Cocky Mister

by Annabelle Anders

  Just a few hours ago, he’d had his face buried between them. Stone poured two glasses of wine and tipped most of his into his mouth, his gaze trapped by twin alabaster globes of femininity.

  Annulment. They were going to have to get an annulment.

  Tabetha served some onto her own plate and then dipped her fork into the sauce. As she lifted it to her mouth, however, a small morsel of beef dislodged and fell onto the plump swell of her left breast.

  It rested just shy of the edge of her bodice. One wrong move, he suspected, and she’d expose the rosy skin that blossomed around upturned, puckered nipples.

  She dropped her gaze, and then her eyes widened. “Oops.” She used her index finger to scoop it off her flesh, and then slowly…

  So damn slowly…

  She slipped the meat, along with the tip of her finger, into her mouth.

  When she slid it out, her lips made a soft popping sound.

  Why did he need an annulment?

  He adjusted his trousers, a little surprised the table wasn’t levitating, and forced himself to focus on the food.

  “What else did you do while I rested?” Her words broke into his haze of arousal. She was pointing at the side of his face. “That looks new.”

  “Oh,” He touched the side of his jaw. “Just a few friendly boxing matches.” He’d won. Winning had come in handy. Not that his pockets were empty, but he hadn’t intended on this little sojourn lasting as long as he had, nor had he planned on purchasing a new wardrobe for the wife he’d not intended to marry.

  Fighting had been an easy way to refill his pockets for their journey back to London.

  “Did you have fun?” She lifted a strawberry to her lips and just held it there.

  “Fun?”

  “With the other boxers?”

  That was one way of putting it. He nodded and averted his gaze away from her mouth.

  Only to have it settle on the flesh swelling up from her gown.

  “Er…yes.”

  “Did you win?”

  Stone forced his attention onto his plate, deliberately slicing a knife through a cut of meat. “Of course.”

  She laughed, a delicious womanly sound.

  “Do you always win?” The little minx was teasing him. It was high time he regained the upper hand with her.

  “What do you think?” He leaned back in his chair. This time, he made no effort to hide his appreciation of her… assets.

  “Yes. I think you do.” She tilted her head, almost as though surprised. “Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t let my opponent hit me,” he answered instinctively.

  “How?”

  “I keep moving. And I’m fast. I know when to duck, and when they do come close to landing a punch, I know how to redirect it.”

  For the next several moments, he found himself telling her about his first boxing instructor, his first match, and even the last fight he’d lost, which had been over four years ago. And she truly seemed interested.

  He never would have thought such a conversation was possible with any lady, let alone Tabetha.

  But she was not just Tabetha. She was… so much more than that.

  When Mrs. Hettrick finally returned to remove their empty dishes, he was surprised to see that over two-thirds of the candles had burned away. And he’d managed to get through the evening without leaping across the table and burying his face in her décolletage.

  All in all, he’d call that a grand success.

  Leaning back, he watched her throat move as she swallowed the last sip of wine in her glass.

  He ought to be feeling satiated from the food and lazy from the drink but every fiber of his being was alert and crazy with wanting to kiss Tabetha again.

  Which ought to concern him.

  Perhaps it would, later. But the moment she smothered a delicate yawn, he burst to his feet and walked around the table. “Time to get you to bed.” The words were innocent enough, but the look she sent him confirmed he wasn’t the only one anxious for the two of them to be alone.

  And so, against his better judgment—against all his honorable resolutions—he escorted her out of their private dining room and upstairs to their chamber.

  He would only kiss her, he promised himself. Because…

  Oh, yes. They were going to have to get an annulment. Stone resisted the urge to punch a hole in the wall.

  Tabetha shivered as he pushed open their door. He’d kept one hand on the small of her back, never allowing more than a few inches to come between them, as they’d retraced their earlier steps from the private dining room.

  He wanted her, at least as much as she wanted him, possibly more, but despite the inspired plan she’d come up with earlier, she realized it wasn’t that simple.

  What if they compromised like she wanted to, like the drawing she remembered, and the doctor turned out to be right? What if she never got her memory back, and Rock blamed himself for the rest of their lives? She wouldn’t put the notion past him.

  He was even honorable in his fighting. At dinner, he’d explained how he pulled his punches when he was winning, so as not to injure his opponents too badly.

  Although born of the merchant class, he likely had more honor in his body than all the gentlemen of the ton put together. She crossed the room and crouched down to give Archie a few leftover pieces of meat from their meal.

  “What happened to your dress, baby?” She watched the cat chew, spit it out, and then eagerly chew it again, while her mind searched for the pieces that ought to click together like a puzzle.

  If she was familiar with the ton, and Rock was born of the merchant class, it was highly likely her family hadn’t approved of their match. But he’d spoken of her brother as though they were friends. And he knew her sister and mother. He had known her father. If they hadn’t forbidden her to marry him, then why had they traveled to Gretna Green to marry?

  If they hadn’t consummated their marriage, then they obviously hadn’t anticipated their vows. She rose and noticed that the bedding had been changed, and her night rail looked to have been washed and was now laid out on the bed.

  “I’m going to miss Wilma and Mrs. Hettrick,” she commented, fingering the lace on the recently laundered garment while Rock slid the locks into place. “They’ve been more than kind to me.”

  “I’m certain they will miss you as well.” Rock came up behind her and pulled her close. “I can feel your pulse when I put my lips right here.” He nuzzled the sensitive spot at the base of her neck.

  His open-mouthed kiss turned her blood to molten lava.

  “It’s racing,” he murmured against her skin.

  “What if—?” she began hesitantly. In less than ten seconds, he’d utterly squashed her own fledgling conviction to follow Dr. Finch’s orders. “What if we are very careful?” She tilted her head to one side so he could have better access. The memory of his mouth clamping down on her breast sent fiery wantonness flooding through her.

  He stilled but didn’t move away.

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.” But the hand he’d settled at her waist was slowly sliding up her ribcage. Now that the corset had accomplished what she’d wanted it to do, she wished the uncomfortable garment to perdition. Because as exciting as his touch felt over the material, she wanted him touching her skin.

  And now that her breasts had experienced his attentions, they ached for more.

  She ached for his hands, his mouth.

  “I—” She took half a step forward and lifted her hair. “Would you unfasten me, please?”

  It was an innocent enough request; one he could not deny.

  “Of course.”

  His fingers worked the buttons down her back, and the warmth of his breath seemed to follow them. Once he was finished, her gown slackened, and he reached inside and untied and then loosened the laces of her stays.

  “You make an excellent lady’s maid,” she teased, anticipating the feel of his hands on her skin.

&
nbsp; And then… Nothing.

  “I’m going to wash up.” His voice hitched. He had stepped away, leaving her alone to bear the chill of disappointment.

  Again.

  As he moved toward the privacy screen, his eyes looked everywhere but at her.

  “I’ll not come out until you are decently covered.” He flicked a glance at the gown on the bed, looking pained but resolved.

  She nodded dumbly. He was going to give her privacy so that she could undress and climb under the covers without him. It wasn’t fair for her to be angry. He was following the doctor’s orders. And yet she was becoming far too familiar with this sting of rejection.

  Flustered, she stepped out of her gown and then loosened her stays further so she could shimmy that off as well.

  All the while, she kept her eyes on the back of his head, his thick, mahogany hair springing out, defying any style as usual. The expression in his eyes had mirrored her own emotions.

  His head was dropped forward, as though defeated. She hated that they couldn’t talk about this. Was she hurting him in her persistence? If he was angry, he needed to let her know. She didn’t like pretending that nothing was wrong.

  She pulled the night rail over her head and, not stopping to think that she wouldn’t be welcome, padded across the room and peeked around the screen.

  His eyes were closed and a barely audible hiss escaped his clenched teeth.

  Tabetha skirted her gaze down the length of his arm, mesmerized. He was clutching… He was… pleasuring himself, slowly sliding and squeezing his manhood. Unaware of her presence, he dropped his head back, eyes closed.

  His… instrument was so much larger than what she had imagined. And the skin was a combination of pink and flesh colors with tiny scarlet and almost purple veins in places. Black hair nestled at the base. He was… magnificent.

  She licked her lips.

  This was masturbating. Of course, she’d been warned of the solitary vice, onanism. Men resorted to it when they couldn’t find relief with a woman. It was supposed to be a sin.

  One of those pictures in her memory had depicted precisely this.

  His sturdy fist slid to the base, and Tabetha looked on in awe as the tip and length emerged upward.

  “Ohhhh,” she breathed softly, entranced.

  “Minx,” he said.

  Rock had opened his eyes, catching her voyeurism where she stood. His hand slowed but it continued sliding up and down his member. He didn’t stop, nor did he ask her to leave.

  Except now…

  His hooded gaze focused on her. His lips were parted and shining, as though he’d licked them a moment before.

  Those lips were for her and only her.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked. “When you do that?”

  “Do you really wish to know?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate.

  “You.”

  Her body flushed hot.

  “More specifically, things I’d like to do to you.”

  Eyes locked, their surroundings all but fell away. They were the only two people in the world.

  “Tell me.” Her voice caught. She squeezed her thighs together, and she rubbed her fingertips along her thumbs. Seeing him like this provided a glimpse of the intimacies they would know as husband and wife. Damn Doctor Finch. The man didn’t know what he was talking about! Rock was her husband!

  “You may not like what you hear.”

  He was wrong. She wanted to know every wicked thought in his mind. Could they be as wicked as her own?

  “Tell me or show me.” She would give him a choice. This pull between the two of them was heady. It made her feel beautiful, sensual… bold.

  He nodded. “I think of you unclothed. I picture your flesh, the dusty pink tips of your breasts, the triangle of hair between your legs. Your glistening lips hidden there.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and then started up again, beating at twice its normal rate now.

  “And what do you do?” Was that her voice? It sounded too low, too gravelly to have come from her.

  “I lay you on your back, and you bend your knees with your feet apart, exposing yourself to me.” His voice caressed her, thickening the air around them. ”And then I touch you with my fingers, I dip them inside until they are slick with your juices.”

  Tabetha was holding her breath, doubting she’d ever breathe normally again. He didn’t need to physically touch her. That heat at her apex was liquid.

  “And then I kiss you.”

  “Rock.” His name was a cry on her lips. Because she wanted that. She wanted all of it.

  “Come.” He reached out his free hand, his eyes dark, his lids heavy. “I’m going to apologize for this later.”

  Tabetha stepped behind the screen with him. Wanting to touch him. Wanting to be touched. Just… wanting…

  He placed her hand over his, her fingers barely able to encircle his girth. “Hold me, duchess.”

  His words reminded her of all the times he’d held her since the moment she’d woken up feeling lost and confused. They reminded her of how he’d lain down beside her, how he’d comforted her.

  “Like this.” He tightened her grip around him. The flesh felt silky but the shaft itself was like steel, and it was slick with what she suspected to be lemon oil.

  She tested it with a squeeze.

  “Yes.” His voice sounded hoarse. He urged her into mimicking the same motion he’d made.

  “You want to join with me,” she ventured.

  “Yes.”

  “You want to put yourself inside me.”

  “God, yes.” Her words seemed to have the same effect on him they were having on her. He likes it when I talk. It was something of a revelation.

  Because a myriad of wicked thoughts raced through her mind.

  “You want to taste me, lick me. You want me to taste you. You want me all around you.”

  He groaned, and she increased the pressure of her motions, along with the pace. And then she slowed, and then quickened again. He was gasping now, one hand gripping her wrist, the other squeezing her shoulder.

  “You want me to spread my legs for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to fuck me.”

  “Yessss!”

  He jerked, and she thought she’d gone too far. But then he was moving faster, assisting the pressure of her hand, thrusting his hips so that the tip of his member strained against her belly. And just as she noticed glistening drops of perspiration on his brow, he pressed forward and every muscle of his body stiffened.

  He pulsed in her hand, against her belly, and warm liquid trickled over her wrist. He grunted and moaned and then all but fell limp against her.

  A full minute passed before he glanced up and met her gaze. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Hush.”

  But he shook his head and then clumsily handed her a linen, ducking his head and stepping out from behind the screen.

  “Rock?” she called out to him, dabbing the linen in some water and wiping his seed from her night rail. His seed.

  “I’m going downstairs.” His voice barely reached her.

  She swiped one last time. “Wait!” She’d wanted to talk to him before, and it seemed even more important for them to talk now. “Rock?”

  But when she stepped around the screen, the door clicked shut.

  He was already gone.

  He must have been very upset because he hadn’t ordered her to lock the door behind him.

  She climbed into bed alone, feeling as though she’d done something very wrong.

  Archie hopped onto the mattress and curled up beside her.

  “It wasn’t wrong, Archie,” she whispered, stroking his butterfly soft skin. “It wasn’t.”

  So why did she feel ashamed? Why couldn’t he look at her?

  When he returned much later, she feigned sleep.

  She had to stifle a sob when he climbed beneath the covers. Because rather than
curl up behind her, he all but clung to the opposite edge of the bed.

  Chapter 18

  Love?

  Early the next morning, Tabetha huddled beside Rock as a thick grey mare pulled them along the rutted road, the leather reins resting loosely in his capable hands.

  Their functional vehicle was a hodgepodge of designs with two large wheels, a wooden seat, and a hood to protect the driver and passenger from the elements. He’d told her before that a local farmer had sold the vehicle to him—before the incident behind the screen—that was

  A wheel landed in a rut, and she clutched the edge to keep from sliding.

  She felt worse today than when she’d opened her eyes after her fall, not knowing who she was or where she belonged.

  Not worse physically but emotionally. Because for the first time, she felt alone.

  Not only had she had to tell Mrs. Hettrick and Wilma goodbye, the only two women in the world who she knew, or who knew her, but her husband had withdrawn so far that he might as well be on the opposite side of the world.

  She hadn’t had the courage to ask him to hold her when he returned, because she would only feel worse to be rejected again. Perhaps she hadn’t acted cowardly so much as summoned a little self-respect.

  This rejection. She had no way of knowing if it was new to her. New or not, it was not at all pleasant, and the effect was eroding her soul.

  She had gone too far. She’d been too forward—even if she was his wife. Wives didn’t talk like that. They didn’t do those things.

  And this morning, aside from a few cursory comments as they packed up their chamber, he’d hardly spoken to her, aside from perfunctory comments.

  And it was killing her.

  The silence. The tension. The not knowing what he was thinking.

  It was positively killing her.

  The gig barely had enough room for two people. They’d had to tie their luggage to the back with thick ropes, and she kept her reticule and parasol tucked behind her feet.

  It was impossible not to be aware of his thick thighs pressing into the folds of her gown.

  And yet, if not for Archie curled on her lap, she might as well be alone.

  Self-respect, be damned, she couldn’t take it a second longer.