by Darcy Burke
His gaze met hers, and the heat in his eyes was so intense, it was almost frightening. Perhaps that was his intention. But he softened the threat-promise by saying, “If we try something you do not like, all you have to do is tell me to stop. I will never force you to do anything that does not give you pleasure.”
“All right,” she said, nodding. “But I find it difficult to believe anything we do together will not give me pleasure.”
“Good. Now, lean closer to me.” The command—there was no mistaking the tone—startled her a little, for Thomas had always up to now been unfailingly polite and undemanding, but she did as he asked.
With a suddenness that stole her breath, he cupped the back of her head with his palm and dragged her into a kiss that was instantly carnal in a way that both shocked and thrilled her. His lips and tongue did not do anything as gentle as caressing or teasing or tasting, but plundered as if he were a pirate and her mouth was buried treasure, devoured as if he were a hungry wolf and her lips were prey. With his free hand, he found the swell of her breast and molded its shape through her dress and stays. At the attention, both of her nipples stiffened and throbbed, an echo of the way his shaft had responded to her touch. That their bodies were so different, and yet so very much alike, was another revelation to her.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard, and his face was stern and flushed. “That is what it is going to be like in our room. In our bed. Fierce and passionate and very, very improper. Are you sure?”
She nodded. She had never been more certain of anything in her life.
Anticipation might have made the day seem improbably long, had Thomas not insisted on continuing with her English lessons. They worked their way through colors and the names for various articles of clothing so that she would be able to ask a lady’s maid for her green dress or her white gloves. When they had exhausted that topic, he opened his valise and extracted a leather-bound book called Robinson Crusoe, which he read aloud to her for several hours, stopping to translate into French the words and phrases that confused her. The story was entrancing, although her frequent requests for clarification made it slow-going.
When they finally arrived at that night’s coaching inn, which was located in a rather nicer village than the last one and certainly appeared better maintained, Sabine excused herself to care for the horses as she had the previous night. Just because she was anxious to experience all the pleasures being alone with Thomas promised, she could not neglect Gaston and Copine after another grueling day on the road. She quickly assured herself that both were holding up well under the strain—perhaps better than she was—and once she had finished grooming them to her satisfaction, she made her way via the back stairs to the room she would be sharing with Thomas tonight.
Truly sharing.
A frisson of arousal, tempered with a hint of trepidation, slithered through her midsection. She wasn’t…scared, exactly, but she was nervous. What if she did things wrong or didn’t like the things he thought she would like or wanted her to like? She had only the vaguest sense of what “things” he had in mind, although she could intuit that it would involve him touching the flesh between her thighs the way she sometimes did herself. She could bring herself an intense, if brief, burst of pleasure by rubbing a certain spot there just so, and he would probably do something similar. But with his mouth and tongue, not just his fingers.
Her knees wobbled a little at the image that thought brought to her mind: his tawny-brown head between her legs, his mouth on her there. She must be truly wanton, because the thought excited her far more than it shamed her, although she was fairly certain a proper lady was supposed to be ashamed at the thought of having a man’s mouth on her private parts.
Well, she had never claimed to be a proper lady, had she? Her uncle had certainly never mistaken her for one.
And if her father, the premiere of Great Britain, expected her to be a proper lady? Well, then he was in for rather an unpleasant surprise.
She reached the door to the correct room—#4—then, and tried the knob. It was unlocked. After she stepped inside, closed the door, and secured the chain, she found Thomas seated with his back to her in a chair near the fireplace.
Of all the coaching inn rooms they had occupied thus far, this was the nicest, since it was large enough to sport a substantial four-poster bed and a seating area made up of two well-cushioned armchairs and a small end table as well as the typical dining table and chairs, basin stand, and privy screen.
Thomas set the book he was reading—not Robinson Crusoe, for she would have recognized its blue leather binding—on the table and stood to greet her. “How are the children?”
“Children,” she repeated stupidly.
He grinned. “I am beginning to think of the horses as our children, given the way you mother them every night.”
Sabine put her hands on her hips, indignant, until she realized he was teasing her. So, she teased back. “In that case, you are a terribly negligent father. You never bring them any toys or sweets.”
“What sort of toys does one give to a horse?” The question was clearly genuine, and she laughed.
“Actually, they quite like to play with balls. It can be very amusing to watch.”
“Really? I had no idea.” He walked toward where she stood just inside the door and slid a hand around her waist. “What about you? Dinner first or play first?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Her stomach did a somersault, and heat poured through her core like molten metal. She squeezed her thighs together in an instinctive effort to quell the pulsing ache there. Would it be play? Earlier, he had said it would be fierce, and her need felt much fiercer than anything one would call “play” would alleviate. But she had to know.
Dinner could wait.
“Play,” she whispered, not quite able to look him in the eye.
His free hand came up to cup her jaw, and he tilted her face upward so she could not avoid meeting his gaze. His eyes were as full of liquid fire as her body, so whatever he meant by play, she thought it was more like the sports or games of chance men played with the utmost seriousness than like a child’s tea party with her toys. “This is meant to be fun, sweetheart. If you are not having fun, then we are going to stop. But it is a very intense kind of fun. Do you understand?”
She huffed a laugh. “Not in the least. But I am sure you are going to show me.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a smile. “So, let us start by undressing.”
Her mouth was dry again. “You want me to take off my clothes? All of them?”
“Oh yes.” His voice rumbled over her again like a touch. “And I intend to do the same.”
“But…we will be naked.” She looked around the room, which was well illuminated by numerous lamps. “In the light.”
“All the better to see each other, my dear.” His grin was, well, wolfish.
She gulped. This was a bit more…challenging than she had anticipated. The last time she had been completely unclothed in front of anyone, she had still been a child young enough to have a nursemaid.
“Why don’t I start?” he offered. “Since it is my idea, after all.”
Licking her parched lips, she nodded.
Still smiling wolfishly, he removed his topcoat and then his waistcoat, laying them over the back of the wooden chair behind him. His cravat had already come off before her arrival, so he had only to push aside his suspenders, unbutton his white linen shirt, and pull it over his head to reveal his chest and arms.
Sabine could not fairly consider herself a connoisseur of the male physique, given an utter lack of comparators, but she felt certain Thomas was an above-average specimen in the upper body musculature category. He had a lean torso and a waist narrow with solid-looking ridges of muscle that defined both his upper chest and his abdomen, giving him an appearance of fitness and health. A dusting of hair that appeared to be darker and coarser than the hair on his head spread across his upper chest and then
thinned to a dense, narrow line down to his navel that disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. His shoulders and arms were similarly sculpted of muscle and sprinkled with what seems to her just the right amount of dark, masculine hair.
She wanted to eat him with her eyes. And then with her hands and her mouth. A thought that made no sense whatsoever, but rang nonetheless true to her.
He gave her a wink, indicating he had noticed her appreciative gaze—well, to be honest, it was more of a stare—and then he pulled the chair closer and sat down to remove his boots. When he bent over to pull them off, she was treated to an excellent view of his back, and something about the way his skin rippled across his shoulder blades made stomach do another bump and roll.
His boots and then his stockings dispensed with, he stood again and unbuttoned the placket of his breeches with elegant, efficient fingers. She already knew what was beneath that particular square of fabric, and a little thrill tingled in her chest at the thought of seeing that portion of his anatomy again, but when he shucked his breeches and drawers and stood before her naked as the day he was born, her eyes were drawn not to his penis—which was impressively large, if not fully erect—but to the smooth ridge of muscle that extended from his abdomen to his hips before resolving into the dense hair at the apex of his thighs. Her fingers itched to touch trace that line, to follow it to the base of his shaft and from there…well, from there to wherever would please him the most.
Completely naked and totally unashamed, he stood there for a moment, letting her get her fill of looking at him. “Like what you see?” he asked. The question could have sounded mocking, given how obvious it must have been that she was positively bewitched by the sight of him, but somehow, he made it sound utterly serious and genuine.
“Yes.” Her voice came out husky and barely audible.
“Then do not be shy, because however you feel when you look at me is exactly how I feel when I look at you.”
Oh. Perhaps that did make the idea of disrobing in front of him a little easier. And even a little exciting.
Her fingers barely trembled as she began unbuttoning her gown.
Sabine kept her fingers and her mind on the task of disrobing, deliberately avoiding Thomas’s gaze as she removed her bonnet, her work boots and woolen dress, her stockings and stays, and finally her drawers until she stood before him in her chemise. She could feel the weight of his eyes anyway, so when she looked up, she was not surprised to find them dark and hungry. Her nipples, already so stiff that the fabric of her chemise brushed against them in a way that was simultaneously irritating and arousing, came to even sharper peaks. His nostrils flared.
Like a stallion scenting a mare.
“Are you going to stop there?” he asked. No hint of annoyance or impatience, just a simple question.
Her answer came out on an unsteady huff of laughter. “Are you going to let me?”
“I might if you come here and let me touch what I cannot yet see.”
That seemed like a reasonable compromise, so she covered the two feet of space between them on surprisingly steady legs. He slipped an arm around her waist and dragged her closer, until their bodies pressed together from stem to stern. His clove-and-mint scent enveloped her, along with the now-unmistakable musk of aroused male. Everything about him was hard and hot—his arms, his chest, his abdomen, but especially his penis, the head of which rested just above her navel while her lower belly cradled the shaft. Without conscious thought, she rolled her hips, and he let out a low groan.
“Keep that up, and I may not be able to make this last nearly as long as I want.”
She had no idea what that comment meant, but she forced herself to hold still, because whatever he wanted was likely to be something she wanted.
And then his lips captured hers, and she forgot about everything except the exquisite sensation as he consumed her mouth with a kiss that communicated what mere words could not. The kiss said, “You are beautiful,” and “I want you,” and simply “Please,” but the message was so much deeper and more primal than mere language could ever capture. Words were weak symbols by comparison.
Why learn English, she wondered breathlessly, when he could teach her the truest tongue of all?
When he abandoned her mouth, she whimpered in protest, but then his lips and tongue kissed and traced their way across her jaw and down her throat, and she whimpered with pleasure instead. She clutched at his arm to keep herself upright, her fingers digging into the firm yet supple muscles of his biceps as her world tilted. His mouth continued on its wicked path before finding one of her engorged nipples. He laved the sensitive peak, and she was inordinately grateful that she had kept her chemise on, because she thought the bolt of sensation that streaked from her breast to her sex might actually have killed her if he had touched his tongue directly to her eager flesh. As it was, the pulsing ache between her thighs grew to a relentless, almost painful drumbeat.
She was desperate for relief from the swelling tide of need—which was both too much and too fast and too little and not fast enough—but the last thing she wanted him was for him to stop what he was doing. Maybe that was why she did not object in the slightest when his warm hands slid underneath the hem of her chemise, skimming up the outside of her legs until the fabric bunched at her waist, baring her hips and bottom and the curly hair at the apex of her thighs. He was getting closer to the place where she craved his touch, and she did not want to give him any cause to rethink his goal.
He released the nipple he had been tormenting and shifted his attention to the other, while one hand coasted across the exposed flesh of her belly and then down between her legs. Shamelessly, she parted her thighs to help him, and his fingers slid between the slick, swollen folds of her sex, grazing the throbbing bundle of nerves so gently that she wanted to scream with frustration.
More, there, please.
She must have spoken, even though she hadn’t intended to, because he raised his head from her breast and smiled down at her. “Like this?”
And then her thoughts splintered as he adjusted his fingers and stroked her in just the right spot and with just the right amount of pressure. “Yes.” Her voice was a groan, and a whirlwind of pleasure spiraled inside her, familiar yet wilder and faster than the less-violent storms she managed to accomplish on her own. She could feel herself teeter on the edge of release, but somehow, he kept her just at the brink for longer than she could bear. “Please, I can’t— I have to—” She broke off, at a loss for a word to describe what she needed.
He chuckled near her ear, his warm breath sending shivers that raised gooseflesh across her skin. “You have to come,” he said in English. He switched back to French. “Let go, and you will. Do not worry. I have you.”
He did something then—or maybe she was the one who did it; she was not quite sure—and the coming started. It was a good word for way her body actually seemed to come apart, shuddering and convulsing uncontrollably, as if she no longer owned her own flesh. Such a fierce and involuntary reaction should have been frightening, and yet it was without a doubt the most beautiful, most blissful thing she had ever experienced.
And it ended far too quickly.
Thomas kept her upright as the spasms subsided, and she realized she was hot all over and practically panting with effort, as though she had run for miles. When she could finally think with any kind of coherence again, she registered two things: first, that Thomas was breathing hard, too, and second, that his erection was pressing against her abdomen.
He needed to come, too. It was only fair. And it was what she had wanted from the beginning.
She tried to drop to her knees in front of him so she could take that lovely, musk-scented part of him in her mouth again, but he slipped his hands under her arms, halting her progress.
“What are you doing?” That gravelly voice again.
“I am going to suck you. I want to make you…come.” She used the English word, as he had.
His chuckle w
as pained, and he shook his head. “Not yet. I do not want this to end that quickly.”
“But—” she began in protest, but he pressed a finger to her lips.
“Sabine, you are a woman. That means you can reach your peak three or four times to my one. Possibly even more. But once I spend, I am likely to be…well, not as much fun for a little while. And I would like to be fun for a good while longer.”
“So you are saying a woman can…come—” she tested the French version of the word on her tongue and decided it worked as well as the English, “—more often than a man can?”
“In the same period of time, yes.”
She frowned. “That seems rather…unfair. Why would that be?”
“As you yourself have noted, the world is not especially fair toward women on the whole. Perhaps it is God’s way of balancing the scales a bit.”
That idea made her laugh. She could scarcely imagine the God she had grown up worshipping—the one who demanded she confess her every transgression, even those that were only thoughts and not actions, to a man—would do anything to make a woman’s life more pleasurable than a man’s, but if what Thomas said was true…? If women really did have the capacity for more pleasure than men? Well, perhaps she would have to rethink God altogether, because the one she knew didn’t seem to want anyone to have any pleasure at all.
“I think I am going to have to make you prove that this is true,” she said.
“Oh, I intend to. But first—” he grasped her chemise where it bunched around her waist, “—this comes off.” And then he pulled it up over her head.
Chapter 17
Ah, but she was beautiful.
Not that Thomas had been in any doubt that he would find her so, but there was nothing like that moment when a man saw his beloved naked for the first time.
Beloved? Bloody hell. Where had that word come from?
