, absorbing him in every way but one. Taking his nipple into her mouth, she sucked at it, and blind with lust, he found the bow of her petticoats. He ripped at it, and something tore, the distinct sound of fragile cloth separating thread by thread.
She bit him.
Grabbing her head, he jerked it back. “Brazen!” It was a compliment.
He rolled with her, putting her under him, and rose on his knees above her. He grabbed handfuls of petticoat and pantalettes and pulled, bringing everything down around her ankles, and she let him. She even helped him, using her feet to shove the material all the way off.
Such long legs. His hand skimmed her thigh, came to rest on the cleft between her thighs. How many women had he had since that first time he’d touched her? It didn’t matter. Jane’s scent, her taste, and the sight of her flesh had marked him then, and it marked him now.
With her hands, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, then lifted herself until she was sitting. Then until she had her knees under her. Then she rose until she faced him, both of them kneeling, both of them naked. Sliding her capable, long-fingered hands on his shoulders, she said, “Show me now.”
“Like this.” He sat on his heels, and with his hands he spread her thighs wider. With his thumb he touched her the way she liked. The way he’d touched her the day before. She gasped, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders. She was deep, mysterious, damp. She was ready; heaven knew he was, too. But the day before he’d touched inside her, and she’d been so tight…He took just one moment to prepare her more.
“Now!” But her voice shook.
Smoothly he tilted her onto the cushion and hooked his arms under her knees.
She sat up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”
“Do you think I don’t know?” His weight still rested on the attic floor. Her back lay crooked across the soft cushion, and no matter what happened, he was in charge. She just didn’t know it.
He slid her toward him, lifted her to him. His penis touched the heat and moisture of her; then nothing mattered but the drive to be inside her. He pressed firmly; she cried out as she sank into the pillows and he sank into her. She closed in around him, almost too tight for comfort. She struggled, fighting to pull him into her.
He used precious breath to chuckle, and maintained his slow, steady pace. “Patience,” he whispered. “I’ll give you what you want soon enough.” Briefly her maidenhead challenged him; contrary, she tried to push him away.
With the strength of his arms, he pulled her legs to their full extension and half lifted her from the cushion; he broke through. He slid home, touching the deepest part of her, and he was done with fortitude. Drawing himself back full length, he thrust again. She fought her legs free. He flattened each hand in the cushion beside her, imprisoning her between his arms and his body. He thrust again. Putting her feet on the floor, she thrust back. This was war. This was strife. This was primitive and basic.
This was mating.
Groans broke from her throat, small at first, then growing to a crescendo. They filled his ears as he filled her body, and he took savage, supreme satisfaction in hearing them, in knowing pleasure had overwhelmed all other sensations.
And he…only one thing absorbed him, commanded him, and that was the place where they met and mingled. He had to have her; he was having her, but it wasn’t enough.
He leaned over her, called her name. “Jane. Look at me, Jane.”
Her eyes fluttered open; she stared at him.
Crude eloquence drove him. “See the face of your lover. Not a statue. Not an art object. Your lover.”
“Yes.” Reaching out, she caressed his cheeks, his neck, his chest. “My lover.”
Her touch magnified his sense of triumph, and he increased the pace. Her fingers clenched at his waist, and he increased the pace. She lifted her hips to take all of him—and froze. Her eyes rounded. She trembled, and every muscle deep within her spasmed around him.
Frantic, he crushed her into the cushion. She clawed at his back. He hammered into her. He reached his peak—all motion halted. Arrested in the supreme moment of pleasure, they stared at each other.
This was it. They were mated.
Shuddering, he pumped his seed into her while she held him with all the strength of a woman possessed. And as the frenzy slowly ended and he sank down to cover her with his body
, he thought she was possessed. By him.
As he was possessed by her.
Half on, half off the cushion, they lay there as their breathing slowed, as individual consciousness returned. He ought to say something meaningful, he thought. Something that would let her know this had been no random encounter, no throwaway moment. Something had happened here today, something that had never happened to him before, and while he didn’t understand it, he at least knew it was significant.
First he had to lift himself off of her. A gentleman always leans on his elbows, and he had proved he was no gentleman. Yet he was oddly reluctant to rise. He had claimed Jane. She comprehended that, he was sure. At the same time, he was reluctant to relinquish any bit of his control, almost as if he thought she would flee at the first chance.
Absurd. Slowly he raised his chest off hers. Her head was turned away, her eyes fixed on the screen, and alarm stabbed at him. With gentle fingers he brushed the wisps of hair off her forehead. “Jane.”
Her head turned, and in clear, precise tones, she said, “You need a leaf corresponding to the size of the trunk.”
It took a moment to collect himself and perceive her thoughts. “The…statue. Yes.”
She frowned. “That’s why you’ve been so angry?”
This was not going as he’d planned. “Jane, you don’t want to talk about this now.”
“I want to understand. Is that why everyone laughed?”
She sounded faintly scornful, and annoyance made his voice rough. “Don’t dismiss it as a small thing.” The pun made him wince.
She didn’t even catch it. “Men are odd creatures.”
“Men?” She dared say that? When instead of loving murmurs and sweet caresses, she talked about a statue?
“Don’t worry. I’ll get the proportions right from now on.” She struggled to sit up.
He didn’t let her. He was still inside her, and with very little provocation he could teach her the proper way to end a love scene.
“Get off.” She pushed at him.
“No.” He caught her hands.
She tried to free them. He clung grimly. She kicked at his legs. He seated himself firmly. If she wanted a fight, he’d give her one, and show her what the Marquess of Blackburn was truly made of. They struggled silently, only the occasional thump of a foot against the wood floor punctuating the conflict. He was winning, naturally, although she stubbornly refused to concede, when she stopped.
That Scandalous Evening Page 20
