With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  He fell upon the bed like a swooping hawk, and Juliet let out a helpless shriek as his fingers found her ribs and began tickling her madly.

  “Stop! We just ate! You’ll make me sick!”

  “What’s this? Your husband makes you sick?”

  “No, it’s just that—aaaoooooo!”

  He tickled her harder. She flailed and giggled and cried out, embarrassed about each loud shriek but helpless to prevent them. He was laughing as hard as she. Catching one thrashing leg, he unlaced her boot and deftly removed it. She yelped as his fingers found the sensitive instep, and she kicked out reflexively. He neatly ducked just in time to avoid having his nose broken, catching her by the ankle and tickling her toes, her soles, her arch through her stockings.

  “Stop, Gareth!” She was laughing so hard, tears were streaming from her eyes. “Stop it, damn it!”

  Thank goodness Charlotte, worn out by her earlier tantrum, was such a sound sleeper!

  The tickling continued. Juliet kicked and fought, her struggles tossing the heavy, ruffled petticoats and skirts of her lovely blue gown halfway up her thigh to reveal a long, slender calf sheathed in silk. She saw his gaze taking it all in, even as he made a grab for her other foot.

  “No! Gareth, I shall lose my supper if you keep this up, I swear it I will—oooahhhhh!”

  He seized her other ankle, yanked off the remaining boot, and began torturing that foot as well, until Juliet was writhing and shrieking on the bed in a fit of laughter. The tears streamed down her cheeks, and her stomach ached with the force of her mirth. And when, at last, he let up and she lay exhausted across the bed in a twisted tangle of skirts, petticoats, and chemise, her chest heaving and her hair in a hopeless tumbled-down flood of silken mahogany beneath her head, she looked up to see him grinning down at her, his own hair hanging over his brow in tousled, seductive disarray. He had one knee on the bed beside her—and one hand resting on her rib cage, just beneath her right breast.

  Their gazes met. The room went still. Then, out came his dimpled grin, wicked, playful, seductive—and up moved his hand, now cupping her breast, his thumb roving slowly over the cloth-clad nipple in a silent question.

  Juliet tensed. Gareth paused. And neither moved a muscle as they stared at each other like two fencing opponents waiting for the other to make the first move, their eyes conveying a silent invitation, a desire, that neither dared to voice.

  Finally, he said, “Does this tickle?”

  She swallowed, hard. “No. It does not.”

  “Hmmmmm.” He cocked his head as though in rapt observation, watching as his thumb began tracing a little circle around her nipple where the perimeter of her areola would be. “Does this tickle?”

  She felt her heart starting to pound, her blood growing hot as her body fired in response to his playful seduction, and in a hoarse little whisper she managed, “Not yet.”

  His hand moved higher, his thumb anchoring itself against her nipple while his fingers crept up, hooking themselves over the top of her bodice, lingering there for a moment. His knuckles were warm against the soft swell of her breast, and everything inside her went still as he began to pull both bodice and chemise down, exposing her breast to his gaze inch by slow, torturous inch. The room grew hot, the only movement that of the flickering candlelight against the distant wall. Juliet, beginning to find the mere act of breathing difficult, stared up into her husband’s face, her skin breaking out in damp heat as his hand moved lower and lower.

  “And does this tickle, Juliet?”

  Slowly, shyly, Juliet raised her hand to touch his cheek. Her fingertips drifted down the side of his face curved around his jaw feathered to his lips. “No. I think—that you’re going to have to try a little harder if you want it to tickle.”

  His eyes darkened, almost to azure. And it was then that she realized that he, too, was breathing hard, his body quivering with barely-leashed desire.

  He took hold of both chemise and bodice pulled them all the way down past the erect, swollen nipple and freed her breast to his gaze. Juliet swallowed hard, saw the appreciation and desire there before he lowered his lashes over suddenly hungry eyes, banishing his earlier playfulness and replacing it with raw, naked desire. He cupped her breast with his hand, feeling its heft, its shape, its satiny texture, its warmth. And then, with a groan, he moved fully up onto the bed, making the mattress sink beside her as it took his weight. Her heart pounded in expectation. She felt the singeing heat of his body, so much bigger, longer, stronger, than her own, as he moved up beside her, one hand still shaping her breast, his hair falling around his face, tumbling over his brow. His knee was against her ribs. His thumb was stroking her swollen nipple. And then he moved over her, sliding his big warm hands up to cradle her flushed cheeks, his fingers plunging into her hair. He gazed down at her, his eyes just inches from her own. Unbidden, Juliet’s tongue came out to moisten her suddenly-dry lips.

  “I think I like being tickled,” she whispered.

  He smiled. His lashes lowered even more and his breath—so sweet, so warm, still fruity with wine—was suddenly upon her face as he slowly bent his head to hers. Her eyes slipped shut and then there was nothing but that first, feathery touch of his lips against hers, of two hearts coming together for the first time. Juliet sighed, her arm curving around his back, her fingers exploring the hard muscles beneath his waistcoat and shirt before threading their way up his nape, up the back of his skull, tunneling through tawny hair that was heavy, silky and lustrous. Desire washed through her, and, melting against him, she lost herself in the kiss.

  After a time, he broke the contact and gazed down at her, breathing hard, his brow nearly touching hers.

  “I can stop this if you wish, Juliet,” he said hoarsely. “I told you I shall not force you; I swear to God I shall not—”

  But she shook her head, not wanting to disturb this brief escape from her sorrows, this floating, wine-lulled dreaminess of the moment. She drew his head back down to hers, and their mouths met once again—hers, soft and moist and pliant against his harder, increasingly demanding one. The point of his tongue traced the shape of her lips, then teased them apart. With a soft moan she pulled him closer, her other hand flat against his waistcoat, finding the buttons, slipping them through their holes until the garment fell open, one silken edge just brushing her exposed breast. She plunged her fingers into the folds of his shirt, thrilling to the feel of hard muscle and sinew just behind the fabric and a heart that beat as fast and frantically as her own.

  “Oh, Juliet by God, you taste so good you are so very, very beautiful you don’t know how much I’ve wished for, waited for, this very moment.”

  His mouth slanted across hers, his kiss more forceful now, his tongue driving deeper against her own and his breath hot against her cheek. Her fingers caught in his hair, raking through the heavy mass of it to loosen the ribbon that held his queue until the silken, golden-brown waves lay in loose disarray across his shoulders. Fleetingly, unbidden, her mind took her to another place, another time, when she had lain beneath another man not so very different in shape and appearance from this one—but the image faded, banished by the new memory she was creating with this man who was her husband. She felt his fingers brushing her breasts, one still clad in fabric, the other bare to his touch; she felt his palm curving around each swelling crest, grazing each taut nipple until she was arching up against him, moaning softly and pushing herself into his willing hand. Bursts of pleasure radiated from every place he touched, and her mind was a spinning, whirling place of delight.

  She explored him, as well. Her hand roved over the rocky ridge of his shoulders, down the valley of his spine, up over his bottom to one solidly muscled thigh. His breathing quickened, growing hoarse and ragged at her touch. He tore his lips from hers and buried his face in the hot curve of her neck, his hand kneading, squeezing her bare, thrusting breast. Engulfed in rising flames, she moaned and flung her head back, feeling his breath hot against her collarbone, h
is kisses simmering down the side of her neck, the base of her throat, the crest of her breast—there to be replaced by the slick and raspy warmth of his tongue. While he kissed the soft flesh, nibbled the sugary-white skin, his fingers stoked and fired the nipple just beneath, and Juliet felt her senses careening toward a violent explosion.

  “Oh—oh, Gareth.” She made a sound that was half moan, half sob.

  He laughed against her breast. “Ah, Juliet I have sorely underestimated you! You do know how to have fun, after all.”

  He heard her beginning to whimper with pleasure, making keening noises in her throat as he traced the perimeter of her areola with his tongue, and his hand began to move over the flat expanse of her stomach out over the prominent bones of her pelvis evident beneath the shimmering satin—down, down, down, toward her thighs. How sweet it was to hear his name on her lips, to know her wonderful, wanton response to his touch! He buried his face in her breast, his body quivering and his cock aching with a need so fierce, he could barely think.

  He felt her fingers threading into his hair and clasping his head to her breast, urging him to continue, silently conveying her need. Her other breast was already half-exposed; freeing it, he kissed its milky curve, nipped and licked and gently nibbled it until she was thrashing and making little inarticulate sounds of desperation beneath him. She was driving him mad. Wild. Insane. His hand moved back down her thigh, and the long, silk-clad legs beneath their frothy tangle of skirts and petticoat. She moaned and shuddered violently, and his own hand was shaking as he pulled the heavy skirts up to the level of her knee, his fingers drifting over that smoothly stockinged leg, up the trembling inside of her calf, her thigh, moving closer and closer toward the blushing center of her passion

  She was slick and hot and wet, as he’d known she would be. Still suckling her breast, he parted the rosy petals and rubbed his thumb over her swollen bud, pushing down on it, kneading it, flicking it back and forth until her head thrashed on the bed and her heels drove into the mattress and frenzied little moans burst from her lips.

  “Oh, Gareth!” she panted, “Gareth please oh, sweet Lord above oh—”

  He twirled his finger around her for a moment longer until she was nearly over the edge. Then, drawing back, he grasped the heavy, frilly layers of skirts and petticoats, pulled them up and over her stomach, and let out a sigh of appreciation at sight of the long, sinfully luscious legs laid bare to his gaze. At the pale, lean thighs, the silken mound of dark hair, the lush, sweet pink center of her. He could not help himself. His thumb and fingers stroking her once more, he leaned down, wanting only to taste her, to lick her, to tongue her until she blew apart wanting only to plunge his throbbing rod all the way to the hilt inside that deliciously swollen pink cradle.

  He bent his head, parted her with his thumbs, and touched the tip of his tongue to the quivering bud and as he kissed and slowly licked her with long, torturous tongue strokes in that most intimate of places, and she began to sob and spasm, his gaze lifted, drifting over her stomach, her rising and falling breasts and toward the door, where the subtlest of movements had caught his eye.

  It was nothing more than the light glowing from behind the door’s small, petal-shaped keyhole being cut off being suddenly restored.

  A fiery red haze blinded him. Fury seethed in his temples, made every inch of him begin to shake, but he found enough control to cover her with his body as her climax came, clamping his mouth over hers and kissing her to muffle her impassioned cries. Then, pulling her skirts back down over her legs and swearing violently under his breath, he rose from the bed, grabbed his sword, and stalked toward the door, his waistcoat flapping open and his face thunderous.

  “Gareth?” she breathed from somewhere behind him.

  But Gareth saw only the door latch.

  I’ll kill them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He tore open the door with such force that one of the hinges gave.

  And there they were. Several men out on the landing, none of them known to him, all of them taking turns peeping through the keyhole in hopes of seeing some flesh. Juliet’s flesh.

  His wife’s flesh.

  Gareth went berserk.

  “You insufferable bastards!” he shouted and, blinded by rage, threw down his sword and went for the one who happened to be nearest.

  A saner man than Gareth would never have tackled Joe Lumford, a behemoth who had roughly four stone and some six or seven inches in height on him. A saner man than Gareth would never have attacked someone built like a Clydesdale stallion. A saner man than Gareth would not have chosen the undisputed king of the London boxing scene with whom to pick a fight.

  But in that moment, Lord Gareth de Montforte was not sane.

  His fist crashed into Lumford’s jaw, and with a grunt of surprise the giant fell backward, arms flailing, his great body taking down several others who crumpled beneath him like weeds under a falling tree. There was not much room at the top of the landing, and someone, caught off balance, tumbled down the carpeted stairs, screaming in fear and pain all the way down. Gareth never saw him, never heard him. He had leaped upon his opponent and saw only the battered, ugly face beneath him, the broken nose and the mouth missing half its teeth, a mouth that was now twisted in a snarl of rage and emitting a stream of gutter curses as Gareth’s fists pummeled it with the fury of a man wronged. His knuckles split as they connected with the behemoth’s jaw, a tooth, the hard edge of his cheekbone. And then, bellowing in outrage, the giant twisted, rose, and hurled Gareth violently off of him and into the plastered wall behind him with force enough to nearly break his shoulders and crack his skull. A picture crashed down, just missing Gareth, but he, maddened, was already up, throwing himself back in for more, his fists flying like cannon shot. He struck, blocked a blow with his arm, and struck again, hard and fast. Blood sprayed from the giant’s lip, and he roared like a great wounded beast, his eyes murderous. Downstairs, people were shouting, yelling, and a mass of them came charging up the stairs, Lavinia Bottomley huffing and puffing in the vanguard like a flagship going into battle.

  “Stop it, both of you! I’ll not have this in my house! I will not!”

  Gareth neatly blocked his opponent’s fist, let fly with his right, and caught the other man just behind the ear. The giant staggered, swung, and landed a blow to his ribs that drove the air from Gareth’s lungs and nearly made him vomit but never slowed him. Someone let out a piercing cheer from just behind his ear, and Gareth, insane with fury and still dazed from his impact with the wall, swung impulsively, his fist striking the fat onlooker a jaw-crunching blow that sent him reeling, senseless, back into the arms of the others. “Damn you for a pack of voyeurs!” he snarled as he lunged for the giant once more. “I’ll teach you to go spying on a lady, so help me God!”

  The giant came staggering back, the yells and shouts rising to a deafening crescendo all around. Fists collided with flesh. Blood flew, spattering the walls, the carpet. The behemoth was getting the worst of it. Gareth heard people shouting, felt hands clawing at his shoulders like so many spider webs as they tried to pull him off, but the interference only enraged him all the more as he and the giant fought for room in the small corridor. His face was damp, his hair in his eyes, his breath coming in fierce bursts. Someone, maybe Mario, made a grab for him, was deflected by one blow from Gareth’s powerful fist, and did not come back. And now the giant was nearly finished. His fist struck out in a feeble, half-hearted arc; then his eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward, and as he crashed heavily to the carpet, Gareth saw Juliet’s stricken face in the doorway just beyond.

  She was looking at him in horrified shock.

  Charlotte had woken and was screaming, fit to bring the ceiling down.

  And a crowd of people were all staring, aghast, at Gareth, one or two of them even backing fearfully away.

  “Great God above! He just knocked out Joe Lumford!”

  A low, awed murmur. Charlotte’s last little sobs. An
d then nothing but Lavinia Bottomley’s piercing howls as she stormed over the fallen giant and came charging through the melee, coming straight up to where Gareth stood trying to catch his breath. “How could you!” she cried. “I took you in, gave you free room and board for the night, and you reciprocated by destroying my hallway, my stairs, my painting! Damn you, Lord Gareth, damn you!”

  Gareth shook his still-dazed head and looked around. Slowly, sanity came back to him, and with a sickening sense of dread, he realized just what he’d done. Not that he regretted it; his wife’s honor had demanded nothing less. But he’d probably managed to get them thrown out of the only place they had to stay for the night. Worst of all, he’d horribly embarrassed his wife.

  Bloody hell. By tomorrow morning, this would be all over London.

  Oh, Juliet. I am sorry.

  He lowered his bleeding fists, then bent his forehead to them and leaned against the wall, his hair falling over his raw knuckles. From what seemed like a great distance away but was in fact only a foot or two, he could hear Lavinia hollering at him, could feel everyone staring at him like he was some terrible freak. God help him; honor dictated that dueling must only be conducted with other gentlemen; otherwise, he would’ve called out the lot of them and faced them outside with his sword.

  A low murmur began among those gathered in the tiny hallway, on the stairs. Someone tried to seize his shoulder, and he angrily shook him off. Lavinia was still yelling about the damage done to her wall, her painting, her carpet. Gareth bent his head, driving his bloodied knuckles into his temple, his face twisted by self-disgust and loathing for what he had done to his wife.

  And then he heard soft footfalls.

  Hers.

  And every person in the hallway went quiet.

  She came forward, walking with a firmness of stride and purpose that would have done Boudicca proud. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and she wore a look of stoic resolve, of courage, of grace under the most terrible of pressures. She came up to him, pulled his gashed and bloodied hands down from his face and drew him, her warrior, against her slight form.