A sound he was bound to hear over and over in his dreams.
He poured kisses like droplets of water down her neck to her breasts. Then, almost reluctantly, he stood. She was every bit as hunger-inducing as she’d been in his imagination.
Only then did he realize he was almost fully clothed. He’d concentrated every thought on her, and now he hadn’t time to disrobe.
He didn’t even want to.
He undid his trousers and the falls beneath and sighed in acute relief as he lifted out his cock. What he was about to do would probably ruin his clothing.
He didn’t care.
He’d scrub the stains himself.
Hell, he’d pay for new trousers no matter what the cost.
He widened her already parted thighs with his knee. Her scent—blight trying to maintain control—her scent. He pinched his cock between his thumb and finger and smeared away a small bead of wet from the tip.
He spread her red and swollen cleft.
He’d heard a lady’s secret parts called the Shrine of Venus, with the clitoris the crown. He dipped just the tip of his shaft inside her slick warmth.
They locked gazes. Her lips parted.
Whatever its name, Markham called it bliss.
…
Clarissa’s cheeks burned. And her breasts. And her belly. As for that swollen spot between her legs? That was about to implode.
Markham guided his cock up and down in a precise, deliberate tease, contradictorily both easing and intensifying her need.
She’d never seen a man’s aroused cock. A horse’s, yes. A man’s, no.
She hadn’t been entirely ignorant, not even as ignorant as she’d implied. But her questions had made Markham flush and squirm. And he was so attractive when he flushed. When he blushed, she soared. When his lip quivered, desire stormed through her veins.
He was muscled enough to crush her. Strong enough to carry her back down the stairs—and he just might have to if she couldn’t stop this shaking.
He possessed greater knowledge, but right now, his power became hers. She wrapped her weaknesses into his strength and then demanded the reins.
Wrong? Possibly. But the pleasure felt so right.
He remained fully clothed, but for the cravat she’d loosened and his fully aroused… She paused. She rather preferred the word cock to manhood. Whenever she said cock, Markham went utterly still.
Markham wasn’t still now. His eyes were closed. His expression blended pain with pleasure, restraint with indulgence.
She lifted herself onto her elbows for a better view as he guided the tip over her folds. She had never been particularly interested in seeing a cock, but Markham’s cock?
Markham’s cock was something she could study.
It was red. Veined. Angled upward, hard, and rather alarmingly engorged.
He wrapped one of his hands lightly around the shaft, the other cupped the base. Next time, she’d hold him just that way.
Next time?
Again, he pushed just his tip inside. She gasped. He opened his eyes. They locked gazes and he slid forward just enough to stretch, to burn.
A wet sensation rushed downward. Her inner muscles clenched.
He lifted the side of his lip. Cocky. Quite literally.
“Not shattered,” she said.
He positioned so her folds nestled around his shaft.
“Pert little wanton.” He spoke directly into her ear, thrusting upward with his hips—a pantomime of the real thing.
She shivered again, but the pleasure wasn’t shattering, only pleasing.
“Wanton, yes.” She lifted a hand to her nipple and flicked the hardened tip with her nail. Her thighs jerked, her muscles clenched. She arched straight up to his chest. “But not just pert. Saucy…bold.”
Markham caught her waist, anchoring her in his arms. He picked up where she’d left off, taking her nipple into his mouth while the long, hard heat of him burned between her legs.
Her thighs quaked. Her breath stopped. Now she understood what he’d meant by writhe.
Was this the little death that he’d spoken of?
She felt as if she were dying—being torn apart. She dug her nails into his back. The buttons of his waistcoat chafed against her breasts. The room grew shadowed in concentric, pulsing circles. And then, from the very center of the darkness, a million stars burst forth.
She threw back her head and cried out his name, holding on as if his body were the only thing that could keep her secure.
And then the stars fell around her, returning light to the room.
He released her back onto the bed, each rough exhale looking as if it might be his last. A languid pleasantness infused her blood, but he was still in pain. Still in want.
Still her chaud lapin.
Not a small, sweet rabbit, but a wild, untamed buck in a fever of need.
“Be still,” she commanded.
He froze, his hand still cupping his cock.
“Can you make yourself shatter?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
He lifted the bottle from the bedside table and removed the cork with his teeth. Staying locked inside her gaze, he drizzled himself with spice-scented oil.
“Wait.” She lifted herself from the bed, and, with tender fingers she cupped his balled skin beneath his shaft. She wanted to experience every moment—make sure he knew when he came apart just who had driven him to this edge. “Now, lapin, make yourself spend.”
He yanked off his untied cravat and covered the tip. He pumped his shaft through his hand; she watched in heated fascination. His balls tightened. He lurched forward against her shoulder with a deep-throated growl.
“Fuck,” he bellowed.
The outrageous vulgarity vibrated within her body. She smiled—warming, full, deep.
And then, he broke, and the word spill suddenly made sense as well. His cravat caught the worst, and his knees collapsed against the bed. She used his momentum to lift him back onto the mattress.
He turned his face in to her neck, curled his body around hers, and sighed, “Clarissa.”
She didn’t care about the wet mess. She didn’t care about his language. All she cared to do was hold him tight and murmur words of comfort and approval unlocked from a place inside she barely understood as he trembled to stillness inside her embrace.
“Shh.” She stroked his hair and pressed her lips against his brow. “Don’t speak.”
Together, they rested in a scented cloud of bergamot, sweat, and carnal indulgence. Safe. Protected. Free from rules and judgments and explanations.
Tonight, she’d been a queen. Even now, she knew he would slay dragons if she asked. He would even make this fake betrothal real.
But is that what she wanted?
To lose the self she’d only just discovered?
She’d come into his chamber knowing exactly which cards she wished to gamble. Only she hadn’t understood the danger of playing Hearts.
Her throat closed. His weight no longer felt so light.
“I must go,” she said.
“Let me clean you first.”
Yes. Clean me. Dress me. Don’t let me go.
Markham rose from the bed and strode over to the cupboard. When he returned, he’d fastened his falls.
She met his gaze. His slipped quickly away.
Taking the greatest care—but also avoiding her eyes—he wiped her clean. He pulled her to her feet and worked as he had earlier, but in reverse, dressing her more efficiently and tenderly than any lady’s maid she’d ever had.
She wore the same clothes, but she descended his stairs an entirely different woman. But too weary—too overwhelmed—to decipher exactly how she’d changed.
They walked in silence until they reached the garden gate.
“Which window is yours?” he asked.
She pointed to the fourth floor up in the middle.
He nodded. “I’ll wait for a signal.”
Of course, he
would want to know she was safely home. He was a man from a different time. Fierce and strong on the outside, devotedly gallant beneath.
She rested her hand against his heart.
“Please.” She didn’t know what she was pleading for. Did her confidence falter because of the darkness? Did vulnerability return because of the cold?
“Anything,” he answered roughly.
“Do you regret tonight?”
He cupped both her cheeks. “Do you?”
Did she? They’d broken—not a rule, but something far more dangerous…a mirror that reflected back the world she thought she knew and understood. The very landscape around her had changed. She knew nothing. Understood nothing.
But did she regret?
“No.”
He wrapped her up in muscled arms and kissed her temple.
“I still want,” he whispered.
“Chaud lapin,” she whispered back. She left off the mon. Because he wasn’t hers. Not really. She rose to her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night.”
Chapter Eleven
Markham joined the men lining the tri-sided courtyard of Tattersalls, waiting for the auctioneer to lead the next horse to the block. He had been corresponding with the breeder about this particular beast for months. An Arabian mare.
Spirited.
Haughty.
But, he’d been assured, a tamable beast who loved nothing more than speed.
He slapped his gloves against his open hand, stinging the center of his open palm.
Surely, the long-awaited purchase would be enough to correct his state.
For the past two days, he hadn’t been able to concentrate. Instead, depraved images crowded his mind. Images made real by newfound knowledge of the tantalizing features hidden beneath Clarissa’s clothes and the more astonishing inclinations hidden beneath her prim exterior.
He slapped a second time—harder.
He’d spent half his waking hours in a carnal bliss-filled haze and the other half battling an encroaching sense of dread he had no idea how to remedy.
He wouldn’t have minded the bliss-filled haze alone. He’d never been quite right for the first few days following an encounter with a new lover. Once carnal exploration began, his daydreams and night pleasures had always become about the woman and the experience.
The dread, however, was new.
Heat beneath his collar. Tightness in his chest—the dread of the condemned.
What had happened between himself and Clarissa hadn’t happened in the way of his other lovers.
Their encounter, of course, had physical pleasure aplenty—even now, the impression of her fingers lingered on his balls—but the night hadn’t been only about her ignorance, his experience, or even the consensual exchange of power.
The culmination had been fusion itself—two separate metal pieces melted and then melded together. And that little part of him—the one he constantly needed to beat down—had gone silent in the tender aftermath of her embrace.
Why?
He slapped again.
Because he’d been bloody claimed.
The answer lay at the very center of the sharp-toothed, long clawed badger of fear, ready to pounce at any moment.
He’d suspected his rules and his limits—the partitions he’d carefully constructed to keep other people out—had been aimed at preventing such an experience, as if deep inside, he’d been craving it all along.
But the idea was as absurd as it was sweat-inducing.
Clarissa hadn’t claimed him. She did not even want anything beyond her quest for knowledge. That much, she’d made clear— Did I propose? Even now, he heard her question clearly, including the note of fundamental disdain.
No one knew better than he the slow, internal rot one-sided devotion caused.
Mama, will you come downstairs today?
On days she’d bothered to answer at all, she’d answered perhaps with a mild lifting of her lips.
Come and give me a kiss for courage?
You ask, but then you never come down.
Mama is sad, that is all.
Because of me?
No, dearest…now go find your sister and play.
“I say,” Farring interrupted Markham’s thoughts. He strode across the courtyard, his high, polished boots crunching against the gravel. “Aren’t they leading away the horse you’ve been waiting for all day?”
They were.
Mercy.
He clenched his teeth. The auction had started and finished, and he hadn’t even noticed. He’d practically stalked that magnificent beast. Now, he’d entirely missed his moment because of her.
He flushed.
No—not because of Clarissa. Because, after all these years, he hadn’t learned to contain his desires.
He was still a little boy wanting desperately—hopelessly—to please.
Buoyant, congratulatory shouts directed his gaze toward the winner of the auction. Moultonbury.
His flush deepened. “Damnation!”
Moultonbury looked up, smiled slowly, and then tipped his hat.
Markham turned to Farring. “Why did you let him get my horse?”
“Me?” Farring frowned. “I stepped away for but a moment—not that you’ve taken note of my presence at all the past few days. I daresay Moultonbury got his horse because he was paying attention.” Farring shoved his glasses up his nose. “Now, if I may remind you, I was compelled to take tea with Her Grace this morning with my entire gaggle of sisters present. You do not wish to irritate my final nerve.”
“Damnation,” Markham repeated. And then, more softly, “I apologize.”
Farring grunted begrudgingly. “Let’s go get a pint. You’re in no condition to engage in proper bidding, and I haven’t anyplace to stable another horse.”
Markham cast one last longing glance at the horse, now being led back to a stall. He didn’t really have the room, either. Not in London, anyway. At least now he needn’t pay to house the beast. There was that.
He could spend his money elsewhere. Like on a new shirt unstained with Clarissa’s rouge, and cravat and trousers unstained with—
He stopped his thought right there and then kicked a pebble into the street.
“Are you trying to cover us both in horseshit?” Farring asked. “What the devil has gotten into you?”
Markham glanced askance. “I’m just mad about the horse.”
“Yes.” Farring pursed his lips. “The horse. Men are frequently subsumed by their desire for horses.”
They ducked inside the low door to the closest pub to Tattersalls. Instantly, the temperature changed—brisk, early autumn cool to roasting heat.
Farring left Markham in a booth and then returned with two frothing mugs. He slid onto the bench, drank deep, and then smacked his lips.
“Good ale.”
Markham lifted his brows. “It is, rather.”
“Come on, now. Is that the best reaction you can summon? You practically had a paroxysm over losing a horse to Moultonbury.”
Markham flattened his lips.
“Chin up, pup,” Farring continued. “The reports on that horse were probably too good to be true, anyway.”
“The horse was every bit as magnificent as the breeder implied. As a matter of fact, soon as they arrived in London, the starting bid increased by 20 percent.”
“You could offer to buy the beast from Moultonbury—I daresay he’d let her go for the right amount of coin.”
“The beast, I’d like. However, I wouldn’t give Moultonbury a sixpence. Not for a horse. Not for anything.”
“Speaking of Moultonbury,”—Farring leaned back—“an on dit about him had my mother and sisters all aflutter this morning. The dowager countess is, apparently, furious with her son. She expected those tickets to the benefit—the same tickets that I believe went to you.”
“Did the countess know to blame Moultonbury?”
“Mrs. Sartin told Lady Moultonbury that his incivility
was the reason she had changed her mind.”
Markham rapped the table. “Mrs. Sartin had better take care.” The last thing he needed was more fuel to this fire.
“Well, Mrs. Sartin knows just what to say to soothe Queen Charlotte, so I’d say she’s quite safe. And, she has my mother’s support. Lady Moultonbury must feel the woman’s influence, too. She threatened to cut her son out of her will if he did not change his ways and show more respect for his elders.”
Markham turned down his lips. “Can she do that?”
“Lady Moultonbury’s marriage refilled the Moultonbury coffers, and her marriage contracts were ironclad. The title may belong to her son, but the money is hers.”
“Apparently not all the money. That horse did not come cheap,” Markham said. “You learned all of this over tea?”
“I wouldn’t know half what I know if it weren’t for the women in my family.” Farring glanced over his glasses. “You know, you should listen to your sisters more often. I daresay Katherine learned more about Lord Bromton in the week after they’d met than I’ve learned after near twenty years.”
Markham could hardly argue. He’d shown Clarissa a part of himself he had never intended to reveal.
Hell, he hadn’t even known it was there before the other night.
Farring left his glasses on the tip of his nose. “Do you know what other topic had the gaggle aflutter?”
“No.” But the churn in his stomach gave him a hint.
“Her Grace is now touting the expectant love match of the Season, and she’s giving the credit all to Mrs. Sartin. Who is this lucky couple?” Farring leaned forward. “I’ll give you one guess.”
Markham took a gulp-deep mouthful of now-tepid ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then rested his head on the back of the booth, gazing upward.
Someone had hung a horseshoe on a nail in the ceiling—upside down.
As if he needed more bad luck.
Farring’s laugh started as a snort and ended in a hearty chuckle.
“Stop it, would you?” Markham spoke under his breath. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Hear what?” Farring wiped his eyes.
“Whatever it is you are thinking.”
“I’m not thinking, I’m observing. The latter is infinitely more effective. There is nothing fake about this courtship, is there? You are courting Lady Clarissa on her own merits.”
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 13