Then his mouth was on hers, devouring her, his hot tongue demanding that she part her lips and let him into her depths.
Chapter Ten
“Have you strange knowledge?” asked the Rock King.
“No,” Ann whispered.
“Have you magic?” mocked the Rock King.
“No.” Ann closed her eyes. “All I have is myself.”
“Then you will have to do,” he said. “Do you promise to be my wife for a year and a day if I bring you your sister’s heart fire?”
Ann swallowed, for the Rock King’s black eyes were cold and his voice hard. “Yes.” …
—From The Rock King
Iris tasted of red wine—the red wine she must have drunk at dinner—and all the reasons he shouldn’t do this fled his mind. A vital chain broke in his psyche and everything he’d held back, everything he’d restrained with all his might, was suddenly set free. He surged into her mouth, desperate for the feel, for the taste of her, his wife, his duchess, his Iris. She was soft and sweet and warm and he wanted to devour her. To seize her and hold her and never let her go. The deep unfathomable well of his urges toward her frightened him, and he knew that if she became aware of them, they would frighten her as well.
But that was the thing—she wasn’t aware of them. She thought she was simply consummating their marriage or some such rot, God help them both.
She gripped his naked arms and the beast within him shuddered and stretched, claws scraping against the ground.
Dear God, he wanted this woman.
But he had to remember—to keep that human part of his mind awake and alive—that he mustn’t seed her.
Must never do as his cursed father had done.
He broke from her mouth, feeling the pulse of his cock against his breeches, and trailed his lips across her cheek to her ear. “Come with me, sweet girl.”
She blinked up at him, wide blue-gray eyes a little dazed.
He covered her mouth again before she could speak—either to consent or decline—and drew her slowly backward, step by step, toward the bed, until he hit it with the backs of his legs. He broke the kiss, looking down at her, her wet ruby lips parted, her cheeks flushed pink.
She looked edible.
“Raphael,” she whispered, his name on her lips like a plea, and something within him broke.
This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t right. But it was the only thing possible and it would have to suffice because it was all he could do.
And trying to resist was killing him.
He traced a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, to her neck, and from there touched her bound golden hair. “Will you take down your hair for me?”
She gasped—a small, quick inhalation—and nodded.
He watched as she raised her arms, her stormy eyes locked on his, and withdrew the pins from her hair one by one until the heavy mass fell like a curtain around her shoulders. He bent then and gathered the locks in his hands, burying his face in her neck, inhaling her.
His woman.
He felt her tremble against him and then her fingers speared through his hair. “Raphael.”
He lifted his head.
Her hands fell away and she began undressing, her head bent down as she unhooked her bodice. He saw that her fingers fumbled and he knew that a better man would turn aside. Would give her privacy to collect herself and disrobe with modesty.
But he wasn’t such a man. He wanted all of her—her mistakes and her private moments, her shame and her worries—everything she held back from the rest of the world. As he wanted this. This moment of fumbling.
This moment of intimacy.
She pulled the bodice from her arms. Untied her skirts and let them pool around her feet before kicking them aside. Glanced up at him and then worked at the laces to her stays.
Her unbound hair fell over her shoulders, nearly to her waist, thick and swaying gently as she moved.
Beautiful.
She was beautiful.
She pulled her loosened stays off over her head and stood in chemise, stockings, and shoes. The tips of her breasts peeked out from beneath the thin cloth.
She began to bend for her shoes, but he stopped her. “No. Let me.”
He grasped her by the waist and lifted her to the bed.
Carefully he drew off her slippers, letting them drop to the hardwood floor before running his hand up her left calf. The room was so quiet he could hear each breath she drew. She watched him as he reached under her chemise, into that warm spot behind her knee, tugging at the ribbon of her garter.
Her breath hitched.
He glanced up at her as he found bare skin. Hot, so hot under her skirt. He could almost imagine he smelled her, standing between her bent legs. He pulled the first stocking off and moved to her other foot, smoothing his thumb over her arch, over that high instep, that sweet, delicate ankle. The curve of her calf—one of the loveliest curves in nature—elegant and perfect. Someday he’d like to draw her nude.
The faint, almost inaudible whisper as he pulled the ribbon off raised the hairs on the back of his neck. His nostrils flared and he couldn’t wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows, and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs and settling to enjoy what he’d found.
There. There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms, ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up once and saw wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first husband had evidently never done this to her.
More fool he.
Then he bent and feasted.
His nose pressed into her mound, inhaling her woman’s scent, his cock grinding hard into the bed, his tongue licking into tart and salt and her.
Oh God, her.
She squealed at his first touch and tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his hands on her hips. He almost smiled against her tender flesh, his teeth scraping oh so gently. She might be startled, might be outraged and shocked, but she liked it.
Perhaps even loved it—what he was doing to her.
She was moaning now, low in her throat, making little mewling sounds, so erotic and sweet, her hips twitching against his lips, trying to get more. He opened his mouth, covering her, breathing over her. He stiffened his tongue and speared into her as far as he could reach, his jaw aching. She cried out at that and he felt fingers tangling in his hair.
He withdrew his tongue and moved to her clitoris, taking the small bit of flesh gently between his teeth and pulling. She froze, trembling all over, and he could hear her gasping breaths. He opened his mouth and licked her. Softly. Tenderly.
Thoroughly.
And at the same time he shoved two fingers into her, feeling her wet walls contract against his knuckles, smelling the rise of her arousal.
She arched under him, her soft thighs thrashing restlessly, making no sound, but he knew.
He knew.
He curled the fingers inside her and stroked her wet, silky inner walls as he pulled them back.
Then he shoved them again into her, hard and firm, repeating the motion as he suckled her clitoris.
She moaned—loud in the quiet room—and pushed against him, and he felt her tremble and suddenly grow wetter. She shuddered helplessly and he was drunk on her release, his cock a heavy, near-painful throb.
He turned his head and kissed the inside of her soft thigh, listening to her pant.
Then he knelt up, there between her spread legs, and tore open the placket of his breeches and smallclothes. Reaching down, he smeared his fingers in her juices and wrapped his hand around his erection.
He stared at her—her face, open and a little dazed in the aftermath of her orgasm. Her breasts were vulnerable, veiled only by that thin chemise, her legs were spread lewdly, revealing her ravished cunny.
And he stroked himself.
; Feeling the build of heat, coiling in his bollocks, the edge of sweet pleasure teasing along his nerves. He spread her wetness along his prick and fisted himself hard, his foreskin rubbing against the rim of his cockhead.
But it wasn’t until he saw her open her eyes—those blue-gray eyes, those stormy eyes, those too-knowing eyes—and look at him that he felt his seed boiling up.
He gritted his teeth, throwing his head back, his own eyes slitted but watching her still.
Even as his come exploded out of him and splattered across her ivory thighs.
Iris lay awake and listened to Raphael’s deep, even breathing.
He’d made love to her, brought her exquisite pleasure—pleasure she had never felt before—but he hadn’t entered her.
He’d spilled his seed on her but not in her.
She stared into the dark, thinking, trying hard not to weep.
He’d told her he didn’t want children. He’d been most frank on the subject. And yet she realized now that somewhere in a corner of her mind she’d held out hope that when he came to the point, his animal urges might overcome him.
What a fool she.
She inhaled very slowly, careful not to make a sound.
The thing was … Well. The thing was, she yearned for children. Desperately. A child at least. A single babe to hold in her arms, to cradle against her breast. She’d be content with just the one, really she would. It was one thing to be married and childless through no one’s fault. While married to James she’d resigned herself to childlessness. She was his third wife and he had no children. He’d suffered a riding injury that made it difficult for him to achieve fulfillment in the marital bed sometimes. She’d simply assumed after the third year …
She sighed. She wanted this. She wanted a marriage with Raphael and she wanted his children.
She just didn’t how she was going to achieve her dream.
The next morning Iris woke alone in bed—actually, alone in the room. Raphael was nowhere to be seen.
She frowned to herself, but was distracted by a maid knocking on the door with fresh hot water. After making a hurried toilet and dressing herself, she opened the door to find both Ubertino and Valente outside on guard.
Ubertino bowed. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
Iris nodded. “I’m in search of breakfast.”
“Ah, then let us escort you,” Ubertino said solicitously.
He led the way while Valente followed, and Iris realized that they intended to guard her.
She sighed silently. Raphael had been worried about attack even before the assassination attempt by Mr. Dockery. She understood the need for protection, but she couldn’t help but think that being shadowed by two large men might become tedious after a bit.
She’d hoped to find Raphael in the private dining room, but he was absent.
Iris shook her head and ate alone—a cold meal of ham, cheese, and bread.
When her guards walked with her out to the waiting carriage, she rather expected it to be empty as well.
And she wasn’t wrong.
However, she wasn’t to travel alone.
Ubertino made an apologetic face. “I will be sitting with you, Your Grace.”
“Of course,” Iris said, trying to sound gracious. After all, it wasn’t the manservant’s fault that her husband was apparently avoiding her.
She huffed in exasperation as she climbed into the carriage. Was he going to avoid her for the rest of the trip to London? They had at least another day and night before they made the capital. She frowned at the thought. Good Lord, would he take a separate bedchamber from her tonight?
The thought was a melancholy one. She’d enjoyed herself last night—and she was under the impression that he had, too. True, she wasn’t terribly sophisticated in the matter, but she had been married for three years.
Raphael had gone to sleep looking very pleased.
Then why leave her to ride alone today?
She pondered that question off and on for the rest of the day, in between chatting with Ubertino and reading from the books she’d borrowed from the abbey library. Although it was hard to concentrate enough to read when she had no idea what her husband was thinking.
By the time the carriage stopped for the night at an inn, Iris was tapping her fingers on her knee—a nervous habit that her old governess would’ve rapped her knuckles for. Raphael had even managed to eat with his men during luncheon.
It was with a bit of relief, then, when Ubertino escorted her to her room for the night and she found her husband already there.
Raphael turned around from the fireplace and nodded to Ubertino. “Thank you, you may go.”
The Corsican bowed himself out.
Iris raised her eyebrows. “Are you to stay with me tonight?”
“Of course,” he said with a small frown, as if he couldn’t understand her sharp tone.
She very much felt like rolling her eyes. “I’m afraid it was not obvious to me, since you never spoke to me today.”
He grimaced. “Iris—”
A knock at the door interrupted him, and the inn maids tromped in bearing their supper. The maids briskly arranged their meal on a small table before the fire and then curtsied and left.
Raphael looked at her and pulled out one of the chairs at the table. “Please.”
She sat down, watching as he took a chair opposite.
There were two plates of roast beef with gravy and potatoes, as well as bread and butter and spiced stewed apples. To the side was a bottle of wine, and Raphael picked it up and poured her a glass.
“Thank you,” Iris said, and took a fortifying sip. The wine was atrocious, but that really wasn’t important right now. “Do you mean to live apart from me?”
He had picked up his knife and fork and begun to cut his meat, but he paused at her question. “No, of course not.”
She pursed her lips, eating a bite of the beef—that at least was quite good. “Then why did you stay away from me today?”
He sawed away at his beef, but then threw down his cutlery with a sigh. “I don’t want to argue with you. I stayed away because I can’t withstand your temptation, as was most obvious last night.”
She inhaled and shoved aside her first impulse: to be hurt. “I thought last night was nice.”
He glanced up at her, his eyebrow cocked. “Nice?”
She could feel the heat creeping up her cheeks. “Spectacular, actually.” She cleared her throat. “I’d really rather do it again—or something else.” He stiffened, opening his mouth to object already. She hastened to add, “Not that. Not … not anything that would lead to children.”
He looked at her, his face expressionless. “And you would be content without that?”
“Not exactly. I think I might always want a baby, but since you are so vehemently against it …” She closed her eyes—this was such an intimate conversation! “I want a true marriage.” She opened her eyes and said softly, “I want to be with you however you wish. I want that closeness. And I want that joy.”
She lifted her chin and met his gaze—even with her cheeks aflame.
Something softened in his face. “I think you deserve much more.”
She shook her head. “No. We may not have married in the conventional way—I may not have chosen to wed—but I choose you now.”
A corner of his lips quirked up. “Then I’m content to take you to bed tonight, madam.”
She arched an eyebrow at him pointedly. “Content?”
His lips curved even more. “Honored, thrilled, excited.” He hid his mouth behind his wineglass. “There. Have I answered to your expectations?” He sipped his wine, but kept his crystal eyes on her over the rim.
She felt a jolt between her legs. He was so … compelling when he let the ice melt in his eyes. When he let himself relax into that half smile. She wondered suddenly what Raphael would look like if he ever laughed aloud.
But he still waited for her response. “You answered most excellently,
I think.”
“Good.” He set his wineglass down. “Then let us enjoy this meal. The wine is terrible but the meat is good.”
She smiled at him shyly at that. “Corsica is very warm, is it not?”
He swallowed a bite of the beef. “Certainly warmer than England.”
“Do they make wine there?”
“Oh yes.” He took another sip of his wine and winced. “We make very fine wines because we have knowledge from both the Italians and the French. There is a small grape field on my land, and though we don’t harvest much, it is enough to make our own wine.”
“Really?” She couldn’t conceive of one’s own wine—though she supposed it wasn’t much different from having a brewery on one’s land—something that many aristocrats had. “I should like to taste your wine.”
“I’d like you to drink my wine,” he said softly. “You could sit under the chestnut trees with wine and bread, a picnic of sorts.”
Her brows drew together. “We’d sit together, surely?”
“Of course.” He glanced down as he poked the lone potato on his plate. He cleared his throat. “We’d sip the wine and I’d show you the white cliffs overlooking the ocean.”
“That sounds lovely,” she whispered.
He looked up again, his gaze intent. “Iris …” His voice was a smoky rasp, deep and sinful.
She loved his voice.
She stood and went around the table.
He pushed away from the table, obviously intending to rise, but she placed a hand on his shoulder, halting him.
She sat on his lap and laid her palm on his scarred cheek. “Will you kiss me?”
Something flared in his eyes, and then he leaned down and brushed his mouth against hers. Lightly. Tantalizingly.
Her lips parted and he bit the lower one before taking her mouth with his. He licked into her mouth, his tongue rubbing against hers until she captured it and sucked.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.
She felt sheltered, his broad shoulders shielding her, his hands hot and certain on her back.
She squirmed, feeling a rising excitement. She wanted more.
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