A Season of Seduction

by Jennifer Haymore

  He ran his hands from the flare of her hips up over her narrow waist and pressed between them, insinuating his palms over her breasts, cupping them over her chemise.

  He lowered one hand to the hem of her chemise and dragged it up her leg, trailing his fingertips over the smooth skin of her calf and then her thigh. She was all soft, eager woman, panting under his touch. Damned if he didn’t want her every second of the day.

  He pressed his hand between her legs, sliding through the already slick folds of her sex, and she arched into his hand.

  He slid his fingers over her again and again, circling her clitoris and finally burying a finger deep inside her.

  “Ahhhh…” She shuddered over his hand, clutched wildly at his shirt. Still in a seated position beside him on the sofa, she twisted restlessly this way and that, her face flushed, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with passion.

  He pumped his finger inside her, then added a second finger, grazing along that spot deep inside her that made her shudder and whimper, made her body tighten around him. If he kept stroking, it would bring her to release.

  He never took his eyes off her, because every breath, every pant, every cry of pleasure she made added to his own. Made him want her more. Made him love her more.

  “Jack,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his. “Jack… please…”

  Without removing his hand from between her legs, he slid off the sofa and knelt on the floor before her, gently pressing her knees apart and tugging her forward so she sat perched on the edge of the sofa completely exposed to him.

  She braced her hands on the cushions at her sides, staring down at him with wide eyes.

  “What are you…?”

  But her words were cut off when he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her sex. Then he swiped his tongue over her slick inner lips.

  “Jack!”

  He backed away, licking her spring-flower taste from his lips and looking up at her.

  “Wha-what are you…?”

  “Tasting you.” He moved his fingers, still lodged deeply inside her, and he could see her struggle to maintain her focus on him.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to.” He gave her a crooked smile and moved forward again, starting a slow rhythm with his fingers and his tongue, pushing deep into her and stroking along her inner walls while he swiped his tongue over her sex, focusing on the small nub of her clitoris. He circled it, feeling it grow taut beneath his tongue, and then he sucked it gently, bending his fingers inside her so they’d stroke along the spot that drove her to the brink.

  She came instantly, surprising him. Her thighs tensed around his ears and her hands fisted in his hair as she called out his name. Her body pulsed over his fingers, against his lips, and her sweet, musky taste flooded his tongue.

  He stroked her through it gently, and as soon as it ended, he pulled away. He made short work of his trousers, shoving them down over his hips, and his shirt, yanking it over his head. Then he reached down to adjust her, laying her on her back on the sofa. As soon as she was in place, he moved over her.

  He couldn’t wait another second. He had to have her.

  Positioning himself quickly, he pushed into her hot, wet, willing body. The pleasure hit him with such intensity that white lights blinked behind his eyes. He stopped, lodged deep inside her, his fingers tangled in her hair, while he struggled to regain a semblance of sanity.

  She stared up at him, her gaze rapt, filled with pleasure. Her hands slid over his ribs, then smoothed down his back, and she wrapped her legs around him, her heels pushing the area just below his arse.

  Gritting his teeth against the urge to pound into her relentlessly, to chase his release at a full run until he conquered it, he began a slow rhythm, each push into her infinitesimally deeper, infinitesimally harder. This connection was something for both of them to savor, a slow ramp up to heaven.

  His muscles grew tenser over her. His ballocks drew up taut against his body. His cock grew longer and stiffer, and his jaw clenched so hard it felt close to snapping. She traveled the same path he did, her muscles making a slow transformation from languidness to stiffness. Her hands went from smoothing over his body, to moving restlessly and without direction, to gripping him for all she was worth. Her eyelids sank and then her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and whimpers of pleasure emerged from her mouth even though her lips pressed together in a thin line.

  He watched her. His muscles and jaw stiff, his release so close, he kept his eyes pried open and focused on the woman he loved, so beautiful in rapture.

  Finally, she let go, shuddering, shaking, pulsing around him. Her lips parted and her body arched in the throes of a magnificent orgasm. Her body clutched him hard, growing tight as a vise all around him.

  He rose to the top of the wave, cresting it. With a groan and a deep thrust, he toppled over into the churning water below. His shuddering in time to hers, pumping his seed, his heart, his soul, deep into her.

  “Becky,” he whispered as her body milked him of the remaining drops.

  He squeezed himself between her and the sofa back, turning toward the fire, wrapping his arms around her chest and resting his chin on the top of her head. She snuggled against him. Even in this position, they fit together perfectly.

  He stared into the fire, his eyes half-lidded, comfortable in silence.

  A while later, she murmured, “Do you really think it will work?”

  “Do I think what will work?”

  “Us.”

  “Yes.” He said the word with a definitive finality. Despite how differently they’d spent the past years, they were far more compatible than he had ever guessed. Long ago, they had traveled the same path, but each of them had taken a fork onto a divergent course—Jack when he’d been accused of murder and Becky when her husband had died. Yet something had thrown them together, and now they traveled as one again. On a path of healing, leading toward a far brighter future than the dull purgatory in which both of them had subsisted.

  She pressed her body more firmly against him, her hand reaching back to stroke his hip. “Me, too.”

  “Marry me, Becky.”

  She hesitated, and under his arm her torso rose and fell as she took deep breaths. Finally, she whispered, “Yes, Jack. I’ll marry you.”

  Jack’s whole body resonated with the force of those few words. He squeezed his eyes shut as emotion poured through him. Holding her tightly, he vowed to himself that no matter what, he’d do right by her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sometime later, Jack shifted behind her, adjusting his body to a more comfortable position.

  “Do you want to go upstairs?” Her voice sounded loud in the quiet of the room. Even the fire was almost silent, just a quiet whisper in the hearth. The wood had apparently exhausted its supply of crackling sap.

  “In a while.”

  She nodded.

  “Will you tell me about William Fisk?” he asked. “I should know exactly what happened between you and him.”

  She drew in a slow breath. “I was eighteen. A very young eighteen, too. I’d come into Town for my first Season and for my presentation to the king. Neither ever happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I met William.”

  “Who was he? Where did he come from?”

  “He’d returned from the Continent with Garrett. They were good friends—or so my brother thought.” She closed her eyes. “I was taken by him instantly. He was so kind, so handsome. It was a very difficult time for Garrett, and William was the only person who could manage my brother. Garrett trusted him when he trusted no one else, so I did, too.

  “He was a guest at our house, and he began to secretly visit my room at night. At first we only talked, but then he would kiss me. Caress me.” She sighed. “He so easily fooled me. I was utterly besotted.”

  Behind her, Jack was silent. His arms remained banded over her chest, and she slid her fingers over his hand.

  “He asked me
to be his wife, and by then—only a few weeks had passed since I first met him, mind—I was so enamored of him I said yes, of course. Nothing in the world could bring me more happiness.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He asked my brother, who was thrilled with the match, but Sophie never liked him.”

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  “She didn’t trust him. Out of all of us, she was the first to see through him. She and Tristan.”

  “I see,” Jack murmured.

  “One night, William came into my room. He said Garrett and Sophie wanted to delay the wedding, but he loved me and couldn’t wait another moment to make me his. He said he wanted to marry me as soon as possible. He wanted us to run to Gretna so we could be joined right away.”

  Jack made a noncommittal noise behind her.

  “I agreed, and we left in the middle of the night. Sophie, Garrett, and Tristan pursued us and tried to stop us, but we escaped from them. We married the moment we arrived at Gretna.”

  She paused. “It grew bad after that, Jack. It is difficult to speak of it.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart.” His breath was a low murmur against her ear. “It’s over.”

  Sometimes it seemed that it was still happening, that she was still mired in that misery—the loneliness of those first days of her marriage descending over her like a shroud. But not with Jack. When she was with Jack, loneliness was the farthest thing from her mind.

  “He grew distant. We moved from place to place until we ended at Kenilworth in Warwickshire. He grew even colder there. I knew something was wrong, and I was beginning to realize I’d made a horrible mistake.

  “One night I woke and he was gone. I wanted so desperately to win back his love—I thought I would go downstairs and search for him, and if I found him I might offer to make him a drink or rub his feet, show him I could still be a good wife. All I wanted was to make him happy.”

  “Whatever happened,” Jack said in a low, rasping voice, “it wasn’t your fault.”

  She closed her eyes. “I went downstairs and found him talking with his manservant. They didn’t hear me. William called me insipid and dull, and said it was to his great misfortune he’d ever met me.” Her voice descended to a dry whisper. “He planned to murder Garrett and me, and then he planned to take my money to Paris and live like a prince with his mistress.”

  Jack’s body tightened behind her. “Good God.”

  “He hated Garrett. He blamed Garrett for his own brother’s death in the war. This plan—it was his vengeance.”

  “He must have been insane.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am afraid he was.”

  “What happened?”

  “Garrett shot him.”

  “The common knowledge is that your husband was murdered by a band of smugglers.”

  “Yes. That is common knowledge. Common knowledge is often inaccurate, and in this case, it is a fiction created to protect the Duke of Calton. My brother was the man who killed my husband.”

  “God, Becky.” Jack sounded shaken.

  She scrambled to turn over to face him. She wanted to see the look on his face.

  To her surprise, his eyes shone with tears. He gripped her shoulder, hard. “He was mad, Becky. Only a madman would knowingly cause you harm.”

  She stared at him.

  “Only an idiot and a fool would think you were insipid or dull. You’re beautiful. Intelligent, and full of life. He tried to suck it out of you, but he did not succeed.”

  “Sometimes I think he did.”

  “No.” His voice shook with his conviction. She sighed, and he pulled her closer. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling me your story, first of all. But mostly—” his hand trailed down her waist and then slid behind it, “—thank you for giving me your trust. Now I can understand how difficult that must have been.”

  Her lips wobbled as she tried to smile at him. “It is done, though. It is no longer difficult.” Leaning forward, she pressed a hard kiss against the corner of his lips.“You don’t think I was a stupid fool for what I did?” she whispered against his skin. “For being so naïve?”

  “No. You were young. You were innocent. He manipulated you into believing he loved you when you were vulnerable and needed to be loved by someone.”

  “I hurt my family. I led them into danger. I was nearly responsible for my own brother’s death.”

  “He fooled you thoroughly. Even if he had succeeded in murdering your brother, it wouldn’t have been your fault. Far from it.”

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  “Yes. He hurt you.” He bowed his head, touched his forehead to hers, and closed his eyes. “I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

  The next morning, Becky and Jack awakened early, and after lingering in bed for an hour of talking and love-making they rose and dressed. They planned to walk to Richmond, hire a carriage, and arrive in London before noon.

  They ate a quick breakfast of bread dipped in cream, and Jack scrawled a letter to the landlady, thanking her for her hospitality and saying that he had no further need of her services for the time being. Becky combed and braided her hair in the simplest style, for she could manage no other on her own.

  He watched her, a smile twitching at his lips, as she struggled to fasten the pearl buttons of her gloves.

  “Let me guess,” he murmured. “You’ve never before buttoned your own gloves.”

  “Not these,” she admitted. “They are more difficult than most.”

  He held out his hand. “Come. I’ll help you.”

  He had to remove his own gloves to tackle the buttons, and she was choking on silent laughter by the time he finished, grumbling that with so many tiny buttons on her gloves, it would be noon before they left.

  “It usually doesn’t take this long,” she murmured. “I am one-handed and your fingers are too big. We need servants.”

  “Or we need to get rid of these damn gloves.”

  A chuckle burst from her lips, but it died away as he brought her fully gloved hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips against the buttery kidskin. “There.”

  She tore her hand out of his grip and threw her arms around him, planting her lips on his. “I cannot do this in public.” She kissed him again. “So I wanted to kiss and hug you one last time…”

  “Nonsense.” That wicked smile curled his lips. “There’s tonight, in your brother’s house—”

  “My brother’s house!” she gasped, widening her eyes at him.

  “—and many, many more nights to come.”

  Their lips met again, in a fiery clash that left her breathless. He finally pulled away, his gaze raking her body, finally lingering at her gloved hands.

  “Hell,” he muttered. “As much as I want to strip all those clothes off you and take you on the floor, it really will be noon before we leave. The damnable gloves alone take a quarter of an hour to button.”

  Smiling, she slipped her hand between them, running her fingers up the length of his erection. Then, on, impulse, she dropped to her knees and kissed him through the fabric of his trousers.

  “Becky, what are you—?”

  She was already undoing his buttons. Making short work of them, she slid his trousers down his narrow hips, taking his drawers down with them.

  She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “There’s time.”

  By the time she was finished, he’d appreciate these “damnable” gloves as much as she did. They were made of the softest, finest kid, and not only were they the most beautiful gloves she owned, they were also the most comfortable.

  She took him, already brick-hard, into her hands, cradling him in her fingers. Then she began a rhythmic stroke, moving the soft kid up and down his shaft. After just a few seconds, his hands rested heavily on her shoulders. “Becky…”

  “Mmm?”

  “I—”

  But she’d pressed her lips to the crown of his organ, and he gasped, his hips jerking toward her.

 
; She pulled away, biting her lip. Did he want…? Could she…?

  Sliding her fingers down his shaft, she kissed him again, then tentatively opened her mouth over him.

  He groaned, long and low. His fingers pressed behind her neck, encouraging her to take him deeper.

  She did. She took him as deep as she could into her mouth, his silky-hard skin gliding beneath her lips. He tasted salty, musky, masculine. She held him there until he moved his hips back, pulling himself from her mouth. When she began to move away, however, his fingers tightened on her neck, and she obediently pressed forward once more, allowing her kidskin-covered fingers to slide over him, leading the way for her lips.

  He pulled out a little, and it struck her that the movements they’d made imitated sexual congress. Was that what he wanted? Testing her theory, she did it again, retreating again until she nearly released him, and then when his fingers tightened over her neck, she pressed forward, swallowing him as deeply as she could.

  He made a small noise. Under her fingertips and the sensitive skin of her lips, he grew tighter, harder.

  Yes.

  She tried it again, this time without any urging from him. She withdrew and then, even before he applied pressure on her neck, took him in, swirling her tongue around the silken skin of his shaft as she did so.

  “Yes, Becky,” he said, his voice a near-moan. “Yes.”

  She did it again and again, sinking into the rhythm of it, working her lips over him, experimenting with the pressure and the depth of her caresses, learning quickly that the deeper she took him, the more he trembled. And when she withdrew, if she swirled her tongue around his crown, his fingers would curl into her hair, and he would groan.

  His texture and his shape. His taste and his touch. She learned it all, and mimicking the way he moved inside her, she moved over him.

  Suddenly, his fists tightened in her hair, and his thigh tightened under her palm. “I’m going to—”

  Whatever he was going to say, he didn’t finish. He froze, holding her locked against him. She couldn’t continue—she couldn’t even move. His shaft contracted under her fingertips, under her lips, over her tongue. And his seed spilled deep into her mouth.