Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4

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Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4 Page 24

by Ridley, Erica


  “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  Alistair did not need to be told twice. He wanted nothing more than to keep her next to him forever.

  Cupping her to him, he rolled so that his body was atop hers and her open mouth beneath his. Her mouth tasted like heaven. She gripped his hair and locked her thighs about his as he kissed her again, and again, and again. Oh, how he had yearned for this. For her. He could not help his body’s reaction as his pulse quickened and his cock hardened. Her gasps of pleasure as he slid its length against her core only served to heighten his arousal. She was perfect, and he ached to make her his.

  She slid one hand from his hair to her shoulder and tugged at her neckline. His breeches tightened further in response. As an innocent, she wouldn’t be able to fathom how erotic it was to see how shyly she pulled the scooped neck of the gown down over her shoulder. He kissed the bared flesh, then her lips. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she lowered the thin silk inch by inch until one breast broke free of its confinement.

  Plump and pale and perfect, the breast exactly molded to his waiting hand. The nipple had sprung to life before he’d even touched it. When he finally gave into temptation she gasped into his mouth at the feel of his fingers caressing and tugging the sensitive bud. He had dreamed of exactly this.

  He tore his mouth from hers in order to taste that delicious breast, to feel his tongue rasping across the hard nipple. Her back arched, both her hands tangling in his hair and keeping him locked in his suckling position. She needn’t have worried—he wanted her just as much. Not wishing to startle her, he kept himself propped in place with one hand, and with the other began slowly, slowly, easing the hem of her gown up toward her hips.

  Her legs parted without prompting, baring her naked thighs, baring everything to his palm, to his fingers. She was beautiful. Still teasing her nipple with his tongue and his teeth, he traced a light pattern up her thighs, across her belly, circling ever closer to her core without quite touching her center, until her flesh shivered at his touch and her taut legs trembled in the night air. He wanted this moment to be perfect for her.

  The next time he teasingly swirled the tip of a finger tortuously close to her cleft, she bucked her hips without warning. Surprised, he bit harder than intended upon her nipple as his finger sank straight into her warm heat.

  She cried out, her head arching backward. Just as quickly, she pushed his head back to her breast. He forced himself to take it slowly, to savor each gasp, each sensation. He wished to bring her joy. A memory to cherish. She clutched him to her chest as he drove his finger deeper and deeper within her. Every kiss, every thrust, was his body’s way of telling her how much he wanted her. How much he loved her. Heart thundering, he slid a second finger in to join the first, all the while circling the pad of his thumb across the slick wetness of her clitoris. She was ready, and so was he.

  With his teeth, he tugged down the edge of her bodice until he bared her other breast. Slowly, tortuously, he applied himself to teasing that nipple with as much attention to detail as the first. He wished to bring her every pleasure, to hold back no part of himself.

  She released her fingers from his hair and slid her hands to the sides of her breasts, trapping his face between them as his fingers jutted within her. He panted, barely able to think. She was everything. He suckled one erect nipple, then the other. As his fingers continued to thrust and to stroke her, he dragged the length of his cheek across both breasts, allowing the roughness of his jaw to graze both nipples before he pulled them back into his mouth one at a time.

  Her answering gasp pleased him to his core. His body burned for her. He lifted his mouth from her nipples to suckle her tongue, to devour her with kisses, until she cried out as the walls of her womb spasmed against his fingers.

  When the last of the contractions ceased, he eased his fingers from inside her as he slowly pressed a line of heated kisses down the side of her neck, down the valley between her breasts, down the flat expanse of her belly, down to her—

  “No,” she rasped, tugging him upward before he could pleasure her as he’d done before. “This time, I want you.”

  When he hesitated, she yanked him to her, pressing her mouth to his as her deft hands made quick work of his fall. He gasped against her mouth. Freed from his breeches, his cock reveled in the sensation of her soft fingers closing tight around the shaft. Stroking, tugging, working him until blood rushed his ears and cleared his head of all conscious thought. He had dreamed of her touch, imagined every detail, but nothing, nothing could compare to having her truly before him. He kissed her again, nearly trembling with restrained desire.

  “I want you, Alistair.” She parted her legs and guided his cock between her thighs.

  He could barely breathe. She absolutely would be his. He slid home in a single shuddering thrust, then froze in horror that he might have hurt her in his passion. She reached for him and nipped at his lower lip.

  “More.” She smiled when his cock twitched in reply.

  He lowered his mouth to hers in a consuming kiss. He would make this count. He would make it perfect. Ever so slowly, he began to move. He shuddered with pleasure. Lacing his fingers with hers, he withdrew and reentered to the rhythm of his pounding heart.

  She wrapped her legs around him, biting lightly at his lower lip as she tightened her inner muscles around him. He nearly died. He cupped the back of her head, claiming her with kisses as his body claimed her with his cock. For he was claiming her. Just as she was claiming him. Her head fell back against the pillow as her spine arched and she climaxed once more, this time with their bodies joined together. He thrust faster, building to a climax that threatened to burst from him at any moment.

  “Roll over,” she whispered.

  Trapping her mouth with his, he wrapped his arms about her and rolled onto his back. She straddled his body and began to ride him, deliberately, tantalizingly. Dimly, he frowned despite the growing pleasure. She reached behind to cup his bollocks. He nearly swooned from the pleasure. It was as if she knew exactly how to—

  His rhythm stuttered as dawning awareness slowly crept in.

  She should not have had the least idea that straddling a man and riding him was even possible. Much less to tug at his bollocks as she worked his cock between her legs. She was an innocent. She was his unspoiled angel, for God’s sake. Or so he’d thought. His hips stilled as a rush of facts became obvious. She had kissed him first, had she not? She had met him pleasure for pleasure, and her current position with his bollocks in her hand could leave no doubt.

  “You’re not a virgin?” he managed weakly.

  Perhaps as rocked by the jarring question as he, she froze in place. A pink flush infused her cheeks with color. She released her hold and glanced away.

  His body was suddenly cold. She was no angel after all. How could he have been so wrong about her? Was it not true that a person who deceived about one thing, might deceive about everything? He had yearned so much for something perfect that he had let his fantasies blind him to the truth. How could he love someone he didn’t even know?

  He couldn’t.

  He answered his own question, then. All his questions. He was making love to a stranger. “This is not your first time.”

  She rolled aside. They were no longer connected, in body nor in his imagination.

  She took a deep breath. “You’re not a virgin either.”

  “Of course not,” he sputtered. “I have a child!”

  “Would it have been more acceptable if I had one, too?”

  “No!” He tried to make sense of his turbulent thoughts.

  She crossed her arms over her exposed breasts and glared at him. “So it’s fine for you, O master of the house, but not for me?”

  He jerked away from her in disbelief. “I was married.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “You didn’t seem too concerned about marriage a minute ago, when you were attempting to divest me of my virginity!”

  “I was wrong.”
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br />   He closed his eyes to block her from his sight. That was not what he had meant to say, but it was true. She was not who he had believed she was, but she was still herself. Still passionate. Still beautiful. Still lying naked before him. He rubbed viciously at his face, unable to think. “I thought you were... innocent.”

  She scrambled backward against the headboard and clutched a pillow to her bosom. “Well, I’m not. And you aren’t much of a gentleman. Either bedding me is fine, or it’s not. Regardless of the past. I’d say, men who think with their cocks shouldn’t be so quick to judge others. Especially those they’d planned on rogering silly.”

  He flinched at her language and colored hotly at the direct hit. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I just didn’t think…”

  “Obviously. Get out,” she commanded, her bare arm pointed firmly toward the door. “Now!”

  He picked himself up, not breaking eye contact. He was searching for the right words to say. He could think of none. Her entire body trembled but she did not break his gaze.

  “Goodbye,” she repeated firmly.

  Without another word, he turned and strode out the door.

  Chapter 30

  Alistair’s knees banged against his daughter’s new breakfast table. He winced as the silver clattered against the china for the hundredth time in five minutes. He was either going to break his knees or the dishware. It was just a matter of time.

  Meanwhile, Lily was oblivious to his pain, both inner and physical. She’d been beside herself with glee ever since the child-sized breakfast set arrived. The miniature table and miniature chairs might not be designed for someone of his dimensions, but they matched his petite daughter perfectly, allowing her not only to dine in greater comfort, but also to more easily play hostess to guests. In this case, her father.

  Fortunately for him, she was so enamored with pouring tea and arranging pots of jam that she scarcely noticed whether or not her father attended to her inarticulate murmurs of delight. He was having enough trouble attending to his own problems. Starting with the events of last night.

  He set down his teacup before it shattered in his hands. Yesterday, he thought he’d met the true Violet Smythe—pardon, Violet Whitechapel—for the very first time. But had he? She had never claimed to share his ideals, nor had she ever professed to be innocent or virginal. He had assumed instead of simply asking her, then judged where he had no business judging at all. She was the same Violet she’d always been. The woman he loved. It was he who needed to change.

  “More tea, Papa?” Lily stared up at him expectantly, the undersized china pot clutched tight in her small hands.

  He nodded his assent. If he had learned anything lately, it was not to assume. Else he might never have come to share this moment today, with his daughter. He raised his eyebrows appreciatively as he sipped the tepid brew, making how-delicious noises more appropriate to teatime at Buckingham Palace. Lily beamed in response.

  He couldn’t help but smile back. They’d been so lonely for so long... As the lemon-and-honey tea slid down his oddly scratchy throat, he gazed across his teacup at his daughter in growing wonder. It wasn’t that he couldn’t recall the last time they’d spent such a pleasant morning together. On the contrary. It was that the pleasant moments began after Violet’s arrival in their abbey. Regardless of her past, there was no denying the very real miracles she had wrought in their lives.

  Besides, was Alistair himself so perfect? Far from it. He’d never claimed to be a saint, but nor had Violet ever laid claim to any proclivity toward godliness. If Alistair were being truly honest, even his beloved Marjorie, martyred in the very act of bringing life to their daughter, had not been the perfect angel he had painted her to be.

  Marjorie, bless her soul, had been wholly and delightfully human. She had lived passionately, loved passionately, and fought passionately. At the time, she’d been the girl of his dreams—but that dream had long since concluded. She would forever be the woman who gave Lily life, but perhaps he’d done his daughter a disservice by overemphasizing her mother’s goodness. In his grief, he may have constantly, if inadvertently, thrown the sharpness of his loss in his daughter’s face.

  Lily had never had a mother, had anyone to look up to, save himself.

  Until Violet.

  His shoulders tightened as he faced the truth. Violet had never been just a governess. She had certainly never been a mere companion to him or his daughter. Violet was the first new confidante in his life in over a decade. And she was the first friend Lily had had in her entire life. The first mother figure his daughter had ever known.

  No—not a “figure”. Not a substitute, not a mirage, not a substandard stopgap. To say anything of the sort was to devalue the very special and undeniably real relationship Violet and Lily had built over the past several months. Violet might not be her biological mother, but there was little else to stand in the way of the title. His daughter had loved her wholly and unconditionally almost from the first.

  “Papa?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Tomorrow can Miss Smythe join us for breakfast?”

  He choked on his tea. Would Violet even be here tomorrow? Could he blame her if she left them both? He had certainly done little to make her stay. He could scarce be surprised if she were even now packing her bags. And when Violet did leave them—whether to face her accuser or flee to Switzerland or live a life of freedom in London town, far away from Alistair—Lily would be devastated. What would he do then? The loss of Violet in his daughter’s life would hit her equally as soul-deep as the premature loss of his wife had devastated Alistair in his youth. How could he possibly prepare his child for something like that? He couldn’t even promise her breakfast.

  “We’ll see,” was all he said aloud. “You may invite her to dine with you whenever you wish, but please do not be... hurt... if there is a time when Miss Smythe cannot attend.”

  Lily laughed as if he’d told a brilliant jest. “She would never say no, Papa. She loves me.”

  Love. He opened his mouth to reply, but not a single word escaped. Did he even know what the word meant anymore?

  Lily twisted around in her seat. “Papa... may I paint my room?”

  “Paint anything you wish, sweetling.”

  He pushed his chair back. At least Lily would have a new love—that of art—to bring color to her life after they lost Violet. His stomach clenched. Oh, how could he let her leave? And yet he could not force her to stay. Only after she faced her past would she be able to consider her future. He and Lily would just have to carry on, as they had always done. No matter how hard it might be.

  He had always prayed Lily never need experience the pain of abandonment. For the sake of Violet’s future, however... And for the sake of Alistair’s shaken heart...

  Sighing, he rose to his feet. He was not at all certain what he wanted, and he did not know what to pray for that would provide an optimal solution for all parties. He would turn it over in his mind as he paged through the books in his study.

  He rang for a maid and kissed his daughter’s cheeks before slipping quickly and silently through the darkness of the catacombs. But once he was back in the lonely safety of his office, he slumped into his chair and stared sightlessly at the mundane correspondence he’d been unable to bear opening since the tidal wave of the day before. He just couldn’t face it.

  Ever since returning from Shrewsbury proper, he had not studied a single essay, nor broken the seal on a single missive, nor slept a single wink. How could he? He could hardly return to his old life when his new life had been so neatly turned upside down. Before, he’d had precisely one focus, and precisely one goal.

  Now he had two.

  He slid a blank sheet of parchment from the stack in his secretary drawer and dipped his pen into a reservoir of ink. Violet needed help, and Alistair would provide it.

  He composed a carefully worded inquiry to his solicitor, authorizing him to spend whatever coin necessary to take care of the
problem as discreetly as possible, and to immediately send notice upon success or setback. There, that should do. He pulled a bit of wax and a ring bearing the Waldegrave family crest from the parchment drawer and prepared to seal the inquiry.

  He hesitated before heating the ring in a candle’s flame. Was this truly the right path? If he sent this missive, he effectively relinquished Violet to the fates of the courts. When his barrister took her as a client, the case would progress rapidly. Once cleared of all charges, why would any young woman as beautiful and as talented as she give up an entire world of inspiration and beauty for claustrophobic catacombs and windowless chambers?

  She would not, he realized, his stomach sinking. No one would. He had not chosen this life—God had thrust it upon him, like it or not. His grip on the sealing ring tightened. By ensuring Violet’s freedom, he’d likely also be ensuring she take it. Elsewhere.

  So be it.

  He jerked his fingers back from the flame and pressed the heated ring into the soft wax before he could change his mind. It was the right thing to do. He didn’t have to like it. He owed her as much. Wishing the entire matter out of sight, he slid the sealed missive atop a stack of open medical books and tugged forward yesterday’s pile of unopened correspondence.

  He regretted that decision immediately.

  Half the letters were from the great minds present at his recent conclave. The other half were from equally great minds, kindly refusing an invitation to attend a future such retreat. And every last one of them held the same message: No.

  No, there was no magic tincture. There was no solution in any form. There was no hope for even finding answers to “why” or “how” without extensive in-laboratory study, and even then, no promises could be made. There was not now, nor was there likely to ever be, a cure for such a violent and deadly disease. There was nary a hint of optimism for even ameliorating the symptoms. He might as well have asked them to fly to the moon.

 

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