“No!” she protested, her eyes wide with horror. “We agreed to wait.”
Her husky voice rang in his ears, ran through his surging blood to merge with the fury and lust already pounding inside his body. Fire and ice described him perfectly. He was hot; he was cold. He despised her; he wanted her. Now.
“To hell with waiting.”
His mouth captured hers in a savage kiss. She struggled, her bare feet kicking his shins. She pushed at his chest, her nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders.
His lips never left hers as he cupped her bottom, his desperate hands kneading, pressing her against the granite of his arousal. Against his mouth, she opened hers to protest.
Lucien took advantage of her parted lips by sliding inside to taste her. Her flavor slammed across his senses as he pressed deeper, capturing her kiss with ruthless determination.
Oh, God. She was warm and sweet, exactly as he remembered, only better. He held her tighter, pressing her breasts into his chest, reveling in the heat. He was dizzy with her scent. It wafted through his senses and into his head, muddling reason.
A moment later, her hands relaxed against his chest. She ceased scratching and pushing. She parted her lips further at his urgings. He was lost.
Lucien lifted his head. He stared down into her delicate face, her startled eyes, her flushed cheeks, her lips swollen from his kiss. A dangerous need to possess her, claim her, raged through him. He lowered his mouth to hers once more. After a moment of hesitation, she met him with sweet abandon.
He continued his quest, his tongue seeking out the deepest recesses of her mouth. Suddenly, her fingers curled around his shoulders and squeezed, as if she struggled with some inner demon. He gave no quarter.
He delved inside her mouth even more and groaned with the feel of her lips and her body against his, straining against his cock. He was so hard it hurt.
With his hands cupping her backside, he bent until each palm grasped a thigh, fingers curling toward the soft folds of her sex. He lifted her off the ground, then wrapped her legs about his hips.
She gasped. “Lucien—”
He cut her off with another wild kiss.
As his body throbbed with passion, with life, blood roared through his veins, obliterating logic and restraint. Holding Serena against him, Lucien felt the wet silk of her cleft through his shirt, against his belly. Again, the urge to take her here, now, pounded him.
He sank to the carpet on his knees, holding her against him.
Serena clutched his shoulders to prevent tumbling to the floor. He leaned forward, towering over her, until her back landed on the carpet with a muffled thud. An instant later he covered her body with his own, the cradle of her thighs surrounding his hips.
His mouth ravaged hers once more before he nuzzled her neck. He slid further down her body, finding one nipple beneath the linen of her nightrail. His lips took it, his tongue moistened it, his teeth stiffened it. She cried out.
Surrender, he thought in primitive triumph. He had never wanted a woman more, never felt as if he would burst the instant he buried himself in her tight sheath. This woman was his wife, and she was damn well going to act like it.
His blood raced as he curled his fingers around the edges of her nightrail, close to her neck. Her breathing came fast, hard. Their gazes connected for a suspended second. He gave her a long moment to push him away. She stared back, her face full of breathless acceptance.
He ripped her gown down the length of her torso.
Every inch of her lay naked, exposed to his hungry gaze. The scent of gardenias and the musk of female flesh filled his nostrils, heightening his desire to an excruciating peak. He kissed her neck, his tongue exploring the soft skin there. At her gasp, he cupped one hand about her breast, larger in pregnancy, his thumb hardening the nipple for his pleasure. His other hand delved into the soft curls between her slender thighs, coaxing, arousing, rubbing the tiny bud of her desire. In savage satisfaction, he felt it stiffen between questing fingers.
“Spread your legs wider, Serena,” he heard himself say in a husky, demanding rasp. He lowered trembling fingers to the fastenings of his breeches. In several jerks, he opened his pants, then pushed them about his hips. His manhood sprang free. He pressed against the moist curls between her thighs. “Open for me.”
“We should not do this,” she panted, her voice thick.
“We already are,” he challenged, feeling as if he would explode any moment. “Can you say no?”
She swallowed, eyes wide and dilated as she whispered, “I-I . . .”
With his knees, he pushed her legs further apart. “Damn it, Serena, you have too much passion to keep it locked inside, away from me. Share it. Let me give some back to you.”
Before she could respond, he lowered his hand to her entrance. With a gentle push, her body accepted two of his fingers. At his invasion, he heard her breath catch, felt her body tremble beneath him. He caressed her little bud with this thumb. Around his fingers, her flesh was slick and hot and ready.
He lifted his head to gauge her expression. Her languid, now heavy-lidded gaze stared back, cheeks flushed with desire.
“You want me,” he asserted, feeling the proof around his fingers, seeing it in her smoky eyes. “As much as I want you. Whether it makes any damned sense or not.”
“I should not do this,” she repeated, her voice trembling.
He moved his fingertips, teasing her slick inner walls, his thumb still working that sensitive knot of flesh. Her breath caught on a gasp, her legs tightening around his body, keeping him a willing prisoner.
His insides beat with elemental desire. “Shouldn’t do what, receive pleasure? Have the satisfaction your body is screaming for?” He laved her nipple with his tongue, feeling a surge of triumph when she grabbed his head and pressed him closer. “With your husband, you should.”
He wrapped his arms around her sides, his palms slipping beneath her to cup her buttocks. He tilted her pelvis up. Her breathing quickened. He guided the engorged tip of his cock to her wet entrance and paused. Serena closed her eyes and brought her legs up about his hips. His body throbbed with life, with power and need.
With one solid push, he thrust deep within her. The walls of her oh-so-tight sheath closed around him, permeating him with liquid fire, ratcheting his desire up another degree higher. He heard Serena’s cry ringing in his ears, felt her fingers digging into his shoulders.
Quickly, he withdrew, then plunged into her again. Then again. He groaned, driving into her with mindless need, feeling her legs raise higher to wrap around his waist. He took one of her nipples between his teeth, then pushed inside her again.
No doubt, she was a beautiful liar, but his beautiful liar. She was meant to be in his bed, to house and harbor him within her heat, to surround him with her fire.
He rocked her in a wild rhythm, lifting her hips from the carpet beneath with each thrust. She moaned, her nails digging into his back. He felt the sharp jabs of pain, smelled the scent of her arousal in the air between them. He drove into her once more, burying himself to the hilt. Faster, harder, higher, he moved within her, filling her with every inch of him.
“Lucien,” she whispered in one hard breath. Then another. “I . . . I need . . . ”
“I know.” He plunged into her moist femininity, straining to take more, give her more. “I can feel you. I’m going to give you what you need. Now!”
“Lucien!” she cried. “Oh, mercy . . . Oh, God!”
During her long, hoarse cry, he filled her with deep, savage thrusts. He felt her pulsate violently around him. Gnashing his teeth, he tried to stave off the climax enveloping him. But he could not. And no longer wanted to.
Spasms of pleasure ripped through his body. A blinding release shattered through him as he moved within her, spilling his energy, his lust—a part of his soul.
Slowly, he halted. His senses took in their perspiration-slick skin, the cadence of her heavy breaths, and his own. He felt dizz
y, spent.
A part of his dazed mind realized the implications of what had occurred: They had consummated their marriage, sealed their union. He resisted the illogical part of him that celebrated that fact. Maybe tonight would set the pattern, as he had so often hoped, for the nights to come. But should it, given the fact his desire for her was stronger than his resistance?
“Damn it,” he cursed and pushed himself away. He had lost complete control. Serena’s body, her touch, her female essence, drove him beyond logic, beyond thought.
He should have walked away before this happened, had even meant to. Taking her to his bed had always been his plan, but he had wanted to do so calmly, with purpose, on his terms and in his time. Succumbing to this mind-shattering need, reeling with the fervor of his ascent into earthly heaven, served no purpose but to give her power over him.
Nor could he ignore the fact she’d lied to him and planned to steal his child. But one simple touch, her fingers on his arm, set off shock waves of desire in his veins. Had she recoiled from him? Screamed in protest? No, she had accepted his touch, then ignited in his arms.
He wanted to blame his loss of control on his anger and lengthy abstinence. Those combined with her sultry scent, her lush body, and the sensuality she hid beneath her daily facade. But he could not; the blame was his alone. He had let his arousal guide his actions. He had lost control, like a fool.
Still shaking from the intensity of his climax, Lucien rose to his feet and fastened his breeches. He tore off his cravat, then readjusted his coat on his shoulders.
Serena rolled to her side, away from him, wrapping the rent edges of her nightrail around her like a protective blanket as she curled into a ball and wept.
He told himself not to be concerned about the lovely deceiver. In plotting to conceive and never share the news with him, it became clear that she had never considered his feelings about his child. The fact she had not shared her little plot with him sooner told him she still didn’t give a damn.
And probably never would.
Pain ripped through him as he stared at her shaking back. Some logical crevice of his mind recognized that Serena’s betrayal felt different. Ravenna’s had angered and humiliated him. Serena’s perfidy hurt much worse, like a red, festering wound, infected further by a sense of loss and hopelessness.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Had Serena bewitched him in some way Ravenna never had? That was the only logical answer, but hardly a comforting one.
“Damn it,” he cursed, his voice cracking.
Lucien crossed the floor to the door adjoining their rooms and opened it. Still Serena said nothing. He watched her back, heaving with sobs, and swore. He had to get away—now. Before he gave into the growing urge to comfort her, soothe her, then take her gently within the white cloud of her bed.
Gripping the door’s handle for support, Lucien crossed through the portal, into his room. He slammed the door between them.
Then he locked it.
****
Serena attempted to sleep, the soft mattress beneath her no lure to the night’s slumber. Through the door adjoining her room to Lucien’s, she could hear the impatient, odd rhythm of his pacing. Did thoughts of their heaven-hellish lovemaking keep him awake, as they did her?
She could no longer hide from the fact a parallel existed between her mother’s wanton behavior and her own. No matter how pure a life she had led until meeting Lucien, how good her intentions, she had failed. She succumbed to pleasures of the flesh, like Mama. In spite of Mama.
She lowered her head to her hands. Then there was her confession of Cyrus’s plot, which had been nothing short of a disaster. To most, using a man to father another’s heir would mean little. Many men, even Cyrus, had fathered children out of wedlock. But to a man who had suffered a child’s death, like Lucien, the plan no doubt ranked as an unthinkable deception.
His anger, his disappointment in her, could not be ignored. She knew Lucien would continue to protect her from Alastair’s evil intentions. She was, after all, the mother of his unborn child . . . and now the person he despised most.
His feelings toward her should not matter. They shared a name, and soon, a child. Nothing more. So why did his sentiments signify? His nights out, most likely spent in the arms of some mistress, should not bother her. Nor should the fact that he must think her a light-skirt after the way she had succumbed to his touch tonight.
But her heart caught, clenched when she thought of Lucien. His feelings did matter. What he did, who he spent his time with—all of that made a difference. He was in her life now; he was her future. But her feelings extended quite beyond that. Lucien made her feel.
Tonight, seeing the fury and scorn in his eyes, hearing him lock the door between them—it all hurt. Because she had hurt him.
Why? She did not love him or anything so foolish. Yet she had the irrational urge to stop fighting with him, to make everything right between them. To give in to his touch again.
****
Alastair flew out of the hack the minute it stopped on Butcher Row. Drawing the folds of his cloak around him to stave off the night’s chill, he stalked toward the flash house ahead.
As usual, Dirty Ed sat atop the stairs, bottle in hand. His whore Wanda sat beside him. They both smelled of unwashed bodies and gin.
“Where are Rollins and McCoy?” Alastair demanded.
The ruddy-faced man took a swill of gin, then said, “Ain’t here.”
Snatching the bottle from Dirty Ed’s hand, Alastair smashed it against the railing. The shattering of glass filled the silence left after Wanda’s gasp and Dirty Ed’s curse.
With a predatory snarl, Alastair lunged forward, grabbing Ed’s neck in one hand, and held the jagged edges of the bottle next to his cheek with the other. Ed stuttered nervously as he watched the shards of glass glitter dangerously in the moonlight.
“Are those two worth the pain of having your face carved like a piece of meat?”
Dirty Ed gave a small shake of his head, his pallor white.
“Good. Now where are they?”
“Inside,” he croaked. As Alastair headed for the East End hut’s door, Ed called, “They just came here to sleep a bit, is all.”
Alastair never answered.
“Dirty, bleedin’ cur,” he heard Ed mutter.
Alastair grinned and proceeded inside. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting of a single candle. He saw the torn sofa and the table missing a leg; he smelled the stale odor of alcohol and vomit. Stalking from the door he had entered, he found Rollins and McCoy stretched out on the floor, asleep in the squalor of vermin-filled blankets.
Refusing to touch their covers, Alastair instead kicked Rollins in the ribs. The man raised his head, his dark, greasy hair falling into his drink-reddened face.
“Guv,” he said in surprise. “What be ye doin’ here?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“Dicky and I needed a quick bottle o’ gin and some sleep. We was just going to stop for a sip and nap, and be off, honest. No one was going to find us.”
Alastair’s eyes narrowed. “Have you talked to a man named Clayborne? He’s the Marquess of Daneridge.”
Rollins sat up, rubbing red, dilated eyes. “No. We ain’t talked to no one. We kept quiet, just like ye told us.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Alastair rebutted. “In fact, it’s my understanding you’ve been bragging about finishing off a wealthy duke.”
“That’s a lie!” Rollins tipped his bottle upward and swallowed nervously. “I . . . I think Wanda out there might’ve heard Dickey and me talkin’, but by the saints, I didn’t tell no one.”
“And McCoy? Who has he been telling?” Alastair asked, his tone almost conversational.
Rollins glanced nervously at his sleeping companion. “You know Dickey. I think the bleedin’ fool told his brother. But no one else,” he assured hastily.
Alastair smiled politely. “Unfortunately, Dickey
’s brother likes to talk. What a shame for both of you,” he said.
From his boot, Alastair withdrew a knife.
****
In the solitude of his study, Lucien spread out the Times before him. He attempted to read it, as he did each morning. Today, concentration was impossible.
Serena filled his thoughts. The way she clung to him last night, groaned his name. Her scent haunted him with remembrances of her soft skin and trembling response.
Damn it, how could a woman who had planned to steal his child affect him so?
With resolve, he turned his mind away from his deceiving wife. He shouldn’t waste his thoughts on a woman who’d plotted to rob him of another chance at fatherhood. Yet knowing her dirty secret didn’t diminish his desire for her. If anything, the memory of her tight sex clenching around him in ardor as she accepted each and every one of his furious thrusts only made him want her more deeply than ever.
He doubted indulging that desire would be a sound notion. Tasting her again wouldn’t eradicate his ache for her. He knew that. If anything, he would only fall deeper under her spell.
He had to avoid that at all costs—until he could find a way to enjoy fucking her without completely losing his head. And eventually, his heart.
Lucien withdrew his pocket watch and noted it was well past nine in the morning. Serena was usually up and dressed by this hour. Was she ill? Had she left him?
Lucien hesitated, then rose from the sofa. He would check on her. Briefly, of course. She was his responsibility, after all. And although he had posted new guards at her door since this morning’s wee hours, the added precaution would not be remiss.
Before he could leave the room, Holford knocked, and Lucien bade him to enter.
The old servant stepped into the room. The stark black of his coat made his chalky, lined face look whiter than snow.
One Wicked Night Page 23