by Annie Stuart
He was amused. “Do I?”
“Of course you do.” Now she could be acerbic with no effort. “You carry yourself that way, like a man who knows his own worth and recognizes his value. You stroll and swagger and move like a pirate surveying his prey.”
He let out a hoot of laughter as the snowy white shirt fell onto the floor. “And just how many pirates are numbered among your acquaintance?” he asked politely.
She wanted to come up with a clever response, but the sight of all that bare flesh momentarily silenced her. Until he reached for the fastenings of his breeches, and she let out a strangled cry. “Don’t!”
A look of irritation crossed his face. “Sweet Charity, if I wait much longer to shuck my breeches I’ll have a damned hard time getting them off. It’s not as if you’re a virgin. You’ve seen a man naked before.”
“No, I haven’t.”
He paused, then shook his head in disbelief. “It’s little wonder you have no idea what you want. Your initiation has been criminally botched.”
“My husband was elderly,” she said, trying for dignity. “And ill, besides.”
“Then why did you marry him?”
“He was my only choice.”
He looked even more incredulous. “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “The men of London aren’t all such blind idiots.”
He couldn’t have said anything more certain to soothe her ravaged pride. “I don’t think my aunt would have lied to me. I didn’t have any money, I was far too serious and I didn’t take. I was lucky to get Sir Thomas.”
“Sir Thomas had thirty thousand pounds a year, and he would have made a generous settlement on your cousin as well as yourself. If anyone less plump in the purse came along I expect she would have sent them about their business.”
“She wouldn’t have!” Melisande gasped.
Benedick sat in a chair by the fire and proceeded to pull off his shoes and stockings. “You are still astonishingly naive,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Next thing you’ll be insisting that I don’t want you.”
That was enough to bring her head up. “I am fully aware that you feel a certain physical response to my proximity,” she began. “But I also know that anyone can arouse that reaction in a male—it means nothing.”
His smile was grim. “I’m not that easy, my precious. I prefer my bed partners adventurous and experienced. You’re going to be hard work and nothing but trouble.”
“Then why don’t you unlock the door?” she snapped.
“Because you’ll be worth it.” His voice was soft then, and he rose, pinched out the candle by the chair and approached the bed.
“I don’t…”
“Stop talking, Melisande,” he said, sliding his hands behind her neck and cupping her chin with his thumbs. “We’ve already wasted too much time.” He put his mouth against hers, and this was no sweet salute, no soft seduction. With the pressure of his thumbs he pushed her mouth open beneath his, and she felt his tongue against her, tasted him, dark and hot and sweet.
She should argue. She should fight. She did neither. She lifted her arms and slid them around his neck, dancing into his kiss. He pulled her down on the bed, covering her, and the feel of his hot skin against her hands was a shocking intimacy. His fingers brushed her throat, and the collar of her night robe began to part. He moved his mouth away from her, down the line of her jaw to the hollow of her throat, heated breath warming her as he slowly unfastened the row of tiny buttons that usually took her so long to fasten, his mouth lazily following the exposed flesh.
She still had the covers around her, and he pulled them away, pushing them off her. The heat from the fire had begun to fill the room, and she closed her eyes, feeling his mouth on her skin. His hands moved up and covered her breasts, and she jumped, momentarily startled, then subsided as he stroked her, slowly, into a kind of dazed submission.
She was doing this, she was really going to do this, she thought. Her nipples hardened against his fingers, and the sharp intensity of the pleasure was almost painful. He was watching her, rubbing his thumbs back and forth across her breasts, and the feeling burned straight down to that place between her legs.
“Don’t,” she gasped, afraid of the sensation.
“Don’t be absurd, my pet. This is simply pleasure. You need to learn to get used to it.”
She sucked in her breath, wanting to squirm. “It’s…uncomfortable.”
He laughed. “Sex isn’t about comfort. At least, not what lies between you and me. It’s hot and hard and aching, and it won’t feel better until we’re finished.”
“Then why do it?” she whispered dizzily.
He smiled. “Because it feels so good.” And he set his mouth against her breast, sucking at her, and she let out a strangled cry.
It was too much. And it was not enough. He’d pushed the nightgown open to expose her breasts, and the sight of his head down against her, drawing her into his mouth made that ache grow stronger still. He put his hand on her other breast, his fingers dark against the pure white of her skin, plucking at her, and she let out a long, low wail as the burning grew hotter, harder.
He lifted his head to look at her. “Touch me,” he whispered. “Put your hands on me.”
She realized she’d been lying there like a virgin bride, clutching the sheets in her fists. She released them, slowly lifting her hands to touch his shoulders. They were rock hard with tension, and there was no shirt to cling to, only warm, smooth flesh. He seemed satisfied, though, and lowered his mouth again, this time to her other nipple, and she wanted to cry out, to beg him. She didn’t, because she had no idea what she’d beg him for.
He pulled his mouth back, and ran his tongue across the distended peak, causing her to gasp in reaction. And then he blew on the dampness, cool in the heated air, and her fingers dug into his shoulders as she squirmed on the mattress in mindless need.
“Let’s get this over and done with,” he muttered, climbing off the bed to reach for the fastening of his breeches.
She didn’t plan to look. She knew she should be curious, but both Thomas and Wilfred had been so secretive about their…rods that she suspected there was something shameful about them. But Benedick had already stripped, and it was too late to look away. She simply stared in awe.
He was magnificent. His torso and legs were long and lean, muscled and strong. He didn’t have the thick mat of hair that had covered seemingly every inch of her husband’s body. His chest was smooth, with just a bit of hair in the middle, moving in a line down below his waist, setting off the jutting erection he somehow thought was going to fit inside her.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re too big.”
He laughed then. “There’s something to be said for having such an ingenuous lover. Merci du compliment. It will fit.”
She opened her mouth to protest but he simply silenced her with his tongue, climbing onto the bed beside her, and started pushing off the rest of the nightgown.
“You really want me naked?” she whispered, still uncertain.
“I really want you naked,” he said, moving his mouth to the sensitive skin between her neck and shoulder, biting her gently as his hands divested her of the voluminous nightgown. And now they were both naked in the bed, and she knew there really was no going back.
It should have frightened her. Instead it empowered her, and she reached up to touch his long, thick hair, as she’d wanted to do countless times before, letting her fingers sift through the silk strands, wishing she could bring it to her mouth, to taste it.
His mouth was moving down, kissing her, licking her, biting her, and she arched up in delight, wanting something, not sure what it was.
“For God’s sake, would you please touch me?” he said in a strangled voice.
She blinked. “But I am touching you.”
“I mean my cock.”
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. He took her hand, drawing it down his chest, and she shiv
ered in delight, entranced with the feel of his hot skin. And then he placed it around him, the hard, silken part of him, and she tried to pull her hand away in sudden shyness.
He held her there, wrapping his fingers around hers, so that she had no choice. She cupped him, and he drew their hands up and down the rigid length of him, and she heard him groan in pleasure.
“How do you feel?” he whispered in her ear, his voice rough.
She was so caught up in the feel of him that it took her a moment. “Afraid,” she said finally. “A little bit.”
“And…?”
“And restless. Needy. Wanting,” she said, shocked at herself.
He kissed her. “That’s good. Anything else?” He kept moving their hands in unison.
“And…and wet,” she said, knowing she was blushing. The one candle that still burned offered little illumination, just enough to embarrass her.
He smiled then, and kissed her again, full and openmouthed. “Good… You’ve had me hard for days. It’s only fair that I should make you wet.”
“But…but…”
His hand released hers, but she didn’t let go. Instead her grip loosened and her fingertips touched him, glanced across the hot skin, the rigid, protruding veins, the flared head. It still seemed mysterious, but as she let her fingers learn him she felt reaction shudder through his strong body.
He moved then, pulling away from her, lying on his side next to her, watching her out of hooded eyes. She had the sudden fear that she’d hurt him, offended him, but the intent look on his face made her skin heat.
“Relax, sweet Charity,” he said softly. “I’m just going to make sure you’re ready.” His hand covered her stomach, warm and strong, and she shivered in response, as he moved it down, between her legs, his fingers slipping through the curls, into the wetness, and he closed his eyes, smiling. “Oh, my precious, you most definitely are ready. I had so many other things in mind, but I’m afraid I’m simply going to have to take you now. I’ll have to lick you another time.”
“But you did. My breasts.”
“Not there,” he said, brushing against her hard nipples. “Here.” And his fingers slid inside her.
She arched up in shock, crying out. He stroked her, slowly, spreading the wetness around, and then he moved between her legs, and she tensed, knowing what was coming, knowing it was going to be miserable.
The touch of him against her silenced her, stilled her. She was trembling, trying to hide it, but lying naked beneath a man made subterfuge almost impossible. “I’ll stop if it hurts you,” he said, pushing against her. “We’ll go slow. Just tell me how it feels.”
She trusted him. She’d forgotten that salient point—she trusted him. She nodded, unable to speak, bracing herself, and his smile was so sweet it almost shattered her. “No, my love. This isn’t a torture chamber. Relax.”
“I c-c-can’t,” she stammered, shivering despite the warm of the air.
“I’ll help.” And leaning forward, he bit the top of her breast, just hard enough to shock her into loosening her muscles. At that he pushed into her, so hard, so big, and she should tell him to stop, tell him that it hurt.
And it did hurt. Just a little bit. So little that the pain was almost a kind of pleasure, and she shifted, lifting her hips, needing more of him.
“Am I hurting you?” His mouth was against her ear.
“More,” she said, her voice ragged. “Please. More.”
He held himself still for a moment, and then he pushed, slid deep, filling her, and she cried out, arching against him, taking him.
He began to thrust, slowly at first, watching her, and she knew he was afraid of hurting her. She wanted to scream at him, to demand, to beg. Did she want him to leave her body? Did she want him to slam into her? She needed something, so desperately, and she didn’t know how to reach it.
His hands cupped her hips, angling them. He continued to thrust, ignoring her efforts to speed him, slow and hard and deep, each push one more claim on her body, and she felt the darkness began to bubble beneath her skin, felt the need blossom and grow and spread through her body, reaching every inch of her skin, tiny pinpricks of reaction. It wasn’t too late, she thought desperately. She could make him stop. She didn’t have to go to this terrifying place he was taking her, where nothing existed but the man inside her, their bodies joined, sweating, slapping together. There was no escape, she didn’t want to escape, but she kept fighting, pushing it away.
“Stop it, Melisande,” he growled in her ear. “Take it. Claim it.”
“No,” she sobbed.
“Take it,” he said again, hard inside her, slamming into her so that the bed shook and her body trembled and she knew she would break apart, and she couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop…
She froze, as an endless, keening delight stiffened her body and tore away the last of her defenses. She felt him cry out, spill inside her, and she welcomed it all, the wet heat of his seed, the shaking of his body, the crazy-mad delight that caught her in its grip, so tightly she thought she would never unravel.
And then it loosened its hold, and she fell back on the bed, panting, weeping, taken and destroyed. He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, and she could still feel him inside her; she still shivered around him in her fading response.
He released her then, rolling to his side, and she was suddenly so cold. Covered in ice, she thought dizzily, knowing she had to get away. She’d been wrong, he’d been right. This was a terrible idea. Because she’d needed him too much, and the having, and the letting go, were too painful.
She wondered if her legs would support her if she tried to get out of bed. Men fell asleep afterward, didn’t they? How long could she safely wait?
And then, to her surprise, he pulled her into his arms, tucking her close against him. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said sleepily. “We’ve only just begun.”
She didn’t question him. She would stay there as long as he’d have her. Lie in his arms to the break of day and beyond. Anything he wanted.
And while she waited for him to fall asleep, she drifted off herself, lost in exhausted oblivion.
26
Benedick lay on his back in the slowly gathering dawn. His body felt so richly sated that any move on his part would require superhuman effort, and he had no intention of attempting it. He felt…he could think of no adequate word for it. Confused was inadequate, shattered too emotional when he was a man who eschewed emotions. He lay in his own bed, the bed he’d never shared with anyone, and listened to her breathe, deep in sleep. He’d worn her out, as he’d planned to. He’d taken her to places she had no idea existed, again and again. He’d taken her hard, he’d taken her fast. He’d made love to her with heartbreaking tenderness. She was the one who was supposed to be shattered.
Instead she slept, and he lay beside her, his mind in turmoil.
Damn her. He should have simply shagged her the first chance he had, and those occasions had been numerous. He’d recognized the sensuous nature beneath her practical exterior, and it would have taken very little effort to have her and then dismiss her. He had no interest in a long-term mistress, and there was no reason why he should be hard again after last night, wanting her, unaccountably furious with her for sleeping so soundly.
He forced himself to move, slipping from the bed and heading into his dressing room. The dim light from the early dawn gave just enough light for him to see her discarded clothes on the slipper chair, and he gathered them up once he’d pulled on his thick wool banyan. He came back into the now-chilly bedroom and looked down at her.
She looked like a child, an innocent, sweetly sleeping, though he knew for a fact that she had to be at least thirty years of age. Even if he were insane enough to consider marrying she would be the last person he would choose. She was too old to be of prime childbearing age, and since she’d spent ten years of married life without conceiving she was most likely barren. His only r
eason for considering marriage was to provide an heir, and Melisande Carstairs wasn’t the way to do it.
He was better off with her as far away as possible. There was no earthly reason for the sex to have been as disturbing as it was. She had no skills, no experience; he’d had to coax her and please her when he was used to being the one who needed to be pleased. She was simply wrong; he’d always known it, and the impossible hours they’d just passed simply proved it.
And the longer he stared down at her, the harder he became.
He dumped the clothes on top of her, and she awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented. She sat up, realized she was naked and quickly pulled her discarded clothes against her body, covering herself. Her eyes narrowed as she saw him, and a rich color rose to her cheeks, suffusing them, and he could see her mouth, soft, tremulous, uncertain.
“I would suggest you dress and return home before it’s full light,” he said, his voice clipped and distant.
“Why?”
Damn the woman! Didn’t she know a dismissal when she heard one? He needed her dressed and out of there, before he changed his mind and threw away everything he’d planned so carefully.
“I wouldn’t want the gaggle to jump to any conclusions.”
“What kind of conclusions might they jump to?”
He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and hold her still while he kissed her. “That this was anything more than a momentary lapse on your part and a mistake on mine. I’ve done my duty, aided in your education, and now you’re free to apply that knowledge in a more suitable direction.”
She was very still. No expression crossed her face, but then, she was good at hiding her reactions. He wondered if that was pain in her dark blue eyes. If so, that was a good thing. It would make the lesson stick.
“Indeed,” she said finally. “Have you already taught me everything you know?”
It was a worthy comeback, and he fought his admiration. “All that you’re capable of assimilating. I believe I made myself clear. If there was a chance in hell I’d ever find myself harboring any kind of feelings for you I wouldn’t have succumbed to the very ripe temptation you offered. Awkwardness and enthusiasm is an interesting change now and then, and I won’t deny I enjoyed myself, but in general I prefer a more sophisticated pleasure. Go find some earnest young man who’ll share your charitable activities and leave me alone.”