For the first time in his life, he’d allowed his conscience to get the better of him. And it would be the last. His conscience, and the chit, put him through a hell that lasted a mere five minutes but wrenched him as if it stretched for millennia. When he realised, he’d already suggested she walk away. What prompted him to say such absurd nonsense he couldn’t fathom. Telling her to marry another, bear another’s children had clawed at him to a point he could barely breathe. To imagine her lying with any man other than himself made him want to thrash like a wild animal tied with a dozen leashes.
He didn’t like the experience.
And just when he thought she’d grab the opportunity and make a run for it, she’d said no to his ludicrous proposition. He could only describe the relief that had washed over him as life-saving. Or soul-redeeming.
Though his soul was a lost cause as in a way his brainless offer put the issue past him. For the third time, she’d accepted his terms. First, it’d been verbally in his office. Second, she put her name on the papers. Third, earlier today. He’d reckon a saint’s conscience would be put to rest. His, he’d obliterate completely and guiltlessly. Gag it; bury it seven feet under and be done with the hassling thing.
It was collecting time.
Signalling for Hobson to evacuate the dining room, he waited for them to be alone.
The movement must have alerted her for she lifted her eyes to meet his, her knife suspended halfway in the air.
“Tonight, you retire to my chambers.” She was ready, and he was at bursting point.
The knife fell on the fine porcelain plate with a loud clang. Eyes wide, slack-jawed, her head lowered as she straightened it. He almost pitied her, almost, since the little shrew proved to be made of sterner stuff.
When she looked at him again, she had regained her composure. Her irises arrowed on his, her chin tilted up, her spine straight. “Of course.”
He’d celebrate by the time he’d splintered that poise, bared her of this primness together with every stitch she had on her.
“I want you in one of the nightgowns I bought you,” he issued further. “Nothing more.”
The outraged glare she sent him left no doubt of what she thought of his commands. “On my knees, in chains, maybe?” She contradicted his imperiousness.
Bleeding hell, but the woman couldn’t have ignited him more to a roaring fire if she tried. His hands tightened on the armrests so much that he might split his bones, or the wood. It was this or pounce on her and forget his usual finesse with women. He filled his lungs deeply and tried to remember she didn’t have a clue for what she had really volunteered.
Even with a ticking jaw, he managed a humorous chuckle. “You’ll be on your knees soon enough.” Minus the chains, he completed mentally.
Ringing for the return of the servants, he pretended he didn’t see the aggravated expression flushing her face.
In a frilly, gauzy nightgown covered with a matching dressing gown that made her feel grateful for the extra layer it afforded her, Edwina paced the carpet of her bedchamber.
She couldn’t bring herself to go to his. In fact, she didn’t even learn where it stood. Strangely enough, they’d never met upstairs. She took breakfast when he’d already left and retired while he stayed in his study. To stop a servant now and ask would be terribly mortifying.
For the hundredth time today, she wondered why she didn’t seize his offer of crying off and flee as far away as possible. It’d spare her the nerves and embarrassment coursing through her. Palms clammy, her heart galloped at breakneck speed. Her stomach roiled with a mixture of tension and anticipation tearing her apart.
All that bravado of being a woman of her word evaporated the moment he opened that sensuous mouth of his at dinner, putting her on a path from which there’d be no return. As much as she wanted a taste of it, of him, of the things he showed her—promised her—apprehension squeezed her insides. She paced to the window and back to the bed, repeating the route.
A noise from behind caused her to pivot. She clasped her eyes on the man currently dominating her thoughts.
He was standing at the connecting door.
Dressed in breeches and a shirt, rolled sleeves, no neckcloth, and with dishevelled hair and evening stubble, he robbed her of even more breath.
“Why aren’t you where I instructed?” With one hand on the doorknob and his legs braced, he looked like a warrior invader come to carry her to his lair.
“I didn’t—” Apprehension gave way to indignation. “Your bedchamber is there?” she asked, hands flying to her waist.
Those appreciative dark eyes raked her entire frame, the tension vanishing, the anticipation sharpening.
His brows arched smugly for outsmarting her. “I gave you the lady’s chamber for obvious reasons.”
“You blackguard!” she spat.
His brows crumpled. “You had no idea?”
“Clearly not!” But what awed her even more was the knowledge that he hadn’t visited her chambers a single time. He could have done it, tried to seduce her, change her mind at his leisure. Yet, he didn’t. Not once. For a libertine, he revealed to be more of a gentleman than many.
“Now you do,” he said as he motioned her to pass onto his side of the door.
Her eyes bulged as air arrested in her lungs. The hour was upon her. The thing she hadn’t backed away from, the forbidden, sinful thing she’d been denied since she became a woman. That connecting door loomed as a portal, a passage, a rite of transformation. The moment she’d discover herself, and him. The reason he drew her in with such force.
In a haze, she put her feet forward, always forward, with no wish to go back, to the past, to the restrictions of a lady’s life. Her pace firmed, and she continued ahead. This had been her choice, for her family as much as for herself. She’d wanted him the moment she’d laid eyes on him; delighted in his kisses, his caresses.
Her feet walked past him and into the other side. She halted in the middle of his masculine chamber with the scent of him lingering in the air. A fire roared in the fireplace, lending a warm glow to the room.
Harris closed the door, leaned on it and crossed his arms over his broad chest. All the four buttons on his shirt already undone, it gaped down to his ribs with his movement; it dished him to her view. A wall of chest sprinkled with dark whorls of hair disappeared where the fabric remained closed. Over it, his thick, bare forearms reminded her of that second day when she waited in his office, and he entered wiping them in a cloth. She assured herself she’d touch every inch on display and discover its texture, warmth, strength…
“I said only the nightgown.”
His voice ripped her out of her reveries. Her head lowered to herself, then lifted back to his fixed stare, his irreducible demand. Unsteadily, her hands rose to find the bow closing the dressing gown. Slowly, she pulled the tip. The garment fell agape. Hesitantly, her gaze found his. Both her hands held the edges and removed them from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet.
Harris’s eyes flared. Even gauzy, the nightgown didn’t give much away as it contained more than one layer. But she realised he obtained a faint view of her tight nipples and the dark triangle between her legs. The hunger on his expression obliterated her natural shyness, her skin flushing with heat.
He pushed from the wooden panel, arms falling to his sides as he prowled to her with contained energy. The impression she had was that he struggled with himself, his eagerness. From the little he had shown her, he must be a man who favoured excesses, someone not given to finesse. Or restraint. Her tummy clenched at the idea.
Tall, imposing, he halted mere inches from her. Eyes wide, she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Pure lightning flashed between them and thrummed down her body in fiery waves.
“I don’t know why you insist on this horrendous bun,” he rasped.
Edwina had forgotten entirely about her hair. The conflicting emotions monopolised her cares. Her mother ha
d taught her that a woman tamed her hair in the same way she tamed her yearnings. Loose hair, even loose wisps of it told of loose morals, of senselessness, someone who gave in to madness, passion. That was why she never failed to keep her brown locks neatly arranged.
She made to undo it, but he acted faster.
Deft fingers scattered her pins over the Aubusson until the mass uncoiled to her waist in glossy brown strands. His gaze took in the length of it. He fisted a fraction and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled its jasmine and lemongrass scent. “Beautiful,” he drawled.
Plain, dull Edwina imagined no part of her would ever be considered remotely agreeable. “I-is it?” she blurted.
Harris let go of the hair and returned his stare to her. “You are beautiful.”
That would be too much to believe. Perhaps he intended to put her at ease, so she smiled, thankful.
As though his patience waned, he extended his hand to line the nape of her neck and pulled her to him, their mouths colliding. Whether she looked pretty or not lost all importance. Unapologetic, his tongue invaded her mouth as she made a sound in her throat. Her fingers dived in his wavy ebony hair, happy for the opportunity to do it again. She allowed him to plunder her mouth, welcomed it, reciprocated it.
He kissed her with awe. He kissed her with reverence, with passion. Those calamitous lips sought every nook and cranny of her cavity, exploring, teasing, lusting. For long minutes, he enthralled her, transforming her nerves into syrup—gooey and pliant.
All too soon, he lifted his mouth, his harsh breath fanning her cheeks. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growled.
One bunched arm laced her by the waist and hauled her up, their heads levelling. And then his mouth was pillaging hers again, thirstier, blunter. In seconds they were devouring each other as though this was the last kiss in the history of humanity. Against her legs, his hardness made a declaration of its own, and she remembered how it felt in her hand, firm, hot and smooth at the same time. She’d touch it again, soon.
He continued his quest, craning his head, seeking deeper until she feared she’d thaw into a puddle at his feet. At last, he let go, sliding her frame down his. Her hands glided down from his hair to his throat to reach the gape in the lawn. They wasted no time in exploring the unyielding muscles and satiny skin as the whorls tickled her palms. Her fingers found his nipples, and she wondered if he had the same sensation as her when she strolled over them.
His own hands lifted to hold her wrists, lamentably stopping her. “You cannot do this right now, little shrew.” His thumbs caressed the delicate skin he found. “I’m hanging by a thread here.” It came so gruffly she had difficulty understanding.
Her glare widened on his. “H-how so?”
“My seed is pressing for release even before we start,” he answered as he lowered her arm delicately.
Why this would be bad, she had yet to learn. But thinking of his seed and how he enjoyed spilling it hot and sticky over her knuckles caused that place he uncovered between her legs to melt and moisten.
Harris reached to the satin sash under her breasts and pulled at the bow. With a faint tug at the sleeves, he bought it down to join the dressing gown. Naked, she stood in front of him. It’d be foolish to cover herself, he’d already seen—or touched—most of her.
His keen eyes took her in from loose hair to full breasts, tiny waist, shapely hips down to her toes.
“You’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen,” he rasped as though mesmerised. “With legs worth dying for.”
Right at that moment, she felt as beautiful as he stated. It was enough that he was only being kind. She didn’t mind; it showed he could be gentle too.
In clipped movements, he tore his shirt from inside his breeches and removed it in seconds. It was her turn to admire his monumental torso.
Not for long though. He laced her waist anew. “Put your legs around me,” he instructed.
After entwining her arms around his broad shoulders, she did what he said.
“That’s it,” he praised. “I want you all wrapped in me, inside and out.” He carried her to the bed.
By now, tension and apprehension were hazy memories. Her nerve endings yearned for him to do anything and everything to her.
They lay on the mattress, and she never let him go. One of his arms remained around her waist, the other hand lined her breast as he kissed her, no, devoured her, yet again. The fabric of his breeches did things to that spot at the centre of her, awakening more eagerness.
His stubble dragged down her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, until thirsty lips latched on one breast. She arched for him with a moan. The onslaught of his lips, his tongue, the bristles on one side and the rolling of thumb and forefinger on the other, plunged her into a sea of delectation.
“I’d spend days on end only fondling these wonders,” he said as his mouth trailed to the other orb, also to banquet on it.
Even as her arms held him in place, she called him. “Harris.”
“Hm.” He didn’t distract from his task on her bosom, holding both orbs and alternating suckling one and its twin.
“Undress,” she breathed. Since that night in his study, she’d imagined what he would look like with nothing on him.
That made him lift his gaze to her. A knowing glint came to his dark irises as he stood by the bed and granted her wish.
It hadn’t been a good idea. Dressed, he was impressive, naked he was simply glorious. All muscle, sinew and masculine exquisiteness. The whorls on his chest funnelled down his taut abdomen to the cluster between his legs. His erect cock protruded proudly from the nest of dark hair, over strong legs, and blunt feet.
“You’re perfect,” she said.
That side-smile made an appearance. “I aim to please.”
Climbing back in bed, he knelt between her knees. Before she realised what he intended, his mouth had fallen to her centre to turn her into a pliant, senseless wanton.
His tongue probed, searched, lapped. Wet and warm it incinerated her ten thousand times faster than his hand. His lips and the bristles surrounding them made it decidedly torturous. A moan escaped her as her fingers meshed in his hair and pulled him closer. That expert mouth licked, sucked, circled and wreaked havoc. He opened her thighs wide, exposing everything she hid. Unrelenting, he feasted on her wetness. When he extended one arm to tease a nipple, the explosion came unannounced and all-consuming. It was accompanied by a scream that wouldn’t stay stuck in her throat.
He looked at her from between her thighs, mouth smeared with her release, a triumphant gleam on his face. “Another,” he commanded and dived back to her.
Good gracious! The man acted positively merciless.
But this time he kept one hand on her breast and used his other index to caress the inside of her. The insistence of his hand, mouth and finger brought her to another explosion that came twice as blinding. Though she sagged on the bedsheets, her quim quivered as if it needed something more.
Harris sat on his haunches, his angry erection pointing up, dribbling moisture. Her eyes arrowed on it, a sense of incompleteness dominating her.
He reached for the nightstand to a sort of envelope. From inside, he took a contraption she’d never seen. Oblong and papery, it contained a ribbon on the wider side.
“It’s a French letter,” he clarified. “It’ll protect you from being with child.”
He proceeded to fit it to his member, tying the ribbon. Attentively, she observed his every action.
Ready, he came over her, bracing his arms by her sides. “It may hurt a little, but only on the first time,” he warned.
He positioned himself at her entrance, covering her in expectation. Driving in, he emitted a long groan.
A deep wash of pleasure made her echo him. But a stinging sensation followed as her breath stalled.
At once, he went motionless, his total focus on her. He understood her discomfo
rt for he lowered his head and rained kisses all over her face, ear and neck. He didn’t stop until he heard her draw in air and felt her arms surround him.
Looking deep into her eyes, he rasped, “hold tight, little shrew; we’re going to fly.” Pulling her legs, he wrapped her to him.
She must have lost her speech skills somewhere because she was only heat and feelings.
He retreated and came back, renewing that delight. A second moan came from her. The sign of approval prompted him to swing in and out rhythmically. Seeking more, she lifted her hips to meet him. In no time, they moved in tandem, eyes clasped, breaths ragged.
Ever deeper, he thrust repeatedly, sweat beading on his chest. “Edwina,” he growled in between pants. “You’re killing me!”
The more he impaled her, the more that scorching, melting sensation soared, primal, sharp and luscious.
“Come for me, please,” he rasped. “I’m going down here!”
He needed not to ask twice. Heat hurtled from the very core of her, and she erupted in another spiral. With him buried in her, it came with an intensity so mindless that she dissolved in sweltering combustion.
“Harris,” she called nearly delirious with pleasure.
His hips sped erratically, sweat breaking on his brow, ruddy colour on his sharp cheekbones. He seemed even more caught in delectation than the night in the study.
He lunged the deepest, his head thrown back. And froze. Inside her, she registered him pumping copiously, a hoarse moan emitting from far down his throat.
His large body sagged against her, and she sheltered him while he recovered.
Harris’s eyes snapped open as if something was amiss.
His large hands groped over the crumpled bedsheets in search of Edwina, but only found coldness. He turned his head left and right to an empty chamber. She had gone.
Last night, after he had regained enough energy to move, he had padded to the washstand and moistened a cloth to help her recompose. The red stains on her inner thighs drove home his ruination of her. Instead of shame, what he felt had been jubilation. He’d staked his claim; she’d become his. This possessiveness should have scared him, but it didn’t. If anything, it made him even more jubilant.
Her Wicked LibertineEDIT Page 9