His arm felt so hard and strong under her thighs and she wiggled against its sinewy length as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, indulging the very impulse she’d been denying herself. She burrowed her nose into his neck with a force that sent him stumbling. He stopped when he hit the book-lined walls.
“What—” he stammered, “are you—”
She growled, tightening her arms around his shoulders and nuzzling deeper into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He smelled so good.
His hand at her back tightened, fisting into the fabric of her nightgown. “What are you . . .”
Her tongue darted out, tasting him.
All of him froze. Air hissed out from between his lips.
That didn’t stop her, however.
Her outrageous behavior didn’t even bother her. There were stronger things at play right now. Greater forces. Gale-wind forces she could not resist.
She tasted more of him, licking, then closing her lips and sucking, pressing against him, seeking pressure.
Her throbbing body needed the weight of him, against her, over her, in her.
She didn’t understand it, but she knew. Intuitively, she knew.
Rubbing against him made it both better and worse. Worse because the more she rubbed, the more pressure she needed. She couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t enough.
She twisted and writhed against him. He let go of her legs. She slid down his length with a sigh. Better. All of her could feel him now. His bigger, taller body was aligned with hers.
She pinned him in place, moving and grinding against him wildly, her hands clawing at him. He wasn’t wearing his jacket. Only his waistcoat. She growled in displeasure and seized it in both hands, ripping it open, sending buttons flying.
He cursed, but she kept moving, a fury of motion, her hands sliding under the fine lawn of his shirt so that she could feel his skin.
“Bloody hell. You’re in heat, woman.”
The words didn’t give her pause.
Nothing did.
Nothing could.
She was all frenzied motion. He slid to the floor and she went with him, straddling his lap.
Ahhhh. Yes. This.
She wrestled her nightgown up to her hips until her bare sex was sitting atop his crotch. His manhood bulged beneath the fabric of his trousers.
“Christ,” he gasped, his eyes wide on her. “You’re wet.”
She didn’t know what that meant.
She only knew that her womanhood felt swollen, and she might perish if she didn’t answer the pulling throb.
She flattened a hand against the edge of a bookshelf near his ear and pushed herself down on his hardness with a strangled sob. Yes. That helped.
She moved more, grinding against him until she was riding that bulging swell.
Clumsily. Without skill, but hard and fast and with the single-minded purpose of alleviating the hurt. Feeding the ache. Although it was a good ache now. A sweet pain. A beautiful torment. She understood that now. She knew how to satisfy it, and it was by doing this.
He cursed again, watching her in awe. His hands settled on her hips and she covered them with her own hands, forcing him to squeeze her through the nuisance folds of her nightgown.
Her body didn’t need gentle. It needed satisfaction, and gentle wouldn’t achieve that.
“What are you?” he muttered in an awe-tinged voice.
She arched, pressing her breasts into his chest, loathing the barrier of clothing between them. Her skin burned and demanded skin-to-skin contact. The graze of material on her breasts aggravated, chafed and irritated her, taunting and stinging her flesh.
She let go of his hands and went for the wide neckline of her nightgown, wrenching the fabric low so that her breasts popped free.
His eyes glowed with a feral light as they feasted on her, gazing at her like she was a five-course meal and he a starving man.
He groaned as her hands molded to the small mounds, squeezing and fondling as she worked her hips over him. She found her nipples, noticing with a sharp gasp that the distended tips were tender. She seized them and twisted the tender peaks. A rush of moisture sprang between her legs directly where she most pulsed and she released a keening cry.
His hand flew to her mouth, his long fingers covering her lips. “Shh.” His gaze darted for the library door.
Even the hard hand on her mouth excited her.
She bucked and rocked on his bulging crotch, reveling in the friction. The harder and faster she moved against him, the greater the ache grew, pulsing, clamoring, demanding relief.
A full-body tremble started to overtake her.
“That’s it.” He nodded once, his voice tight, as strained as his expression. “You’re close, sweet girl. Take what you need.”
His words were like their own caress—touching something hidden deep inside her.
She let go then, screaming into his palm, the sound muffled as she shuddered over him, all the coiling tightness in her body snapping.
She slowed, stilling over him, her scream dying against his hand.
He eased his hand from her mouth, his fingers trailing down her throat in a fiery burn.
Their eyes were on perfect level with each other, and even in the shadows she could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, peering so deeply at her. The astonishment was still there—as it had been ever since she first started climbing all over him.
Oh, no! What had she done?
To the duke’s stepbrother, no less!
She was betrothed to be married . . . and she’d just attacked a strange man as though she were an animal in heat, just as he had claimed.
Heat swamped her, but this time it was shame and not the ache of desire. Bone-deep shame.
She’d never kissed a man—not even Billy—but she had just mounted this man and rode him like a well-seasoned female. Goodness! Her breasts! Her hands shot to her gaping neckline, tugging it back up over her bared and tender breasts.
He glanced down and then looked away, as though he, too, were embarrassed. And that only made her feel more shamed.
“My a-apologies,” she muttered, clambering off him in horror, lifting her hands away so as not to touch him again. Her gaze dropped to his crotch and she froze, a fresh wave of mortification rippling through her as she saw the evidence of their tryst in the form of a wet spot directly over his crotch.
It was all too awful. A living nightmare. No. Worse than a nightmare. She’d lacked the knowledge or experience to even dream up such a thing. She had no idea the pleasure that could be had between a woman and a man in such a way. That it could be so profound. That it could shatter her so completely.
Such wicked abandon had only just now been revealed to her.
Naturally Billy was too much of a gentleman to attempt anything improper. And up until tonight she had been too virtuous to engage in licentious activities.
He followed her gaze, looking down at himself where she’d left her mark on him.
She didn’t wait for him to look back at her face. Hopefully she would be gone before she had to endure that.
She shot to her feet, smoothing her nightgown down her shaking legs and tossing back the loose strands from her face. Her plait had come loose and the long strands were a wild nimbus about her.
Her body hummed pleasantly. A dull throb remained, but nothing like before. Nothing like when she had attacked him, mounted him and worked herself to a shuddering climax.
The torment had subsided and the pulling, persistent ache had fled. Vanishing like smoke. There was that at least.
She exhaled, glad for that relief. She was not dead after all.
She only wished she was dead as she felt his gaze pinned tightly on her.
He pushed up to his feet, drawing attention to the fact that he stood several inches taller than Charlotte, and she wasn’t a short female. She was the tallest of her sisters. They might have more meat on their bones and flattering curves (never could they clai
m to possess a small bosom), but she stood several inches over both of them. In fact, she stood several inches over most of the men in her acquaintance.
But not him.
This man was big. She herself had felt just how strong he was when she’d used his sinewy body to satisfy her needs. Even straddling him, riding him, swept away in her own desires, she’d been acutely aware of the size and breadth of him beneath her.
What had come over her? She could not fathom it.
The day had started out as any other. When she’d felt the warning twinges of her menses coming, she had taken Nora’s tonic—like she had done dozens of times.
Except the tonic was not the same one she had taken dozens of times.
She twisted her fingers together until they felt numb, bloodless. “I . . . um. I don’t know what came over me. Please don’t speak of it to anyone.”
His expression hardened then. “It’s not my custom to carry tales of my dalliances.”
Dalliance.
It seemed such a small word. Insignificant. Paltry. It certainly did not convey the magnitude of what just transpired—the betrayal she had just perpetrated against her betrothed.
She nodded jerkily, blinking against her stinging eyes. She would not cry. She would not cry.
The hardness eased somewhat from his features as he considered her. “Are you . . . well?”
No. Clearly, she was not well.
She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. Only moments ago she had thought she was dying. Now she was alive. She would cling to that.
Not dead was good. Not dead was everything. Even if she had behaved abominably.
No. She had not done anything wrong. It was all Nora’s doing. She could not fault herself. She had been under duress. The tonic, the agony had compelled her to act so wantonly.
It was the tonic. It was not Charlotte.
And it would never happen again.
“Th-thank you for your discretion.” Turning then, she fled before she could say or do anything more damaging.
It was difficult to imagine what she might do to surpass her actions of this night, but she did not trust herself. She did not know if she was free of Nora’s elixir. She would take nothing for granted.
She hastened to her bedchamber and flung herself down on her bed, and there, in the privacy of her room, with her face buried in the counterpane, she wept.
Her body still hummed with the aftermath of her release.
She sniffed back her tears, dashing them off her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Unbidden, her hand crept down her body to press between her legs. The ache was still there, a dull, pulsing throb now. It didn’t feel like clamoring death anymore, but it was still there. Hopefully it would soon fade.
She supposed she should be grateful that Kingston had not taken advantage of her vulnerability and ravished her. In her condition, she would not have protested. No, it had been the opposite. She had ravished him. He had permitted her advances but made none of his own, simply let her use him for her own titillation.
Charlotte stared into the darkness, wondering what her blasted sister had put into that wretched tonic this time around.
Nora had admitted to experimenting with it. In her quest to make it better, a more effective form of pain alleviation, she had toyed with it. Blast the girl! She should have left well enough alone. She’d meddled with the usual cordial and created a tonic that had turned Charlotte into some feral creature.
She fell back in bed, half determined to go wrench that sister of hers from her bed by the hair. That would give her maybe some satisfaction.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to have words with her—and any necessary hair-pulling. Right now she didn’t want to brave the corridor again. Not after the last time. Even if her body seemed to be under her control again, she would keep to her chamber and her own bed until morning.
No one would get seduced that way.
Chapter 5
It was at least half an hour before Kingston found the energy to make his way back to his room. It took him that long to gather his thoughts and composure. That long to even find the will to make his legs function.
He had lingered in the library, staring at the cracked door through which Miss Charlotte Langley had fled.
Fled was no exaggeration. The lass had run from the library after stammering out an apology. An apology?
Kingston could make no sense of it.
What had just happened?
The girl had attacked him. That, too, was not an exaggeration. One moment he had been helping her to her feet and the next thing he knew she was straddling him and riding him like a Tattersalls racehorse. She took her pleasure without requiring anything from him—well, aside of his body. His fully clothed body. He could not recall a time in his life when a woman had ever so greedily used him so that she could achieve her own release.
Most surprising of all, perhaps? He had not minded one bit.
That was some shock. He’d been abstinent for over a year and was just fine with his status. He was not at all determined to end his streak of self-denial.
No female had tempted him to steer off his course. He could scarcely even remember the last woman to share his bed. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss women.
At least he’d thought that was the case.
Clearly a certain female had changed his position on the matter.
The female he’d encountered in the corridor hardly resembled his dinner companion from earlier. The Miss Charlotte Langley who sat across from him at the dinner table had not piqued his interest—at least not in a carnal fashion. She’d hardly spoken at all, and when she had opened her mouth to talk he’d almost fallen asleep in his soup from boredom. He’d thought her insipid. There was no hint of passion under her starchy veneer.
How wrong he had been.
Upon returning to his chamber, he undressed himself, pausing to admire the damage she’d done to his waistcoat. That was the last he’d see of those buttons.
She was a bewildering creature, without a doubt.
He stretched his length out in bed, tucking his arm behind his head. He doubted sleep would come any time soon. His thoughts were alive with her . . . as was his cock. He reached down to adjust himself. It did no good. He was still hard. For her. For a chit he’d dismissed as dull only hours ago.
Yes, she might bewilder him, but he knew one thing.
He was not leaving tomorrow.
Charlotte did not know how long she slept. She woke suddenly, lurching upright, her body feverishly hot. The bedchamber was still dark. She slid from her bed and padded barefoot to the window. Parting the drapes, she observed it was still dark outside, but there was a faint purpling to the air. Dawn was close.
Her belly twisted and she gasped, clutching the window frame for support.
Oh, no! Not again.
The fiery arousal was back. Or perhaps it had never fully gone away. Perhaps her encounter with Kingston had granted her only a reprieve from it. That shattering release hadn’t cured her of anything . . . it had merely appeased the beast for a time, and the beast had returned.
Moaning, she paced the length of her room, but it did nothing to help. The throbbing was so intense. The heat made her want to rip off her clothes . . . dive into a frigid pool of water.
The pond.
No one was awake yet. She could slip from the house without anyone noticing. She quickly undressed and delved into the back of her wardrobe for one of her simple dresses. One of the plain frocks she owned before she’d moved into the duke’s house following her sister’s marriage—before she was granted a new wardrobe.
Dressed humbly, feeling more herself in that regard (if not in the terrible arousal twisting like a serpent through her), she fled the house, departing via the back servants’ stairs. Thankfully, undetected. She had no wish to come face-to-face with anyone, yet again, in her present condition.
She rounded the house and cut away from the pebbled drive, crossing the st
retching slope of grass until she entered the copse of woods surrounding her brother-in-law’s estate. Her legs churned beneath her skirts. The exertion only exacerbated her condition—made her blood burn beneath her skin.
The air was murky but not impenetrable to the naked eye. She knew every bit of Brambledon and the surrounding area. She could find her way even if it was pitch-black at night.
She moved just short of a run. Her feet led her to the narrow path that routed directly to her pond.
Very well. She knew it wasn’t her pond. None of this belonged to her. It was Nathaniel’s and now her sister’s. She didn’t have anything. Not until she married.
The soft burble of water reached her ears moments before she broke out into a small clearing. She had to slow down and carefully mind her steps down the rather steep decline that led to the banks of the pond. She didn’t need to break her neck. That would cast a definite pall over the strange events of this day.
The deep pool of water was the result of where two streams converged. She was well acquainted with the pond. With the cool sensation of crisp water on her skin, with the soft moss under her feet, with the smooth shape of time-eroded stones beneath the twin waterfalls.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, matching the deep, pulling throb between her legs.
What if it never went away? What if her sister had poisoned her for all time?
She shook her head. No. It could not be. It simply needed time to run its course. Like any fever. It couldn’t last forever.
The glass-like surface beckoned. Despite her sense of urgency, she forced herself to pause and glance around, peering into the dark shadows. Not that anyone would be here at this hour.
Satisfied and reassured with that reminder, she disrobed, her movements hasty as she removed her dress and tossed it over a nearby bush. She slid off her stockings and shoes and yanked her chemise over her head.
She sighed in relief once she was free of her garments. Her heated and too-tight skin already felt better.
Wearing nothing at all, she charged ahead on her bare feet. The sharp prick of stones and pebbles beneath the soles of her feet felt actually good—a welcome distraction from the primal urges engulfing her body.
The Virgin and the Rogue Page 4