by Lisa Kleypas
My bed was an old-fashioned brass one, the sturdy, stately kind that weighed a ton and didn’t move an inch. It was covered in cream linen, and the pillows were made of lace taken from antique wedding dresses. In the feminine surroundings of my bedroom, Hardy looked even bigger and more masculine than usual.
Such a normal act, two people going to bed together. But for me it was invested with far too much significance, too much emotion, too much everything.
The air-conditioning imparted a soft chill to the room, the lace on the pillows fluttering like moth wings as the ceiling fan turned overhead. An antique Victorian lamp shed amber light across the bed.
I tried to seem casual, sitting on the bed and working at the tiny straps of my high-heeled sandals. I wished I weren’t stone-cold sober. A glass of wine might have loosened me up a little. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe I should suggest—
Hardy sat beside me, reached for my foot, and unfastened the miniature buckle. He squeezed my bare foot and ran his thumb along the arch before taking off the other shoe. Sliding an arm around me, he eased us both back onto the bed.
I waited tensely for him to start. But Hardy only held me, warming me with his body, fitting an arm beneath my neck. One hand traveled over my back and waist and hips, up to the nape of my neck, as if I were a skittish animal. And it went on until the petting and soothing had lasted longer than any sex act I had ever engaged in with Nick.
Hardy spoke against my hair. “I want you to understand . . . you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you in any way. And if I do something you don’t want, or you start to feel scared, I’ll stop. I’m not going to lose control.” I flinched as I felt a tug at the front of my jeans and heard the snap being unfastened. “I’m just going to find out what you like.”
My fingers curled into his T-shirt as his hands ventured inside the loosened waist of my jeans. “I want to find out what you like too.”
“I like it all, darlin’,” he whispered, peeling my clothes off as if he were unwrapping a bandage. “I told you, I’m easy to please.”
His breath fell on me with a sweet burn as he drew his mouth over my throat and breasts. He knew what he was doing, taking his time. “Relax,” he murmured, his fingers gliding over my straining limbs.
I clutched at his T-shirt, trying to pull it off. He helped me, stripping away the layer of thin cotton and tossing it to the floor. His skin was as brown as cinnamon against the antique-white bed linens. There was a light mat of hair on his chest, so unlike Nick’s smoothness. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, gasping as my breasts pressed into the warm, tickling hair.
Hardy caressed and explored as if he were intent on discovering every detail of my body. I realized he was playing with me, lifting and turning me, pressing kisses in unexpected places. He was so strong, his body sleek and beautiful in the muted light. I crawled over him and rubbed my nose and chin into the springy-soft fur of his chest. I trailed my fingers to his midriff, where the skin was satin-smooth and taut over bands of muscle. And lower, to the edge of his jeans . . . and lower still, to the part of him I was nervous of.
Watching my face, Hardy eased slowly onto his back, allowing me to explore him. I touched him over his jeans, hesitantly tracing the jut of his erection. His breath roughened, and I sensed how difficult it was for him to hold himself in check. My fingers wandered to the base of the shaft, where the flesh was weighted and tightmounded, and I heard him give a soft grunt. A dart of excitement went through me as I realized how much he liked that, and I did it again, circling my palm over the taut denim.
A laughing groan escaped him. “You’re trying to torture me, aren’t you?”
I shook my head. “Just trying to learn you.”
He pulled me farther over his chest, guided my head to his, and gave me another of those insatiable kisses, until I was rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing as if I were floating on ocean waves. He reached down to his jeans and unfastened them.
I hesitated and slid my hand down to grip him gingerly. At this point there was no doubt that Hardy was built to scale all over. It was, as Todd would say, quite a package. But instead of greeting the discovery with a hallelujah, I grimaced. “You’re a lot for me to manage,” I said doubtfully. “I wish I could start with something smaller and gradually trade up.”
“Can’t help you there, honey.” Hardy sounded breathless. “That one’s not available in a mid-sized edition.” He urged me over to my front, and I felt his mouth on my back, kissing and nibbling along my spine. But I stiffened as I remembered how Nick used to take me from behind. His favorite position. All the thumping excitement died away, and I broke out in an anxious sweat.
Hardy’s mouth lifted from my skin, and he turned me to face him.
“Scared?” he murmured, his hand skimming over my arm.
I nodded with a mixture of defeat and frustration. “I guess I don’t like it that way, with you behind me. It reminds me of—” I stopped, wondering bleakly if I was ever going to get Nick out of my head, if I would ever be able to forget what he had done. The bad memories had been woven into the fabric of my body, threaded through every nerve. Nick had ruined me for life.
Hardy continued to stroke my arm. There was a distance in his gaze, as if he were turning a thought over in his mind. I realized he was considering how to handle me, how to slip past my defenses, and that made me feel apologetic and wary.
His hand wandered from my arm to my chest, his fingertips circling the breasts that Nick had complained were too small.
Damn it. There was no way the good feeling was going to come back. I couldn’t stop thinking about my ex-husband, or my own inadequacies. “It’s not working for me,” I choked out. “Maybe we should—”
“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Lie still.”
I obeyed, my fingers knotting into fists by my sides. The lamplight shone dull orange through my lids. His mouth descended, trailing kisses from my chest to my stomach. His tongue slipped inside the tight hollow of my navel, and I squirmed in response. His hand settled on one of my knees. “Easy,” he whispered again, sliding lower until my eyes flew open. I jerked and pushed at his head.
“Wait,” I gasped. “That’s enough, I can’t . . .” I was blushing furiously, trembling all over.
Hardy’s head lifted, the soft light running over his hair like liquid. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.”
His hand came to my stomach, rubbing in a warm circle. “Did I scare you, honey?”
“No, it’s just . . . I’ve never done that before.” Needless to say, Nick had never been interested in any activity that would enhance my pleasure rather than his.
Hardy contemplated my red face for a moment. A new glint entered his eyes.
Softly, “Don’t you want to try it?”
“Well, someday, I guess. But I like to take these things in steps. I think I should get used to the regular stuff before going to the advanced—” I broke off with a little yelp as he bent over me again. “What are you doing?”
His voice was muffled. “You work on a plan for taking it in steps. Let me know when you got it figured out. In the meantime . . .”
I squeaked as he pinned my legs, holding them wide.
Hardy gave a low laugh, enjoying my discomfort. There was no doubt about it—I was in bed with the devil. “Give me five minutes,” he coaxed.
“This is not up for negotiation.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I twisted and panted. “Because I’m about to die of embarrassment. I—No. I mean it, Hardy, this is—” My mind went blank as I felt him lick deep into that vulnerable, secret place. I managed a feeble push against his head. There was no dislodging him. “Hardy—” I tried again, but the delicate moist strokes opened the seam of closed flesh, and the pleasure was so acute I couldn’t think or move. He followed the sensation to its center, using the tip of his tongue, and then he breathed on the throb and ache, steam fanning across wet skin. My hear
tbeat slammed so fast that I could barely hear his mocking whisper over the blood-rhythm in my ears.
“Still want me to stop, Haven?”
My eyes were wet. I was strung tight with pleasure, shaking with it, but it wasn’t enough. “No. Don’t stop.” I was shocked by the sound of my own voice, so hoarse and low. And even more shocked by the way I cried out as he slid in one finger, and then another, stretching the glazed softness, while his mouth searched the furled flesh. The sensation was excruciating, my hips hitching upward and falling back. But release kept skittering out of reach, maddening in its elusiveness.
“I can’t,” I groaned. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes you can. Just stop trying.”
“I can’t stop trying.”
His wicked fingers began a slow in-and-out slide. I sobbed as a surge began, my flesh rippling, closing. His knuckles wriggled deeper. His tongue flicked steadily, and his mouth . . . his mouth . . . I was gripped by an overpowering swell, every heartbeat, breath, impulse, guided into violent tumbling spasms. I arched into the intense pleasure, my trembling hands secured around his head.
Hardy pushed his fingers as deep as possible and his tongue circled to catch the last few twitches of release. When his touch was withdrawn, I whimpered and reached for him, tugging him upward. He rolled me to my side and put his arms around me, and kissed the tear smudges at the corners of my eyes.
We were quiet for a minute, my bare feet tucked between his, his palm warm on my bottom. I felt the urgency beneath his stillness, like the false lull of the bull pen before the animal exploded out of the chute.
My hand stole to the open waist of his jeans. “Take these off,” I whispered.
Still breathing heavily, Hardy shook his head. “That’s enough for tonight. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”
“Quit?” I repeated in groggy surprise. “No, there’s no quitting now.” I kissed his chest, relishing the masculine texture of him, the warm fur against my lips. “If you don’t make love to me, Hardy Cates, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I did make love to you.”
“All the way,” I insisted.
“You’re not ready for all the way.”
I gripped him and ran my fingers up and down the silky, hardsprung length. “You can’t tell me no,” I told him. “It would be bad for my self-esteem.”
I rubbed my thumb over the broad tip, slow circles that drew out a slick of moisture. A quiet groan escaped him, and he buried his mouth in my hair. Reaching down, he pried my fingers away. I thought he was going to tell me to stop. Instead he said in a muffled voice, “My wallet is in the kitchen. I’ll go get it.”
I understood instantly. “We don’t need a condom. I’m on the pill.”
His head lifted, and he looked at me.
I gave an awkward shrug. “Since Nick never wanted me to have them, they became sort of an issue with me. I feel more in control . . . safer . . . when I take them. And the doctor said it wouldn’t hurt me. So I never miss a day. Believe me, we’re covered. Even without any other protection.”
Hardy rose and braced his weight on one elbow, looking down at me. “I’ve never done it without a condom.”
“Ever?” I asked, bemused.
He shook his head. “I never wanted to take a chance on getting someone pregnant. I didn’t want the responsibility. I always swore if I did have kids, I wouldn’t leave them the way my dad did.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend who went on birth control?”
“Even then, I always used a condom. I’ve never been a fan of the trust-the-woman method.”
Perhaps some women would have taken offense at that, but I understood all too well about trust issues. “That’s fine,” I said, leaning up to kiss his chin. “Let’s do it your way.”
Hardy didn’t move, however. He kept staring at me with those vivid eyes, and I felt something intimate and visceral flourish between us, a sense of connection I found more than a little alarming. It felt as if all the rhythms of my body and his had been set to one invisible metronome.
“You gave me your trust,” he said. “Damned if I can’t do the same.”
I eased to my back, and my breath quickened, and so did his.
He undressed and pressed against me. He was gentle . . . so gentle . . . but I could feel the power and weight of him, and I tensed. He nudged more strongly until we both felt the snug, supple yielding, softness giving way to hardness. Me, taking him inside. Opening to him. The blue eyes turned drowsy, pleasure-clouded, his lashes throwing spiked shadows on his cheeks. He entered me by slow inches, giving me time to adjust, to span the heavy invasion. I turned my face against his arm, my cheek tucked against taut muscle.
When I’d taken all of him I could, Hardy coaxed me to lift my knees, spread them wider, and he gave me even more. So tight, wet, my body offering lubricious welcome. I saw the concern on his face being replaced by lust. I loved the way he stared at me, as if he wanted to eat me alive.
I wriggled, uncomfortable with all that fullness inside me, and Hardy shivered and gasped out a few words that sounded like, Oh God please don’t move Haven baby please . . .
“Feel good?” I whispered.
Hardy shook his head, struggling to breathe. His face was flushed as if with a high fever.
“No?” I asked.
“Felt good a half hour ago,” he managed to say, his accent slurry like he’d just done about ten tequila shots. “Fifteen minutes after that it was the greatest sex I’ve ever had, and right about now . . . I’m pretty sure I’m in the middle of a heart attack.”
Smiling, I pulled his head down to mine and whispered, “What happens after the heart attack?”
“Not sure.” His breath whistled through his teeth, and he dropped his head to the pillow beside mine. “Hell,” he said desperately, “I don’t know if I can hold on to this.”
I drew my hands over his sides, his back, the muscles coiled and strong beneath my fingertips. “Don’t hold back.”
He began a careful rhythm, rooting out pleasure from the intimate channel where we were joined. One of his thrusts stroked a sensitive place, deep and low, and at the same time his body pressed the front of mine at just the right angle. A zing of delight went through me. I jerked in surprise and dug my fingers into Hardy’s hips.
He lifted his head and smiled into my wide eyes. “Did I find a sweet spot?” he whispered, and did it again, and again, and to my everlasting embarrassment I couldn’t keep quiet, groans climbing in my throat until my hips shuddered against his.
This time the spasms weren’t as intense, but they were long and slow, pulling at the length of him until he came. He buried the pleasure sounds in my mouth, and kissed me, and kissed me, stopping only when we were both oxygen deprived and completely spent.
I was filled with an overpowering drowsiness after that. I dozed for a while, with his body still tucked inside mine, and I discovered that the sleep after good sex was almost better than the sex itself. I woke later with him hard inside me, not thrusting, just wedged deep, and his hands were wandering everywhere, stroking and massaging. I lay on my side, one leg hitched over his hip. I wanted, needed him to move, but he kept me impaled and still. I gripped his bicep, his shoulder, trying to pull him over me. He resisted, letting me wriggle like a worm on a hook.
“Hardy,” I muttered, sweating at the roots of my hair. “Please . . .”
“Please what?” He licked at my upper lip, then the lower one.
I rocked against him and pulled my mouth free long enough to gasp, “You know.”
He pressed his mouth into my neck. I felt the curve of his smile. Yes, he knew. But he continued to hold me locked against him while I clenched over and over, pulling at the deep pulse of him. Finally he gave me a hint of a thrust, more a suggestion of movement than an actual rhythm. It was enough though. It tipped me past the flash point, inner muscles contracting to gather sensation, and I came in rough shivers. Hardy drove upward in one strong shove and held, f
illing me with lustrous heat.
He continued kissing me in the aftermath, his lips wandering sweetly while his fingertips coasted over my chin and cheeks and throat. After a while he pulled me out of bed and into the shower. Feeling drugged, I leaned on him as he washed me. His hands were gentle as he soaped and rinsed my body. Slippery, veiled in steam, I rested my cheek against the hard plane of his chest. He reached down and slipped two fingers inside me. I was sore and swollen, but it felt so good that I couldn’t help pushing my hips forward. I heard a low crooning sound in his throat, and his thumb swirled tenderly around my clit. With infinite skill, he eased me into another climax, while the hot water rained over me and his mouth ate at mine.
I barely remembered drying off and going back to bed, only that I was soon drifting to sleep with his solid presence beside me.
But some time later, I woke from a nightmare, my body alarmed by the awareness of a man sleeping nearby. I woke with a start, thinking for a moment that I was back with Nick, that I hadn’t escaped after all. There was movement beside me, a masculine weight, and I sucked in my breath sharply.
“Haven,” came a dark murmur. The sound calmed me. “Bad dream?” His voice was sleep softened and thick, like crushed velvet.
“Uh-huh.”
His palm stroked a circle on my chest to soothe my rocketing heartbeat.
I sighed, and quieted in his arms. His lips moved down to my breasts, kissing the tender, hardened tips. I put my arms around his head, his hair soft against my inner wrists. He worked his way down slowly. My knees bent, and I felt his hands grip my ankles like warm, living manacles. Even in the darkness, I saw the broad span of his shoulders and the outline of his head, anchored between my thighs. He lapped at me languidly, feeding off my pleasure, sending me into long, helpless shudders.
And when I fell asleep this time, there were no more dreams.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I KNEW I LOOKED LIKE HELL WHEN I WENT INTO Work the next morning, with dark circles under my eyes and whisker burns on my throat. I didn’t care. I felt more at peace than I had in months. Years. Maybe ever.
