“Of course it’s not a race.” He blew an exasperated breath, slipped the dress off her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. “It’s more like a steeplechase in which endurance and skill as well as mastery of the reins is more important than speed.” He unfastened her petticoat, and it sank to the floor.
“I should hope so,” she murmured.
“However, a room like this encourages speed.” He shuddered. “One fears if one doesn’t leave as soon as possible, one’s, well, masculinity, for lack of a better word, will simply shrivel and disappear as some sort of pagan sacrifice to a vengeful goddess.”
She laughed. “You’re insane.”
“Or brilliant. A fine line, you know, between insanity and brilliance.” He ran his hands lightly up and down her arms.
She leaned back against him. “And yet you have not crossed it.”
“For you, dearest Judith, and no one else, I shall run the risk of sacrificing that which I hold dear.”
“I am fortunate.” And who wouldn’t feel fortunate dressed only in one’s corset and chemise and drawers with a dashing man at one’s back? Even if he was still fully clothed.
“Indeed you are.” He spoke low into her ear. “I am the last of my line, you know. Should anything happen to me before I sire an heir, it would be a great shame.” His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, and he nuzzled the side of her neck. “Besides, this is not at all the type of bedchamber for a woman like you.”
“It’s not?” She closed her eyes. “Why not?”
“It’s too expected.” His hands drifted lightly over her arms. “The colors are that of an English rose. Pretty enough, but really rather unexceptional. Unexciting. You are not a rose.”
“I’m not?” She could feel the long length of his body, solid and warm, behind hers.
“No indeed.” His hands skimmed along the sides of her corset and rested on her waist in a manner at once provocative and possessive. “You are an exotic blossom. The rarest of orchids.”
She bit her lip to keep from gasping aloud. “I don’t recall saying you could take my gown off.”
“I was being practical.” He kissed the curve between neck and shoulder.
She caught her breath. “Practical?
“In much the same way that it is impractical to pretend one hasn’t seen a gift left in plain sight that was clearly not meant to be a surprise.” He turned her around to face him and gazed into her eyes. “Although I daresay there are any number of surprises ahead, you, Judith, are a gift.”
“Am I?” She rested her hands on his chest and stared up at him. “Are you sure?”
“I have not been certain of anything since I looked into your eyes at the Twelfth Night Ball.” He smiled slowly, and her heart leaped. “Since that moment, my life has been…”
“What?” She stared up at him. She had no idea what she wanted him to say. Declare his immediate and undying affection? Of course not. They scarcely knew each other, and what ever this was between them had nothing to do with love. Nor did she wish it to. Still, God help her, she didn’t know what she wanted. Save him. “What has your life been?”
“A matter of little more than marking time.” His smile faded, and there was an intensity in his eyes that took her breath away. “Since that moment, I have felt as if I were holding my breath. As if I were waiting for something quite wonderful. Something just out of reach.”
“And why did you not reach for it?”
“Why, my dear Judith.” His smile returned and he pulled her closer against him. “I believe I am doing precisely that.”
“Past time too.” She slipped her arms around his neck. “One might have thought—” His lips crushed hers, and any thoughts she had fled, dashed aside by the unyielding demand of passion. Her mouth opened beneath his and his tongue met hers, insistent and greedy. She met his greed with her own, countered his demand with hers, answered his need and hers.
She pushed his coat over his shoulders and he shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor. She pulled at his cravat, and he yanked it from his neck. They moved in a frenzy of yearning and desire and parted only long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head and for her to unhook the front closure of her corset. His trousers joined his shirt, she shed her drawers and chemise, and then she was back in his arms. Her naked body pressed against the long, hard length of his. She marveled at the heat that radiated from his flesh into hers and reveled in it. His hands roamed over her back. His lips explored her neck, her shoulders, her throat. She dropped her head back and arched upward toward him. His erection prodded against her, and her knees weakened with desire.
She gasped. “It is good to know the nature of the room has not adversely affected your masculinity.”
He raised his head and grinned wickedly. “That is good to know.” He cupped her buttocks and pulled her tighter to him. “Still, one does wish to be sure.”
She ground her hips against his member and delighted in his small gasp of surprise coupled with plea sure.
“You shall pay for that,” he growled and scooped her into his arms. He kicked aside the mounds of clothing at their feet and strode to the bed.
“I do hope so,” she murmured and nipped at his shoulder.
He deposited her on her feet beside the bed, slid one arm around her back, then cupped a breast in his hand. She arched toward him in anticipation and desire. He bent to take one nipple in his mouth. He sucked and teased, tongue and teeth toying with the sensitive flesh. Waves of plea sure rippled from his touch. She gripped his shoulders and moaned softly. He shifted to lavish attention on her other breast, and she wondered how long she could remain upright, how long before she melted into a puddle at his feet.
He dropped to his knees before her and nuzzled the flat of her stomach. His hands caressed her bottom and skimmed over her hips, and his mouth moved lower. She ran her hands through his hair and wanted to urge him on but knew it would be ever so much better if she allowed him to lead. And wanted him never to stop.
Abruptly he stood and gently pushed her back onto the bed. She smiled up at him and wondered that she could smile at all, wondered that she could breathe. He ran his hands along the insides of her legs and spread them apart. The cool night air drifted over her, every nerve in her body alert to the slightest breath, the merest touch. His hands reached the juncture of her thighs, and anticipation gripped her. She wanted his fingers, his mouth, his cock. He hadn’t touched her there and yet she throbbed with yearning and wondered if he knew. And thought surely he must. His fingers drifted over the curls guarding her most private places, so slight she wasn’t sure she had been touched at all. So light it was a tease, a promise, nothing more. She arched her hips up slightly. His finger flicked lightly over the point of her plea sure and she gasped and held her breath. She wanted, she needed, more. He touched her again and she moaned with desire. Dear Lord, he was indeed making her pay. And what an exquisite payment. His finger slid over her, slick with her own need, in a slow, easy manner. Her arms stretched out at her sides and her hands clutched the bedcovers in an effort to keep herself still, like an offering to a god of carnal delight. Every fiber of her being was intent on his touch upon her. Intent on the slow, wicked stroke of his finger.
He spread her open with his hands, then leaned forward to replace his finger with his mouth. She sucked in a hard breath and fisted her hands in the bedcovers. All sense of who she was vanished beneath the plea sure of his mouth and his tongue. She existed only as a creature of erotic awareness, of sheer sensation. Dimly she heard an odd, whimpering sound and realized it came from her. The tension inside her tightened, spiraled toward release.
Without warning he stopped, and she cried out in frustration. He climbed on the bed and without pause settled between her legs and plunged into her. She gasped and her hips drove upward in welcome. He was large and hot and hard and filled her with a perfection she had not imagined. She wrapped her legs around his waist and urged him deeper. He thrust into her and then w
ithdrew almost entirely and then thrust again and again. She caught his rhythm and together they moved in a tempo as natural as nature itself, as glorious as the heavens. The bed rocked with their efforts and she wondered if it might collapse around them and didn’t care. Nothing mattered save him and her, and the world itself existed only in their joining. Faster he drove into her and harder she pushed against him until the tight, aching sweetness of release exploded within her. Waves of sheer delight coursed through her and she bucked beneath him and screamed with the joy of it. A moment later he thrust again and then shuddered within her and groaned in the way of a man who has been caught unawares by the power of his own release.
He withdrew from her, then gathered her close and rolled to his back, and they lay together as one, her head resting on the warm, hard planes of his chest. She could feel her heart thudding inside her and could feel as well the beat of his against hers. She wanted to do nothing more than lie here in his arms forever. It wasn’t merely that he was an excellent lover; he was certainly that and she had expected as much. But there was something in the intensity of their coupling, something beyond mere plea sure of the flesh that struck her as significant even though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was. It was probably nothing more than that this man was very, very good and more than a little bit wicked.
There was a great deal to be said for more than a little bit wicked.
“That was quite…quite…” She giggled with the pure exhilaration of it. “Lovely, I should say.”
“Lovely?” he scoffed. “I would call it substantially more than lovely. Lovely is such a”—he kissed her nose—“pink sort of word.”
“Nonsense. It’s not the least bit pink.” She laughed. “What would you call it then?”
“I would call it”—he thought for a moment—“delightful.”
She raised a brow. “Lovely is pink but delightful is acceptable? I think delightful is almost as pink as lovely.”
“Very well then.” He adopted a somber expression, surprisingly impressive for a naked man lying on his back with an equally naked woman draped over him. She stifled a giggle. “Incredible, I should think. Nothing pink about incredible.”
“Definitely not.”
“Even magnificent.” His gaze met hers. “Yes, that’s it. It was magnificent.” Without warning he pulled her close and rolled over, to trap her between his body and the bed. “And I suspect it will be magnificent again.” He kissed her shoulder. “And again.” He kissed the hollow of her throat. “And again.”
She shuddered with delight. “And then?”
“And then, dearest Judith.” He grinned down at her. “You owe me supper.”
“I have never dined in a lady’s boudoir before,” Gideon said in an idle manner and sipped his wine thoughtfully. “It’s a rather unique feeling.”
“A bit wicked perhaps?” Judith sat across the table from him, a distinct spark of amusement in her eyes.
“A bit.” He grinned. He couldn’t help but grin. He might well grin for the rest of his days based on this evening alone. It had indeed been magnificent, every moment. He wasn’t entirely sure what had made it magnificent, what made it unique from any other evening he’d spent in the bed of any other delightful woman, but now was not the time for examination. There was still much of the evening left to enjoy.
They dined in a small alcove off her bedchamber. It too was overly pink. Judith had an excellent cook, and the meal was as perfect as the rest of the evening. The only discordant note came from that nasty creature she claimed was a canine who even now glared at him from a beribboned basket. The dog obviously didn’t like him and the sentiment was returned.
“Do you like it?”
“Feeling wicked? Most certainly.” He took a long sip of a very good wine. “I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t.”
“Do you feel wicked…frequently?” she said casually.
He resisted the urge to laugh. “Frequently?”
“Yes. Frequently. Often.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity. Nothing more than that.” She shrugged. “I don’t believe you, you know.”
“About the plea sure to be had in feeling wicked?”
“Oh, that I believe, and furthermore, I agree.” She leaned her elbows on the table, entwined her fingers, and rested her chin on her hands. “What I don’t believe is that you have never dined in a lady’s boudoir before.”
“You don’t?”
“Not for a moment. Your reputation precedes you, Gideon.”
“My reputation?” He set his glass down, leaned back in his chair, and studied her. If there was nothing else he had learned about women in his thirty-two years of existence, he had learned it was never wise to assume one knew exactly what a woman was talking about. Ever. The best course was usually feigned ignorance followed closely by denial or, as a last resort, cautious confession and guarded honesty. “Would you care to be more specific?”
“I would indeed but the problem with reputations is that they are rarely specific. They are often built on little more than a kernel of truth.”
“Even yours?”
“Especially mine. However, we are not discussing my reputation at the moment but yours.” A thoughtful light shone in the lady’s eyes. “Now then, you are known to be extremely cynical and you have a sharp wit you wield like a sword. You are cool and unruffled, even in your dealings with women, and I am told you are perhaps the most discreet among your friends when it comes to the fairer sex. Which makes it decidedly difficult to find out anything whatsoever about your past liaisons.”
He grinned. “That is precisely the purpose of discretion.”
“Nonetheless.” A smug smile curved the corners of her mouth. “I have it on very good authority that this is not the first time you have had supper in a lady’s bedchamber. From what I have heard, you are not unfamiliar with late-night suppers with actresses or opera singers or ballet dancers.”
“Ah, but you see, a late-night supper after a theatrical performance is not necessarily in a woman’s bedchamber.”
She frowned. “It isn’t?”
“No.”
“I always thought it would be. It is in novels.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I can only speak to my own experience and in that I am sure.”
“And as we were speaking of your experience I shall have to take your word for it.” She considered him for a moment. “I understand you were married once.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. His brief, ill-fated marriage was so long ago, he doubted even the most dedicated of gossips remembered it at all, although it was possible his closest friends did even if they had never spoken of it. Perhaps he would have to kill Helmsley after all. He forced a noncommittal note to his voice. “You must have had a long talk with Helmsley yourself.”
“Oh my, yes.” She laughed, and any irritation he felt at Helmsley’s revelation of his past, which, while not common knowledge was not a secret either, vanished at the sound. “I fear I do not have the moral fortitude that you do. While you restrained from asking Lord Helmsley highly personal questions about me, I felt no such hesitation. I asked him everything about you that came to mind.” She cast him a brilliant smile.
“Everything?”
“Everything I could think of.”
“And did you learn anything of interest?”
She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Very little, I’m afraid. More than anything, he simply confirmed what I knew. I was aware, if vaguely, of the nature of your character as well as the extent of your fortune and your lineage. I knew as well that your only living relative is an elderly aunt that you have kindly taken in. I did not know about certain…oh, what did Lord Helmsley call them?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said coolly but braced himself for what ever incidents from his past Helmsley might have related. While Gideon might well have been both discreet and relatively well behaved in recent years, there
was a period before that when he was anything but.
“Escapades. Yes, that’s the word he used.” She shook her head. “I must say I was shocked.”
“Then my past is substantially more interesting than I thought it was. I would have doubted anything would have shocked you.”
“You’re right.” She grinned. “A better word is amused.”
“Those days are long past. I am”—he thought for a moment—“reformed.”
“Not too reformed, I hope.”
“Never too reformed.”
She studied him curiously. “You are not revealing a great deal, you know.”
“Nor will I.”
She straightened in her chair. “Why not?”
“The past is over and done with.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I much prefer to consider what happens next.”
She stared at him for a long moment, a bemused smile on her face. Her blue eyes glowed, her cheeks were slightly flushed, a lingering effect of their exertion or the excellent meal or the wine or more likely, all three. She’d loosely pinned her hair on top of her head, but more blond curls had escaped than were confined. The dressing gown she’d donned was trimmed in lace and ruffles, a silly garment, but the memory of what it concealed quickened his blood. “We should discuss that.”
“What happens next? In regard to the state of the world as we know it? Politics and the like?” He adopted an innocent tone but he knew full well what she meant.
“No.” She withdrew her hand. “In regard to the two of us. If we are to continue beyond to night—”
“As I fully intend.”
“As do I,” she said in a prim manner. “Then we need to come to an understanding of the…boundaries, as it were, of what we share.”
“Boundaries?” He raised a brow.
A Little Bit Wicked Page 5