Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  “Kit,” she said on an outrush of air. “What are you doing to me?”

  “Loving you.” He tilted a look up, and his slumberous smile illuminated the tracery of laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No. Please, no.”

  In shameless encouragement, she threaded her fingers into his thick hair and urged his head downward. He complied by drawing her other nipple into his mouth and paying the same exquisite homage to it.

  The sideways position on his lap suddenly grew awkward. Norah shifted restlessly, and he seemed to know what she wanted even when she herself did not. Grasping her by the waist, he deftly turned her so that she faced him, her thighs straddling his. She sat with the gown hiked to her hips, the center of her riding the sleek fabric of his trousers and the long staff within.

  Alarmed into a gasp, she held an indrawn breath. Though an irresistible rush of liquid heat lured her, she tensed with the thought that Kit would take her to bed now; he would end these dreamy tactile sensations with the harsh reality of the act.

  But he merely brought her hand up and kissed her fingertips, one by one. “I adore every part of your body,” he whispered. “Your skin, so soft and feminine. Your breasts, so precious and perfect. Even your wrists, so dainty and small-boned.” Turning up her hand, he skimmed his lips over the network of blue veins.

  He nuzzled a path up her inner arm to her throat, then his hands massaged her bosom. “You have a beautiful form, Norah. The form of a goddess, silk and warmth and purity.”

  As he continued his eloquent exploration, the rigidity of her muscles abated, altering into a throb of yearning centered low in her belly. Like molten gold, she dissolved onto him, gradually discovering pleasure in the strange position. She relaxed until her aching pressure point lodged firmly against his maleness.

  His eyes darkened. The swift rise and fall of his chest gratified her with the knowledge that he was as affected as she. Yet his movements were easy, posing no threat to her vulnerable state. Reaching behind her head, he pulled out the pins and let her hair fall in tickling streams over her sensitized skin.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you.” He rubbed a curl between his thumb and forefinger. “You have sunset hair. Soft as swans-down.”

  “It’s too red, and so curly I can scarcely drag a comb through it.” Pursing her lips, Norah focused on the blue fabric of the wing chair. “Winnifred once said that only a baseborn woman had hair in so tawdry a shade.”

  Kit’s hands caught her cheeks. “You have lovely hair. And Winnifred is a jealous, dried-up spinster. If you trust her word over mine, Norah, I’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  His stern avowal gladdened her. Purely on impulse, she put her lips to his palm and followed his solid flesh up over his long, square-tipped fingers. “I wouldn’t ever wish to disappoint you, my lord.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Then for God’s sake, kiss me.”

  They met halfway in a mutual expression of need. Her open lips welcomed the urgency of his mouth, and before he could take the lead, she traced the tip of her tongue along the ridges of his teeth, then trekked into the moist cavern of his mouth. A groan reverberated in his chest. He returned her kiss, blotting out all but the fervid awareness of him, the caress of his fingers over her breasts and waist and legs, until she felt as radiant as a diamond in the hands of a master cutter.

  Without knowing where the urge came from, she rocked her hips against him. The brief friction was not enough to satisfy her; the impulse seemed to deepen and darken. With a moan, she found herself squeezing her thighs to encompass his, pressing herself harder against him.

  “Let me help,” Kit murmured.

  He fingered her in the very spot that had become her flashpoint. Sparks burst inside her, singeing her with arousal, shocking her with wanton passion. She jerked and went still, shaken by her lapse of control and frightened by her perception of hurdling headlong toward an unknown place.

  “Kit? This isn’t like me...”

  “Shh.” He touched his lips to her nose; his hand lay warm between her legs, lightly cupping the mysterious folds of her flesh. “Don’t hold back, Norah. Let your feelings carry you.”

  “To where?”

  “Relax and you’ll see.” His eyes were soft and liquid-dark, hypnotic eyes. “Trust me to guide you. Remember how very much I love you.”

  The certainty of his affection, coupled with the slow circling of his thumb, drew her into sweet surrender. She rested her head on his broad chest and lowered her lashes. The world descended into a voluptuous darkness that held only the two of them, man and woman. The drumbeat of his heart filled her ear; his musky aroma expanded her senses. The love burning in her own heart fired the glow in her loins.

  She moved, flirting with his hand, and Kit seemed to understand her needs with unerring accuracy. He quickened his strokes until she surged toward the pinnacle of madness.

  Trust me...

  Letting go of restraint, she writhed in his lap, panting, seeking, climbing...then bursting over the verge. She clung tight to his shoulders as joy transported her, one blessed spasm after another, into the light of a thousand sun-struck diamonds.

  She drifted back to an awareness of herself, sleepy and satisfied. And brazenly perched astride the Marquess of Blackthorne, the most notorious rake in England.

  He sat fully clothed, cravat and coat and trousers, while she lolled against him in half-naked splendor.

  A laugh of pure delight bubbled from her throat.

  Not the notorious marquess, after all. Kit. Her darling Kit. The man who would give her that wondrous pleasure before he used her in his own way.

  “Here now,” he chided, tipping her chin up so she looked fully into his eyes. “What’s so amusing?”

  She wreathed her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I love you, that’s all.”

  He blew out a ragged breath. His eyes gleamed with tender fire. “That’s all?”

  “Mm. Well... now I know.”

  His crooked smile held pride and understanding. “Not everything yet.”

  Despite his indolent expression, she was conscious that his fingers tightly gripped her arms. The pressure beneath her reminded her of his own unslaked passion. She searched her heart for fear, but found only warmth and willingness. Even if their union hurt, she could endure a few moments of pain if the coupling gave him joy.

  She wriggled backward on his steely thighs so that she could shape her hand around him. With a flush of feminine awe, she realized that he surpassed the stretch of her fingers. “You’ve wrought a miracle, my lord, but there’s also the matter of you.”

  The softness of her voice, the boldness of her touch, nearly brought Kit out of his skin. He could scarcely believe this sultry angel was his Norah. Yet when she brushed her lips over his, a sweetly unschooled quality flavored her kiss. Set afire by the paradox of saucy wench and shy maiden, he knew he could wait no longer. Now that she had been initiated, he could dispense with patience. He could end the delicious agony of waiting.

  He drew her to her feet and peeled away the nightgown until she stood in naked glory, her breasts coyly peeking from the veil of curly hair. The ache in his groin flared to an unholy fire. He hoisted her into his arms. “Shall we retire to bed?”

  Her smile held a wistful quality. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck. “I’m ready, Kit.”

  She sounded almost resigned. He was possessed by the fierce need to see her face glow with renewed satisfaction. Maurice Rutherford might have taken her maidenhead, but Kit Coleridge had given her the rapture of her first climax. The first of many.

  Stopping beside the bed, he said, “Don’t judge me by another man’s ineptness, Norah. Our pleasure has barely begun.”

  Her teeth worried her lower lip. “Will you be disappointed if I don’t like it?”

  “I told you before, you could never disappoint me. Never.”

  He kissed her, deep and sure.
They fell atop the quilt, his trousered leg flung over her bare thighs as he lost himself to the enticement of her moist and reddened lips. The high fever of love robbed him of rationality; only the barrier of his clothing brought him to his senses. He wanted to feel hot flesh against hot flesh.

  “Wait here.” Pushing to his feet, he yanked at his cravat.

  Humor lit her green eyes. “Where else would I go, my lord? To the library? I understand your stepmother once wrote a book of essays under the nom de plume of I. M. Vexed—”

  “Imp. If I have my way, tomorrow you’ll be writing an essay on the joys of love.”

  Norah scooted under the covers and drew the quilt to her breasts. Her hair billowed like a red cloud on the white pillow. The guarded look stole back over her face, a look he meant to banish forever. He also meant to undress in record time. But his adroit fingers became clumsy, fumbling with his buttons, awkward at unscrewing his sleeve links.

  Jesus God. Norah loved him. He let himself revel for a moment in paradise. Then doubts crept in. Did she only love her first taste of physical gratification? Would she decide tomorrow that she’d made a mistake? Would she choose Jerome St. Claire as her life mate?

  Kit shed the loathsome questions along with the last articles of his clothing. He had never been so unsure of himself with a woman. But he had to believe in her. He must believe, for the lonely man inside him cried out with need for her.

  God help him, if sex was the only way to hold her, he would show her a night she would never forget.

  Her wide-eyed gaze traveled down the length of his naked body and stopped on his jutting maleness. Her lips parted. The tip of her tongue peeked from between her white teeth. He took a step toward her. His heart hammered from an upsurge of lust, from anticipation of the union to come.

  Abruptly she rolled away from him, onto her side. Kit found himself staring at the alabaster smoothness of her back. His jaw dropped. Her rejection ripped into him like a pistol shot.

  Driven by pain and passion, he flung himself on the mattress and pulled her around to him. The warmth of her skin mocked him. “Don’t turn away from me,” he rasped. “My God, not now.”

  The great green jewels of her eyes blinked. “Why are you angry? I only thought you’d want—”

  “This is what I want, Norah.”

  He covered her with his body and rubbed the thicket of his chest hairs against her sensitive nipples. Her intake of breath rewarded him. His knee nudged apart her thighs, and the crown of his hardened length nestled in the moist heat of her entrance. Sighing his name, she looped her arms around him, and with the keen triumph of a conqueror, he felt her muscles go liquid with surrender.

  The savage forces within him defeated his plan for a long, leisurely lovemaking. A powerful tide of fear inundated him with the need to stake his claim, once and for all. In one swift plunge he entered her, met a barrier, and breached it.

  She gasped. Her fingers closed convulsively over his back. Kit paused, his lungs heaving, his body aflame, his mind puzzling over the brief resistance. Her eyelids were squeezed shut, her breath quick and light.

  “Are you all right?” he said hoarsely.

  Her lashes fluttered open. “I’m fine.”

  Her snug velvet encased him, and with effort he gripped the thread of his thoughts. “Forgive me, darling.” He caressed her lips with a remorseful kiss. “I didn’t mean to be so rough. But I couldn’t wait any longer to make you mine.”

  Dreamy-eyed, she regarded him. “You don’t feel rough at all, Kit. You feel...wonderful.”

  When she moved her hips, the stimulus spurred him on a dizzying leap toward ecstasy. He caught himself, the effort bathing him in sweat. Her inner muscles worked him like a fist clenching and unclenching, as if she were experimenting with the newness of him. The awe lighting her face made his throat choke with emotion and his passion blaze like wildfire.

  The long weeks of celibacy had honed his desire to a sharp edge. His first time without the dulling shield of a condom lifted his enjoyment to exquisite heights. Most of all, his love for Norah thrust him beyond the scope of his experience, beyond the limits of his control.

  “My God, you’re perfect,” he muttered.

  He pushed irresistibly deeper into her tight silken sleeve. With a moan, she lifted herself to him like a maiden offering herself to a deity. He kissed her lips and breasts and throat, until she clutched at him with a need that equaled his own.

  “Norah. My Norah. Forever.” His fierce chant anticipated the explosion of his seed. Their bodies came together in a starburst of rapture, a shining sense of unity that melded them for all eternity.

  Gasping from the sweetest repletion he had ever known, Kit rolled to her side, keeping himself sheathed within her. The ultimate languor spread through his limbs. The sweat cooled on his skin and he grew aware of the cozy snapping of the fire and the wind whispering outside.

  Norah fit his arms to perfection. The rose scent of her hair mingled with the musk of their lovemaking. Her head lay back on the pillows. Her lashes formed a thick auburn fringe against her flushed cheeks.

  She opened her eyes and feathered her fingers over his jaw. “Oh, Kit. That was so beautiful.”

  The reverence in her voice wrapped him in tenderness. He kissed her nose. “You’re beautiful.”

  She smiled shyly. “It seems my knowledge has been sorely lacking. I never knew a man and a woman could make love face to face.”

  Her naïveté enchanted him. Then her meaning penetrated his lassitude. Face to face...

  A chill wind blew away the fog in his mind. Disbelieving, he withdrew and sat up. A few red droplets stained the sheets. Another smear anointed her inner thigh.

  Blood. From her monthly cycle? No, he would have noticed it earlier, when he had first stroked her to climax.

  A virgin’s blood, then? Had the barrier had been her maidenhead?

  Impossible.

  I don’t need anyone. Not that way. Not ever again.

  So many times she had flinched from his touch. She had recoiled in disgust. As if she loathed the act of sexual intimacy.

  Tonight, when she’d first lain down on the bed, she had turned her back to him. He remembered her surprised reaction: Why are you angry? I only thought you’d want...

  The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. His mind perceived the abhorrent picture. Norah hadn’t been rejecting him. She had been assuming the only sexual position her husband had taught her.

  “Kit? What’s the matter?”

  Her voice penetrated the roaring in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. He could only stare numbly at Norah. She embodied womanly innocence, the curly hair tumbling over naked breasts and hips, the dark auburn thatch crowning her slender legs.

  Even faced with insurmountable proof, he balked at believing.

  “What did he do to you?” His voice sounded odd, a stranger’s voice rimed by frost.

  “Who?”

  “Maurice. I want to know exactly how he entered you.”

  She blinked. Then her chin dropped a fraction and she shook her head, as if to say she didn’t understand why he wanted to know, but she would humor him anyway. “From behind me.” She hesitated, looking down at the pillow. “I never...liked it. It hurt.” She showered him with the light of her smile again. “But the way you make love...Kit, I never knew such marvelous feelings existed.”

  Christ. What he feared was true. And Norah had no inkling of the sordid deed done to her. Done again and again, for nine long years. Done by a deceitful husband who had stolen her love and loyalty.

  Kit levered himself up off the bed. He couldn’t stay still. The tumult of sickness and rage demanded an outlet. Pacing the bedroom, he muttered, “Damn him. Damn him to bloody hell!”

  She wriggled up into a sitting position. “Kit? You’re frightening me. Did I say something wrong?”

  The cold draft from the windows brushed his naked body, though it did little to abate the heat of his fury. He disliked upsetting h
er, yet she deserved to know the truth. “Not you, darling. It was your husband. He was a sodomite.”

  “A what?”

  “A man who preferred to fornicate with other men.”

  Disbelief shone stark on her face. The lamp glow picked out the spattering of golden freckles across her nose. Her lips were parted, ruby lips still sweetly swollen from his kisses.

  “No.” Norah shook her head, stirring the waterfall of curls. “That’s impossible. You know he had a mistress. Maurice may not have been a great lover, but he was a gentleman.”

  Kit snatched up his cravat, wiped it between her thighs, then dropped it beside her. A red stain streaked the white linen. “There,” he said, not ungently. “Look at the proof. A woman bleeds the first time a man penetrates her in the normal manner.”

  Gazing at the cravat, she sat with her hands braced on the mattress. “Then...how did he...”

  “How did he enter you? You have more than one orifice, Norah.”

  Horror darkened her face. She lifted her shaking hands to her cheeks. Her breasts heaved as if she found it difficult to breathe. “No, it can’t be,” she murmured. “It can’t be.”

  In a flash of remorse, Kit deplored his own bluntness. He’d been too embroiled in his own wrath at Maurice Rutherford’s deception to have a care for her sensibilities. But Christ! She ought to understand how she’d been misused.

  The bed creaked as he lowered himself beside her. Fighting to master himself for her sake, he said, “I’m sorry, Norah. You’re so precious to me...I shouldn’t have been so abrupt. I wish I hadn’t been the one to tell you.”

  He reached out, his fingers encountering the pale purity of her shoulder. She recoiled against the bank of pillows.

  “Leave me. I want to be by myself.”

  He withstood the lash of her rejection. How alone she must have been, a convent-bred innocent with no one to confide in. “You need someone right now. Someone who loves you—”

  “Go away.” She drew up her legs and pressed her forehead to her knees. “Please just go away, Kit, and leave me be.”