by Meara Platt
She and Graham eyed each other in tense silence. The low light of the lamp was a warm shock after the darkness of the hall. Their breaths were similarly ragged. He was sin personified, clad in nothing but his shirtsleeves, sans cravat, the short line of buttons at his throat open to reveal a delicious glimpse of the chest she had been admiring with her hands not long ago. His breeches hugged his muscular thighs, and his cock protruded in blatant invitation. He looked at once indecent and wonderful, so handsome, she ached. Their kiss had affected him every bit as much as it had her.
An answering pang echoed in her core.
The golds in his red hair were alight, dancing, it seemed, making him look as if he were Helios come to bless a mere mortal with his blinding beauty. His eyes were the shade of a summer sky, burning into her.
“I still hate you,” she told him, daring him to contradict her.
His jaw hardened until she imagined it could slice right through anything it touched. “Our enmity is mutual, madam.”
Fair enough. He did not like her. She did not like him. Hannah still failed to see how he could possibly harbor a grudge when he was the one who had trespassed against her. But that was a question to ponder later.
Because she had already made her decision the instant she had decided to bring him to her chamber. She was going to lie with him. One more time. She was going to remember what it felt like to be wanted. She needed to exorcise the old memories of hands that gripped too hard, of fingers pulling her hair, of the humiliation she had endured at the hands of Fawkesbury.
For tonight only, she was going to indulge. To give herself what she wanted.
“I brought you here to avoid being discovered,” she told him, as if it mattered.
They both knew she was prevaricating. Bluffing. He had always understood her body’s responses to his. He had always known her better than she knew herself. And that was why she was so defenseless, so weak.
“Tell yourself that, darling.” The smile he gave her was one-half snarl.
He gripped his shirt in his fists and pulled it over his head, baring his chest.
Her eyes devoured him. Little wonder he had felt strong. His chest was superbly defined. Lean and long, slabbed with muscle. He did not have the wiry body she had once known. Nor did he have the thick, hairy middle Fawkesbury had possessed, which had only grown as his love of vice spiraled increasingly beyond his control.
No indeed, Haven bereft of his shirt was a sight to behold. She swallowed, tamping down the urge to close the distance separating them and touch him.
“I am not your darling,” she said, snapping herself out of the erotic spell he had cast upon her.
“No.” His voice was sharp, his gaze penetrating. “You never were, were you, Hannah?”
Once more, she sensed a deeper meaning hidden in his words, one she failed to comprehend. But his fingers had traveled to the fall of his breeches now. And one by one, he was slipping buttons from their moorings.
Her breath grew alarmingly shallow, her pulse erratic. “Nor were you mine.”
But she was loosening the belt on her wrapper. The knot came undone. Her dressing gown gaped. She shrugged it from her shoulders.
His gaze seared her, head to toe, skimming over her with as much power as a touch. “Perhaps we were both lying to each other, all those years ago.”
She knew without a doubt he had been lying to her. She, however, had meant every word she had said. Every touch, every kiss, every caress. She had loved him then. She loved him now, though she knew him as a careless rakehell who had stolen her innocence. In the wake of his betrayal, she had been left with no other choice than to believe that was what he had been.
Tonight, she was no longer certain.
What she did know was that the past had no place here.
She wanted to forget.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, for it mattered not. “One night, Haven. One night only.”
He had yet to completely undo the fall of his breeches. Without plucking another button free, he stalked toward her instead.
“Tonight only, Lady Fawkesbury.”
She flinched at his use of her title. Pressed a finger over his lips now that he was close enough to touch. “Do not call me by that name. Not tonight.”
Tonight, she was Hannah. She was the lady she had once been, wild and free. Unafraid. The lady who turned to flame in this man’s arms.
He kissed the pad of her finger. “Hannah.”
And she was lost. She flung herself into his arms. Their lips reunited. The kiss was beautiful in its wildness. She gave herself over to sensation, to Graham. The years fell away. The anguish, the pain, the betrayal. She was doing this for herself. Rekindling the memory of who she had once been, resurrecting the passion which had been so glaringly absent from her life all these years.
And she forgave him, if only for one night, for a few stolen moments.
She told him with her kiss, with her lips and tongue. With her hands, wandering over him wherever they could. His firm rump, his strong arms, his broad shoulders. They kissed as if it were the first time their mouths had ever met and as if it was the last time they ever would.
Her questing fingers found the fall of his breeches, and she worked the rest of the buttons free as his tongue played with hers. When his cock sprang free into her hand, long and thick, velvet-smooth and warm, she moaned into their kiss. Her fingers tightened, grasping him at his root and stroking.
His hips pumped, and he made a low, heady sound of need. Yes. He was as desperate as she was. The love between them had been a lie. So too had been his promises he would find a way to persuade her father to allow him to marry her. The desire, however, had been all too real.
It was now.
Real and breathtaking.
Their kiss turned even more frenzied than before. Together, they removed the remainder of the barriers of cloth keeping them from what they wanted most. His breeches and stockings were gone, so too her night rail.
Clutching each other, still kissing, they somehow made their way to the bed. She was on her back, beneath him, Graham nestled between her thighs. Her first thought was that it felt so right, so familiar. How many times had she dreamt of this, of him, over the last lonely few years?
She wanted to tell herself this was temporary. An illusion brought about by her suppressed desire. That one night meant nothing. That she could take her pleasure the way so many men and women did, and think nothing of it tomorrow.
But that was a worry she would save for the sun.
Tonight, she had the only man she had ever loved in her bed, and she was remembering what it felt like to be wanted. What it felt like to be touched tenderly. To be savored and desired. She would fret over regrets when she did not have his big body pinning hers to the bed.
“Hannah,” he said her name as if it were a prayer as he dropped reverent kisses all over her body.
Down her neck, over her collarbone, to her shoulder, where he bit gently. Then back to her ear, where he tongued the hollow behind it and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.
“My God, Hannah, I could breathe in the scent of you forever, and it would still not be enough,” he said raggedly.
She believed his words, because she felt the same way about him. She clutched his shoulders and pressed her face to the silken strands of his hair. She had never seen another gentleman with hair such a rich, bold color. Every part of him was so unique, so perfect to her. Emotion swelled within her, along with the carnal need, before she could control herself.
She had missed him. Dear God, how she had missed him. His face, his voice, his scent, his touch, his body over hers, inside hers…
He was still kissing her as if she were a gift. As if she were a goddess fallen from the heavens for him alone. Lingering kisses over her breasts. He took first one nipple in his mouth and then the other, drawing on each so sweetly, nipping the hardened peaks with his teeth before licking away the sting.
Her fingers sank i
nto his hair, so thick, so soft. Touching him like this was a dream. She had longed for him, how she had lain awake nights, recalling the way he had made her feel. Even through her anger, through all her hurts, though years passed, she had never forgotten.
His mouth trailed a path of decadent heat down her belly. His hands caressed her so gently, she could weep. He kissed her hip bone, caressed her inner thighs, spread them wide. She did not even have any chance to be embarrassed, to feel a hint of shame at the way he exposed her.
He lowered his head, his tongue dipping into her folds. The first lick over her desperate skin made her cry out. Dimly, she recalled where she was, that she must not be loud. She held the back of her hand over her mouth, stifling her moan. He parted her and sucked her pearl the same way he had her nipples.
Her hips bucked as liquid heat and molten need shimmered through her. She was filled with stars and light and radiance. Burning for him. Always for him. Only for him. His tongue flitted over her core, and then he licked into her. Her heart pounded, everything within her tightening like a knot.
After so long, without desire, the pleasure was overwhelming, and she was already on the edge. When he returned to her pearl, flicking his tongue over her in slow, steady swipes, and sank a finger inside her, she lost control. His finger was deep, curled to find a place inside her she had forgotten existed. A decadent place, a reactive place.
She shuddered and came apart. Bliss crashed over her with such violent splendor she had to bite her hand to keep from crying out and alerting the entire wing to the illicit sins she was engaged in.
“God, I love the way you taste,” he said, still licking her and moving his finger inside her as the ripples of her spend chased through her.
She had no words.
The sight of him, his handsome face buried between her legs, undid her. It was as if the walls she had built around herself had come crashing to the ground. Her defenses were destroyed, nothing but rubble all around them.
She hungered for more. For him inside her. For everything that was wrong and bad and iniquitous. Everything that went against all her vows to herself. A final gift: him inside her. That was what she wanted.
As if he heard her thoughts, he rose over her, his powerful body tense, a beautiful study in angles and planes. In strength and muscle and tenderness, all at once. He guided himself to her entrance, the thick tip of his cock teasing her with a promise of fulfillment.
“Do you want me, Hannah?” he asked, his voice a feral growl.
His summer-blue eyes scorched her alive.
“Yes.” The sweet susurrus of her complete surrender seemed to hover in the air around them.
They were suspended in time. Or perhaps time cased to exist. The past, the present, fell away. He slid inside her. One deep thrust, and she was stretched and full, so full of him. His mouth crashed down on hers in a hungry, carnal kiss. Their tongues tangled, and she tasted herself as he began moving within her.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. They fit together so perfectly, so naturally. It was as if they had not spent the past five years apart. They kissed as their lovemaking turned frantic. She twisted from the bed, trying to get him deeper inside her as he began a punishing rhythm. He reached between them and stroked her pearl.
She tried to tell herself she must not allow him to spill inside her.
Tried to recall the disaster he had made of her life before.
But then the wave of her next spend came crashing down on her, hard. She tightened on him, her legs locking on his hips as ecstasy replaced all thought. Sensation rolled through her like the waters of a flood, in one huge rush. He drove into her one last time, and then the muscles of his back tensed. On a groan, he emptied himself within her.
And Hannah, fool that she was, held him there, to her, their sweat-slicked bodies united, hearts pounding in unison.
Chapter Five
Graham woke as the earliest strains of dawn filtered in through gaps in the window dressings. The fire had died to nothing more than the glow of coals in the grate, and the air was cold. He was surrounded by golden curls. He held a sleeping, decadently naked woman in his arms. The scent of lovemaking lingered in the air. His cock was a rigid reproach, standing erect and ready.
He had made a horrible mistake.
More than one, as it happened.
A whole, damned series of them. And they always involved one woman.
Hannah.
Carefully, to keep from waking her, he disentangled his legs and arms from hers. She slept on, looking as peaceful and serene as an angel in the early morning’s light. The bedclothes were rumpled, and in her slumber, she had twisted them about her waist, meaning her breasts were on full display, her sweet, pink nipples puckered in the chill air.
Taunting him.
Calling for his lips.
His prick twitched, ever the traitor to his mind and heart. What he would not give to stay here with her in bed all day, to fuck her a dozen different ways and tell the rest of the world to go to the devil. But though he was every bit as crazed with wanting her this morning as he had been last night, without the accepting cloak of darkness, he had no excuse to remain.
He could not hide his follies when the servants and other guests began moving about, beginning their days. Bedding her last night had been a grave lapse in judgment. An aberration, he told himself, slipping from the bed at last.
But not even the frigid morning air on his naked skin was enough to wilt his erection. Nor was it enough to cool the fires of desire burning through him for her. Had he told himself he could bed her once? That he could banish the poison of wanting her by making love to her?
He was a fool.
Worse than a fool.
He had never been the sort of man who needed to find his hastily discarded garments in the morning and flee from a lady’s bedchamber. But here he was, retrieving his rumpled shirt from the floor and slipping it over his head. His first mistake had been in kissing Hannah. His second had been in thinking he could make love to her and that it would somehow put an end to the irrational longing he had for her. That it would vanquish all the yearning eating him alive.
He slid on his breeches next, slipping the buttons into place on the falls. His third mistake had been spilling his seed inside her. His fourth had been remaining in her bed, dozing lightly, only to wake with a raging erection and the need to have her again. And his fifth had been falling asleep with her in his arms.
He cast another lingering look toward the bed. If he remained here much longer, he would easily commit a sixth by tearing off all his clothes, getting back into her bed, and waking her up with his tongue between her legs.
He ground his molars against an impending rush of desire and crossed the room to her side. Deriding himself as a fool all over again, he pulled the counterpane over her, all the way to her chin. She still slumbered on, likely exhausted after the night they had shared. Before he could stop himself, he bent and pressed a kiss to her brow.
She made a sweet murmur and shifted.
Damn it, he could not afford to wake her. He straightened, gathered up his stockings, and left her before he could not bear to walk away. In the even chillier gloom of the hall, he discovered the Latin treatise he had dropped last night. How right he had been that the volume would not aid him in his attempts to sleep, he thought grimly, as he retrieved it as well.
Hastily, he made his way back to his own chamber, reminding himself of the unnecessary scandal should he be discovered prowling the corridors at this time of the morning, wearing half of yesterday’s attire. He had come to this house party to do what he had promised his brother he would do on his deathbed: to find a proper wife so that he could secure an heir and see to it that the Dowling family continued to hold the marquessate.
Familial duty had been important to Gervase, but he had died before he had married himself. As the last living Dowling in their line, Graham could not help but to feel the heavy weight of the responsibility upon his shoulder
s. His search for a bride had only recently begun, after his period of mourning had come to an end.
On a sigh, he entered his chamber, closing the door at his back.
Thank God no one had seen him. He could not very well court a lady when he was wandering about the halls after bedding the widow he could not forget. No matter how hard he tried. Tossing the book and his stockings upon his bed, he stalked across the room to the wash basin and pitcher.
A splash of cold water on his face did nothing to replenish him. Nothing to help him forget. He could still taste her on his lips, for God’s sake. And when he tried to envision the unattached ladies present at the house party, all of whom had seemed excellent prospects for a future marchioness before he had spied Hannah across the crowded ballroom, he could not even see their faces.
All he saw was her.
All he wanted was her.
But he could not marry a woman he could not trust, even if she was free once more. And he most certainly did not dare trust her, he reminded himself. She had chosen a title over a second son. And now she could rot with the choices she had made.
He would find someone else. He would forget all about her. He would dance attendance on every eligible lady he could bloody well find at this house party. Because he had to. Last night was an aberration which would not—could not—be repeated.
If only he believed those words.
* * *
Cold afternoon air kissed her cheeks as Hannah trudged on the snow-packed path. The day was cold and gray and grim, the perfect reflection of the storm rioting within her. The need to escape the company of the revelers had been overwhelming.
She had risen that morning to the memories of what she had done in the night. To the scent of Graham on her pillow. Alone.
He had left her.
She had told herself it was just as well. That what had happened had been a rare deviation from the moral, proper path she had been walking for the last five years, first as Fawkesbury’s wife and now as a respectable widow. But the desire he had brought to life within her belied those words. She was so very vulnerable when it came to him. Nothing had changed. Worst of all, she knew if he came to her again tonight, she would have a difficult time turning him away.