“You want me to be specific?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Dip your finger in your cognac,”—he challenged her with his gaze—“run that finger down my shaft, and then lick it off.”
He did have quite an imagination. “Is that something that’s done?”
He grinned, wolfish. “Not often enough.”
“I see…”
Would it be so terrible? Just the description had thickened him more. She’d have to study and learn if she wanted to know exactly how to provoke those helpless little whimpers…
Possibilities for later. She set the idea aside.
For now—she dipped her finger into the cognac and she spread the liquid on his bottom lip—there were other parts of him she’d like to taste.
…
Yes. As her lips met his, he didn’t so much think the word as feel it quicken in his source. That still, unshakable center inside came alive in an entirely new way—basking in a world that belonged to the two of them alone.
He relished the traces of cognac. Burning, yet sweet. Both hot and coolly soothing at the same time.
His cock strained up, but she allowed only their mouths to touch. Behind his back, he threaded his fingers more tightly together, denying the urge to cup her face.
He would not lead but follow.
He’d promised.
I decide how much I will give.
Would he, if she insisted, bring this to the conclusion they both desired? Would he take her maidenhead, knowing only fate would decide if a child resulted?
He’d sworn never to wager again, and he couldn’t imagine a gamble with higher sakes.
She arched her body toward his so that her hardened nipples teased his chest through the soft cotton.
Thought ended abruptly.
He’d been hard. He got harder—light-headed. Dizzy.
She broke away.
“If I can lick you…does it work the other way?”
Gramercy! “Yes.”
Her lips formed an O. A nice, firm O. A perfect little puckered O that would feel so nice around his—he squinted as a sharp, tight pain invaded his pleasure.
“I cannot tell…do you like the idea or not.”
He snorted. “I’d be happy to lick you…my lady.”
“Perhaps later.” She smiled—tiny, vixenish. “I’m not finished inspecting.” She splayed both hands against his chest, her thumbs resting over his heart.
She could inspect all she wanted. All five of his senses heightened under her gaze.
“When you sucked my nipples…”
His breath stopped.
“The feeling was quite nice…”
Nice?
“Which makes me wonder…” She edged his nipples with her nails.
He groaned low and deep and entirely involuntary.
She hummed in approval. “There’s the sound I like.”
She wet one of his nipples with cognac and licked. He clenched against the sweet ache that lanced his gut.
“Sit down,” she commanded.
He sank into the mattress.
She gazed down her nose as if he were a meal she could savor, and, with the outline of her beautiful breasts still wrapped in cotton so tantalizingly close, he’d be more than willing to return the favor.
“I want to do to you what you did to me. I want you beneath me on the bed, helpless and quivering. I want to make you spill your seed.”
Mercy, please.
He was damn near close right now, internally spinning like a disk she was dangling on the end of a string.
“Give me three options,” she said.
He forced a swallow. “You can lick me.”
“You already suggested that.”
“Stroke me, then.”
“With my hands?
“Any part of your body will do.”
Her eyes widened. “Second option.”
“You can tell me to stroke myself.”
She considered. “How long will you last before you spill?”
“Not long, I’m afraid.”
She shook her head no. “I don’t want this to be over quickly.”
He grunted. “I don’t think a second go would be a problem.”
“You can do this more than once?”
“Yes.” He closed one eye as a telltale warmth spread through his body. “Though not right away.”
She placed her finger beneath his chin. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His blushes would be his death. He wet his lips. “If you bring me close and then stop, I will stay hard longer. It will be painful, but more satisfying…in the end.”
“You know, lapin.” She lifted her shift and then straddled him. “Your third idea is always your best.”
He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her soft belly against his cock—bitter and sweet, pain and anticipation.
“I don’t want to take off my shift.”
“Then don’t.”
“But I want you to do what you did before.”
“Suck on your nipple?”
She nodded.
He took her nipple—shift and all—into his mouth and rolled it through his mouth. She gasped and threaded her fingers through his hair. He repeated the swirling motion until her breath came in small pants and her wetness seeped onto his legs.
Roughly, she forced him back. “Do you want me?”
“Yes.” Fuck, yes.
“What do you feel like now?”
“I hurt with a hot, relentless pressure.”
“Show me what to do…how to touch you.”
“Yes,” he replied.
He reached over and retrieved the bergamot-scented oil. He opened her palm, poured a small measure, and then replaced the bottle. He leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows, and, taking both her hands into his, he spread the oil as he threaded their fingers together.
“The top is the most sensitive.” He showed her how to squeeze him—firm and yet soft. “But everywhere feels good.”
She learned quickly, his lady.
He’d never been with anyone so blatantly curious. She studied him as if she actually enjoyed the sight.
What man wouldn’t give all to see someone regard his male parts with such curious interest and evident admiration?
Their gazes met. Her fingers were heaven as he slid through her hand.
Her smile glowed—an inferno whose flame lit him from within.
He leaked onto the tip.
“Don’t you dare spend!”
Heat rushed through his body. He pinched his cock hard until the urge to come had passed and his breath returned to normal.
From the look on her face he’d regret revealing that trick.
She placed her hand on his chest and pushed him down into the bed. She ran her fingernails over his tightened balls.
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed.
She flushed scarlet—furious. “Do I amuse you?
“Nonononononono,” he slurred the repeated word into one. He tried to sit up. She pushed him back down.
“You aren’t laughing at me?”
“Of course not.”
“Why did you laugh, then?”
“I’m amazed, is all. And I can’t believe how much I want you.” He covered her hands with his. “My lady—Clarissa—my laugh is never more than the sound of pleasure.”
“Sometimes,” she said, frowning, “I laugh out of fear. Or embarrassment.”
Ah, dearest.
He resisted telling her he’d make sure she was never afraid. Instead he lifted and softly kissed each of her fingertips. “I know I said we’d be embarrassed, but that is only because this is new. You never need to be embarrassed with me. Ever.”
“Ever is a long time,” she replied.
Ever was a vow. “Trust me with everything—the good, the bad, the ugly, the odd.”
“I want you, Markham. I want to take you inside of me.”
Markham. Not Lapin. Not Pe
rcy.
They weren’t playing. Not anymore.
Could he?
He hadn’t lied when he said he found it difficult to deny her. Not only was he hard, slightly dazed, and thoroughly drunk with desire—he practically fizzed with the need to claim her in the most primitive way imaginable.
Or, as she’d put it, allow her to claim him.
He didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought him to this moment—the wise, the foolish, or the ill-considered. She was beautiful. His goddess. His queen—and if she meant to take him, there was no way he’d fail to give.
Hell yes, he could.
They were good together. Right.
She must see that as well.
“There may be pain.” He dipped his fingers into the place between her legs. She was so wet, so hot and so very, very tight. “Or not.”
“But how?” she asked breathlessly. “How is this supposed to work?”
The small quiver in her voice made him raw. “I’ll help you find the right position—then lower yourself slowly. If there’s pain, just remember, you control the pace.”
She nodded.
He moved fully onto the bed where she straddled his thighs again. As promised, he guided her until she was correctly positioned. And then, achingly slow, she slid down his shaft.
Bliss had gradations. Rungs on a ladder. Low down—a win at whist. Slightly higher, carnal satisfaction with a lover. Then, bergamot ices, then cognac.
Real French cognac.
And now he’d reached the highest rung of them all—being sheathed inside the woman you loved.
Loved.
Loved.
He didn’t know if he should laugh or cry or dig his hands into her hips.
He chose, instead, to simply savor the moment—softness and warmth, her wet heat adjusting to the size of his cock.
He opened his eyes. She was biting that lip again—and hard.
“Are you hurting?”
“No. Just…full. And—oh.” Pink blotches rouged her cheeks. “I—I don’t know…” Her eyes were wide and deep and slightly panicked. “Markham!”
She’d gotten lost. She needed help.
“Shh.” He bent his knees, so his thighs could give her some support. “You’re all right. We’re all right.”
She fixed her gaze to his as if he were the only thing she understood.
“Lean down, sweetheart.” The endearment came quite naturally.
She curled forward, crushing her breasts against his chest.
“That’s it,” he soothed. He tucked her feet beneath his sides and brushed back her hair with his fingers. “You’re lovely. Perfect.”
“I don’t know what to do…”
He grasped her bottom. “You’re safe.” He rocked upward; her eyes went heartbreakingly wide. “Just move in a way that feels good.”
Pulsing upward, he focused on her bottom lip, now released and trembling. He helped steady her while his other arm kept her locked against his waist. She swayed forward, inner muscles gripping him tight. She eased back and swayed forward again, never breaking their gaze as her confidence returned.
She grasped his wrists in her hands and twisted them above his head. She surrounded him—her knees pinched his sides, her flawless breasts swung back and forth—but all he cared to do was wrap himself up within her gaze as her nipples brushed against his chest hair.
She was taking him—a brute pillage, a deliberate ruination that could end only in unmitigated possession.
She lowered her head into his neck to muffle a cry.
His walls crumbled, his sentinels fell.
He absorbed her—her want, her quaking release, her weight.
Cry into me. Yes.
When she released his hands, he wrapped her in his arms and thrust upward until he met the same oblivion.
This time, the sky did not just shatter, it opened with a brilliant light that banished all emptiness…the only time he’d ever felt as one with another.
He held her close. Tight—her cheek against his shoulder, her breath in his ear.
“Clarissa. My beautiful, fearless lady.”
She’d destroyed him. His sense of other had vanished. She’d broken him to pieces.
He loved her with every single piece of his shattered soul.
Chapter Sixteen
Clarissa woke to sun streaming across the bed. Light. Too much light. She rolled over and curled into a ball.
She ran a finger across her bottom lip. Everything felt tender, slightly swollen—her mouth, her nipples, her womanhood. They were all rich with the awareness that she had demanded pleasure of her body—and of Markham’s body, too.
No promises.
That’s what he’d said. She’d believed him, then. But she’d known only about promises made with words. She hadn’t understood about physical promises, the kind made between bodies. Vows that simply existed the moment a secret place was unlocked.
And last night, all her locks had been smashed to bits and her secret places unraveled—spun out into thin threads Markham had found and then woven back together with loving gentleness particular to him.
Their first mating had yielded little blood and almost no pain, but something else had happened. He’d claimed her somehow. And afterward, just as he had that first night, he’d cleaned them both. But this time he’d wrapped her up as if her safekeeping was his sacred duty.
Later, when the want had stirred again, he’d served her need, showing her what it was to be beneath him, pillowed in the softness of his mattress as he drove her to that peak. There’d been few words and no explanations—just two bodies making vows their minds could not comprehend.
And when she was exhausted—too drunk on his ministrations to move—he’d picked her up and carried her back into the countess’s rooms. He’d tucked her into bed, kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and her nose, and whispered, “Sleep.”
She’d closed her eyes and drifted away with the scent of bergamot imprinted into her skin.
She groaned. These thoughts were fancies—imagined things. Their joining may have felt like a vow, but the vow could not be binding.
She wiped her face and rang for her maid.
Although she thought what had happened in the night would be obvious, if her maid noticed anything amiss, she showed no sign. She chatted cheerfully as she dressed her, explaining that, though Lord and Lady Bromton had taken Lady Julia out, Lord Markham awaited her ladyship below.
When Clarissa reached the breakfast room, she found Markham sipping from a steaming mug.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said cheerfully.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Shh.”
He lifted his brows. “The servants are belowstairs. Julia has gone with Bromton and Katherine to visit the vicar’s new school. We are completely alone.”
“Still.”
He had to cease using the endearment that had sprung spontaneously from his lips. It took her back to the moment of their joining—to the place where she’d been panicked and lost, and he’d guided her back with murmured words of care.
Words that had been like wine to her parched soul.
“There’s plenty to eat. I”—he pointed to himself and inclined his head—“elected to wait for you to breakfast. After, we’re to join them for a call at the rector’s and then some refreshments at The Pillar of Salt, if you’re amenable, of course. You’ll want to meet our Lizzy. She’s famous around here—her and her gin.”
He gazed at her expectantly.
Did she want to meet their Lizzy? Never mind the rector and his family…
“Oh! I apologize.” He rose from his seat. “You came in here looking so charmingly pretty, I was momentarily dazzled—forgive me.”
He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. She blinked up into dimples—deep-etched and profound with happiness.
“Shall I pour you tea?” he asked. “Or, do you prefer something else?”
“Tea would be welcome.
”
“Perfect.” He pulled out her chair and handed her into the seat and then pushed the seat back to the table. Then, he measured tea into her cup and poured the steaming water. “Sugar? Milk? Odd that I do not know.”
Why should he have known? “Plain, thank you.”
“That’s how I take mine as well.” His already impossibly wide grin grew.
She mirrored his smile with a growing sense of unease. Her plans had not changed. He knew that. He must.
He’d said no promises. And he was Hearts. Of course he knew that.
Of course he had not been irrevocably changed by a night of cavorting with a virgin. Who—from the soreness between her legs—was not going to be able to escape the awareness she was a virgin no longer. Not today, anyway.
After breakfast, he gave her his arm. Outside, the bright September sky blanketed the yellowing earth in impossible blue.
As they took a lane through the forest to the rector’s house, Markham talked.
Gracious, Markham talked.
He talked about the lanes he’d had cut, the allotment plans, the trees, the home farm, even the feed they gave their dairy cows and the changes in the taste of the milk that had resulted.
He talked as if all this should matter to her, as if she’d already agreed to stay.
She smiled and nodded through the walk—and through the visit to the rectory. And, as they were parting at the rector’s door, he told the rector’s wife he was certain she and Clarissa would be fast friends.
Clarissa’s growing dread congealed to certainty; Markham considered them betrothed.
Clarissa encouraged him to walk on ahead with Julia. Katherine whispered something into Bromton’s ear. He nodded. She fell back.
“Clarissa, dear, are you well?”
Clarissa glanced askance. “He’s happy.”
“Yes, I noticed.” Katherine spoke on a wry note. “I also noticed you are not. Please tell me that he didn’t…” She stopped. “Well, he did not insult you in any way, did he?”
Clarissa blushed. “No, no, of course not. He did nothing we had not agreed upon.”
Katherine raised her brows. “Then?”
“I’m so sorry, Katherine.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
She forced down the swelling lump in her throat. “Because I think…I think I’m going to break your brother’s heart.”
Katherine threaded an arm beneath Clarissa’s and they walked together for a spell in silence. Ahead, Markham said something to Julia. She knocked him aside, laughing.
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 19