by Anne Stuart
She put her face back down, hiding. She liked the darkness better—then she could pretend that no one could see; no one could know. But he could see her quite clearly; he would know everything about her reaction to the things he did.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to touch that part of him that invaded her body, that part where all this desire seemed to be centered. But she didn’t want the light. She could do it in the dark, touch him, stroke him. The very thought was giving her pleasure, and she finally understood why he had put his mouth on her.
She lifted her head, still shy. “Could you put out the light?”
He laughed, but it was a gentle laugh, without the ironic edge he usually had. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to see you.”
“I’m more comfortable in the darkness,” she said miserably. He was so close, his cock was so near, and she wanted to touch it, but the light frightened her.
“Please,” she said.
“Sophie, we’re going to make love in the fields in the middle of the day, on the desk in my library, in the pool, on the floor of every damned room in this house and Renwick and every other house I own. I’m going to take you on the damned kitchen table, cover you with lemon sauce and whipped cream and then lick it off you. We may even try that here if I can get rid of the new cook. You’re going to have to get used to the light, because I want you, badly, and I can’t imagine ever not wanting you. I’ll take you every way I can, and in ways that haven’t been invented yet.”
His words only made it worse, this need to touch him. He was arousing her, deliberately, when she didn’t need the arousal; she was still so shaky from his mouth that she thought he only had to touch her and she would explode again.
She put her hand on his stomach, and he drew his breath in sharply. It was a flat stomach, golden from swimming in the sun, and there was a faint tracery of hair moving down into the drawers. She could see the shape of him, pushing against the fabric, and she felt some of her nervousness melt away.
Very slowly and carefully she put out her hand, as if she were approaching something dangerous, and touched him through the thin cloth.
He muttered something, closing his eyes, and she knew he liked it. What else would he like?
The buttons were strained tight over his erection, and she wanted to tear the clothing off as she’d ripped off her own dress, but she resisted. She glanced up at Alexander. He was leaning back, his eyes closed, tension rippling through him. Did he like this? Did he want her to do it?
It didn’t matter. She certainly hadn’t wanted him to do such a scandalous thing to her, and the feeling had been beyond anything she could imagine. She wanted to give him that same feeling; she wanted to see him, to touch him, to taste him.
She began to unbutton him, very carefully, starting from the bottom. When she finished, he sprang free, and Alexander groaned. His hand was on her shoulder, and he slipped it beneath her hair, cupping her neck, kneading it, calming her, arousing her.
She looked at his cock, studied it. It was totally different from the statues and paintings she’d peeked at. Those had been small, droopy things. This was huge—no wonder he had hurt her. His skin there was pale, and there were veins bulging around it. The top was smooth, round, with a drop of liquid on it. She put one finger to it, and it came away sticky. Interesting.
She encircled him with her hand, sliding it down over the veins, the skin sliding with her, and then she touched the sack beneath, gently, and he hissed out something.
But he held very still, and she took that as permission. She liked this part of him, this private part that no one else could see or touch. He took her hand and placed it back around him, and then moved it, showing her what he liked, and the heat blossomed again inside her. She rested her head on his stomach, watching his cock as they moved their hands together, up and down, up and down, and it seemed to grow even larger. He leaned back on the bed, his other hand kneading the back of her neck, and she felt him shiver in pleasure.
She lifted her head slightly, and his grip loosened, ready to release her. Or stop her, she wondered. She wanted this. Her body wanted this. At last she understood. She leaned forward and put her mouth on his cock.
He let out a string of such blasphemous profanity that she might have pulled away, but he’d tightened his hand on her neck, not forcing her, but holding her, caressing her, as she took him into her mouth, as much as she could, sucking on him, tasting the sweet flesh, letting her tongue run along the veins.
“Up and down.” His voice was hoarse. “Please, Sophie. Move your mouth.”
She smiled, triumph rushing through the erotic haze that surrounded her. She wanted everything; she wanted his pleasure to burst into her mouth so that she could drink it. She was pagan, wicked, and she sat up for a moment, ripping her shift as she yanked it over her head and threw it. She needed to be naked, she needed the light, she felt like an animal and she liked it.
She drew him into her mouth again, sucking hard, and his hands threaded through her hair, caressing her scalp, as she slid down to capture all of him that she could, so much that she wanted to choke on it, and then, sliding back up, her lips closed tightly around him.
She heard his guttural moan, and she felt it between her legs, a strange tightening when he wasn’t even touching her. She sank down again, taking a little bit more this time, and Alexander cried out. She could make him climax this way, she knew she could, and it was what she wanted. She sucked hard, up and down his shaft, never able to take it all but coming close, and she stopped thinking, lost in sensation, drowning in it, tasting it . . .
“No,” he cried in a hoarse voice, pulling her away as his hips bucked. He yanked her up beside him, collapsing back on the pillow, holding her there beside him while he tried to regain control.
“Why did you stop me?” she said, frustrated, needy. “I wanted to.”
“You don’t know what happens when I come. You’re too inexperienced for this.”
“I know what happens. I felt it on my stomach.” She thought for a moment. “Is it poisonous?”
His laugh was raw. “No. It’s harmless, and it’s a good way to avoid babies.”
She thought of his cock, hard, waiting. “I like babies,” she said.
He was silent a moment. “So do I.”
Everything was still for a moment. Could she risk it all, give him the ability to destroy her, break her heart? Ah, but she already had. This was nothing but admitting the truth she already knew, deep inside. And she suspected he knew it as well. “But we don’t have to have a baby immediately,” she said calmly. And she tried to dive back down.
He hauled her back. “You’re a very wicked girl, aren’t you?”
She considered it. “I think so, yes. Except you’re the wicked one. I don’t feel wicked except when I’m with you, so it must be your fault.”
“It must be,” he agreed, taking a deep breath, and he turned her underneath him. “I don’t want to come in your mouth, not this time. I want to fuck you; I want to come inside you, again and again, until you’re filled up with me. I want to fuck you until neither of us can move, and then when we’re rested I want to do it all over again. You’re mine, and I can do anything I want with you, as long as it pleases you. And it will. I promise.”
His hard body was pressing her into the mattress, and she tried to open her legs for him. She had never felt this way in her life, empty, needing.
“Not that way,” he said and turned her over onto her stomach, pulling her on her hands and knees. She could feel him behind her, the rounded top of his cock pressing against her, rubbing her wetness around them both, and she pushed her hips back, needing him inside her.
He began to slide into her, but this time there was no pain. Just a tightness as he pushed in, slowly, and tilted her hips back, trying to get more.
He had his hands on her hips, holding her still as he sank into her, and his pace was driving her mad. “Do it,” sh
e said hoarsely. “Now.”
It seemed to break whatever hold he had on himself. He thrust all the way into her, deep and hard, and it felt so good, so necessary, and she exploded once more, her body clamping down around that part that she’d taken into her mouth so lovingly, ripples of reaction shaking her.
She felt his hands cover her breasts, and when he pinched them lightly the last bit of her mind vanished. She howled and sank down into the bedclothes, covering her head with her arms as he began to thrust inside her, hard, so hard, so gloriously hard. “More,” she said, though she didn’t even know what she wanted.
But he knew. He was moving faster now, harder, the hands on her breasts holding her in place, keeping her from being flattened by his heavy thrusts. She clawed at the sheets, so lost in pleasure she was aware of nothing but Alexander with his body around her, inside her, thrusting, and she climaxed again, so lost that when she wanted to scream nothing came out. It was just them joining together, sweat and fluids and love and mess and nothing mattered but his arms around her, his cock still thrusting back and forth inside her as the night shattered around them both, and she felt him spill inside her. And she was gone.
When he finally pulled away she felt the loss of him so keenly that she wanted to weep. She couldn’t, of course. She never cried.
She collapsed flat on her stomach on the bed, and he covered her, his much-bigger body pushing her down into the bedclothes.
He was like a hot, heavy blanket on top of her, and she loved it. It didn’t matter that he was so much heavier than she was; she wanted to sink into him, be a part of him, dissolve into nothingness and let him absorb her. Crazy ideas kept flitting through her head, thoughts that belonged in the darkness that he’d brought to light. He lifted off her and turned her over, pulling her into his arms, so tightly that air couldn’t get between their sweat-soaked bodies. He pulled one of her legs over his hip to get her closer, and she collapsed into him, as the last, final shudder racked her body. She wanted to stay this way forever, full of him, replete. Everything felt so right, for the first time in her life. This was where she belonged. With Alexander, who didn’t love her.
She pushed the thought from her mind—she pushed everything out of her mind, concentrating on his sleek skin, his arms tight around her, the pounding of his heart as it slowly returned to normal. She listened for the heartbeats, ba-thump, ba-thump, and then she fell sound asleep.
Alexander looked down at her. She’d fallen asleep—she was exhausted, poor baby, and he’d made it worse. If he had to use sex to keep her with him then he’d gladly make the sacrifice, but the truth was he could have sex with anyone. He wanted only Sophie.
She could learn to care for him. He had to count on that. By coming in here she had accepted his offer, no, his demand. She would marry him, and she would learn to love him.
They had fucked, they had rutted, they had made love. Had Rufus heard them? Knowing Rufus, he would have been listening if he could. It didn’t matter. Rufus would find his own way in the world—he always had several schemes going. The last one, whatever it was, obviously hadn’t worked out too well, but Rufus was his brother, not his responsibility, and nothing to worry about. Rufus’s monstrous mother was a different matter.
But he wasn’t going to think of Adelia when Sophie was lying naked in his arms. He didn’t think he’d seen anything more erotic than the way she’d ripped off her chemise before taking his cock in her mouth. He still couldn’t believe she’d done that. He was getting hard again—in fact, he hadn’t come down completely from the first time. But he would let her sleep. He would hold her in his arms, smell the scent of roses mixed with sex, and dream about all the things they could do together.
Perhaps lick hollandaise sauce from her stomach and then carry her sticky body out to the pool and take her again. The possibilities were endless.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RUFUS VOMITED. HE HADN’T wanted to, but the rage and betrayal were twisting his insides, and he had no choice. He’d heard them. Alexander would know that he’d heard them. Alexander, whom he’d worshiped for so long, Alexander, whom he killed for, stole for, all so his idol could have the perfect life.
She’d warned him. She’d told him he’d be untrustworthy, but Rufus hadn’t listened, and now he was vomiting his betrayal into a waste bin.
He knew what he had to do, and he wouldn’t hesitate again. He’d planned to wait until all the extraneous details were dealt with, but the two Russell sisters had survived. It didn’t matter. His mother would know how to deal with it, once he finished what she’d planned. He would lure the Russell girl onto the roof, and suspicion would fall on Alexander.
He’d idolized his brother for so long, loved him so much he’d been determined to be like him. He hadn’t liked other people interfering, and the first time he’d killed had been surprisingly easy. Not that he’d planned to drown his father—he’d been caught in a strong current and his father had jumped in after him. Holding the old man under the water had been almost too easy, and it meant he no longer had to share Alexander’s attention with anyone.
Jessamine had had to die for any number of reasons, chief among them that she couldn’t be allowed to bear Alexander an heir. It would cut Rufus out of any chance of ascending to the title, and his mother had no plans to ever let that happen. Rufus had been more than happy to do her bidding, and it had been easy enough to lure Jessamine up onto the battlements. She’d had a crush on him, and he’d nurtured it, and one little slip had taken care of things.
But Alexander wasn’t the man Rufus had thought he was. He made mistakes; he was troubled by ridiculous concerns like honor. The Russell girl had bewitched him, and there would be another wife to be gotten rid of. It was getting too complicated. His idol had fallen, and there was only one solution. He would have to take his place.
Rufus wasn’t as strong as his brother, particularly since the accident, but he could still manage to take care of things. Alexander trusted Rufus enough to get close, and a bullet in the brain at point-blank could easily be arranged to look like a suicide. He was adept at forging Alexander’s name—he’d been doing it for years on debts and bank cheques. A note expressing his guilt and despair over committing a second murder would raise no troubling questions.
He would slip into Alexander’s life perfectly. Once, long ago, he had worshiped his older brother. Maybe he still did. But that was weakness. His mother thought he could take Alexander’s place. No, he could become Alexander. If he did, Alexander would live on, in him, and he would feel no guilt. It would be . . . glorious.
Sophie was alone when she woke. Of course she was. Cautiously opening her eyes, she looked around her. No sign of him. She buried her face in the pillow as mortification overcame her.
What had she done? She’d been an animal last night, worse than the basest whore. She had wanted him so badly that nothing else mattered. How could she have done such things?
She moaned into the pillow, then jerked her head away. It smelled like him. That lovely, subtle scent of skin and wool and leather, and she felt a tightening deep down, and she wanted him again. She wanted to do the same things with him, the shameful, secret things; she wanted to stay locked in this bedroom for days and never leave the bed or him.
But he had left her. The one thing she’d wanted was to wake in his arms. She’d wanted words, not the hot, sexual words he’d used, but words of love. Or at least affection. And he’d said nothing.
He’d held her as she fell asleep, her practical mind argued. He hadn’t left the bed. But then, each time she’d awakened he’d been hard and she’d been eager, so eager that she was sore between her legs. So in truth, he’d stayed with her only as long as he could tup her, and when it was morning he’d left.
But he’d stayed . . . no, she couldn’t look for something that wasn’t there. The man was an inexplicable mix of ridiculous honor and undeniable lust. Who would have thought she’d prefer the lust part of him?
She sat
up. Bright light was filtering in through the curtains—she had no idea what time it was. Everything was topsy-turvy, nothing made any sense, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it or weep. She would do neither. She would get up, bathe and dress, and move on with her life. Which would include walking out that front door, barefoot if she must. She couldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her. Not when she was so desperately in love with him.
She climbed out of bed, and every muscle, including unexpected ones, protested. Her shift was her first priority. She remembered what she’d done with it, and she groaned again. And then she saw the silk dressing gown that lay on the end of the bed.
She slipped it on, then almost pulled it off again. It was like wrapping herself in Alexander. The Dark Viscount, she’d called him, because of his reputation, his looks, his saturnine demeanor. It had been a stupid name, one born of childish imaginings. But she wasn’t a child anymore; she had seen to that. She could have pulled herself together after the night at Renwick, even after the interlude in the carriage. But now she would never be the same.
She didn’t care, she thought, straightening her shoulders. If she had to do it all over again she would. She wouldn’t trade her putative future with an ancient, wealthy lord for a moment of last night. She could spend the rest of her life in someone’s kitchen, perfectly happy with her memories and the pleasure of creating glorious things to eat.
She shoved the sleeves of the dressing gown up, but they slid down again, and she had to pick up the hem so she wouldn’t trip on it. The door to her room was ajar, and she went in, moving a little slowly.
A strange maid was standing there, folding delicate, lace-trimmed underclothing, and for one heart-stopping moment Sophie was afraid the girl was packing for her. Alexander had changed his mind—he refused to marry such a wanton. But the girl smiled and bobbed a curtsey as she tucked the clothing into the large armoire, and Sophie wanted to smack herself. She wanted him to change his mind, didn’t she? To admit the truth, that he didn’t care for her.