What he wanted to know—and what he didn’t want to know—was if she had ever been such a conflagration in another man’s arms. For him, it had never been the same. The passion had never been so desperate, so all-consuming. For Ara, he would fight an entire army just to claim her as his. Nothing else—no one before or after her—had ever come close.
“Only for you,” she admitted then, her voice throaty with want.
He bit the shell of her ear. A second finger joined the first, sinking deep. In and out, he moved them, her cunny so soaked the erotic sounds of him thrusting into her mingled in the chamber with the sounds of their mutually labored breaths.
“You are mine, Ara.” He did not mean to say the words, but once they fell from his lips, there was no rescinding them. He’d lost control over himself. Lust and desire, resentment and rage: everything in him that had built for years coalesced then and there, with his fingers buried inside her, the dew of her desire running down his hand. He wished she had only ever been his. That she had never betrayed him to her father, that she had run away with him as she had promised.
“Yes,” she said weakly, bending forward and planting her hands on the bed as if she had lost control of her body as well. Her skirts remained pinned between their bodies, anchored even without her grip.
But her acquiescence was not enough. He hated the mourning weeds she wore. Hated the brooch pinned over her heart. Hated she had married another man. Hated she was the Duchess of Bloody Burghly. Hated she had ever been another man’s wife, even if that man had been moldering in the grave for the last four months.
He was jealous of every day Burghly had spent in her presence—every smile she had given him, every sigh, every morning he had risen to spend with her at his side. He should not feel so possessive of her, and he knew it. He had not the right. Indeed, he had never had the right. She was as good for him as poison.
“Say it,” he demanded, curling his fingers and working them in steady, rhythmic pulses. Here he was at the heart of her, where she was so soft and warm, and he had not forgotten how to touch her in all this time. What made her weak. What made her spend.
“I am yours.” She gasped when he found the most sensitive part of her, teasing her in exquisite torture for the both of them.
“Again.” He thrust into her harder, faster.
“I am…oh…”
She was on the verge of coming, but he could not resist making her wait. Prolonging the pleasure. He removed his fingers. “Say it,” he commanded into her ear.
“I am yours.” Her every breath was labored, her pulse pounding against his lips as he kissed back down her throat.
“Yes.” The lone word escaped him, a hiss of triumph. She was his, damn it. Had been his first. Would forever be his, and he knew it somehow with an unassailable certainty. “You are mine, Ara. You will always be mine. Never forget it.”
Damn her for tearing them apart. For turning her back on him. For making him bleed. For taking his son and marrying another man. For everything. She had brought him to his knees, had devastated him. Her betrayal had left him broken. Now he would break her the only way he knew how, with his body. By giving them both what they wanted and needed.
It was long overdue.
Years overdue.
Necessary.
“I need you, Clay,” she whispered.
“Are you sure?” he gritted, needing to be certain she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
That this wild passion between them, even eight years on, remained mutual.
“Yes, Clay.” His name was a whimper on her lips. One filled with hunger and need and rampant desire. “I need you inside me, please.”
Fuck, he liked the way she begged. But he still wanted more. He wanted everything. He wanted her on her knees.
He skimmed the curve of her waist and hip before moving toward what he truly wanted. His hand trailed over her thigh, gliding inward in search of her mound. Her legs parted. He located the slit in her drawers from the front, and then there she was, his for the taking.
He cupped her, found her pearl. She was swollen with need. So wet and plump. He wanted to lick her, to suck her bud into his mouth until she came, to lap her creamy spending like the finest dessert. To make her scream with nothing but his lips and tongue.
But his need for her was a fire in his blood. If he waited much longer, he would spend in his trousers like a callow youth. Without even sinking his cock into her body, and he needed to be inside her so badly he ached with it.
Only she could slake his hunger.
His anger was another matter.
It could not be appeased. Nothing and no one would tame it, but he could subdue it for now. For this moment. For the chance to have Ara once more.
To lose himself inside her.
Wet. She was so wet.
He worked her clitoris, stimulating her with rhythmic surges of his forefinger, applying greater pressure when she seemed within reach of her release. And then she was coming, shaking, tremoring against him. He rubbed her, his fingers bathed in her wetness. Her hips rolled against his hand, asking for more. Begging for more as she reached her peak. She cried out, collapsing upon the bed, her entire body stiffening as sweet release washed over her.
Her desire gushed over him. Damn it. Damn her. He ground his jaw down, trying to temper his need. He wanted inside her. So badly he could scarcely think.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he forced himself to say.
“Mmm.” She rocked against his hand, still enjoying the aftershocks of her spend.
He stroked her, letting her ride the waves of her climax. His fingers dipped into her cunny. She was so damn tight, tremoring around his fingers, sucking him deeper still. His other hand released the fastening of his trousers, allowing his rampant cock to spring forth.
She angled her hips to meet his questing fingers, which could not seem to let her cunny alone now they’d touched her once more. “I want you so much I ache with it. From the moment I saw you in my drawing room until now, I have not stopped wanting you. I have not stopped wondering what it would be like if we were to be free with each other again. If we were to be as we once were.”
Neither had he. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? For now, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the need pulsing between them. The hunger that would not be denied. She had been lost to him for eight years, and his body remembered what they’d had. His heart remembered too.
“It would be like this,” he murmured as he withdrew from her and coated his erection with her juices. In one swift thrust, he was sheathed inside her. She was hot and slippery, squeezing his cock so hard she almost pushed him from her body. The breath fled from his lungs. She felt so bloody good, so bloody perfect.
It was like coming home.
For a beat, he held still, buried deep, half afraid if he moved, it would be over. Or this was a dream and he would wake in his empty bed, alone and desperate for her. But then, a sigh escaped her, along with a one-word demand.
“More.”
Yes. Bloody hell, yes.
He stroked her pearl as he slid his cock almost completely from her sweet cunny only to slide inside again. A grunt tore from him. A moan emerged from her. His control broke. A flood tore through him—memories, desire, need—and he was awash in it. He was lost. The delicate nuances of lovemaking were beyond him. He pounded into her, not giving a damn about anything other than their mutual hunger.
He was savage in that moment. He became an animal. His hips pumped. The rhythmic, wet sounds of their fucking filled the chamber, mingling with her breathy pants and his harsh breaths. He bit her ear, wishing he had her entirely naked and beneath him. Wishing she was his.
But she was not, and she never had been.
And this was all they had, this mad desire, this frantic rutting between two strangers. But she wasn’t a stranger, was she? She was a warm body against his beneath the midnight stars. She was laughter and frantic kisses. She was sunshin
e and roses. She was his first love, his only love.
The mother of his son.
He increased his pace, taking her with such frenzy the bed creaked. She arched her back, meeting him thrust for thrust, the soft sounds hatching from her throat making him even more mindless. In and out, hard and fast. Long and deep.
She clenched on him suddenly, crying out as a new release claimed her. She trembled, a fresh wetness spilling down his cock. Her body slumped forward, her face pressed to the counterpane, which muffled her cries as she spent all over him.
He wanted to hear her moans. He wanted to remember them, to plant them in his memory for when he slid from her body and he was once more the man tasked with her protection.
He sank his fingers at last into the glorious temptation of her hair. It was silken, so damn soft, and he tugged gently, bringing her head back as he fucked her harder still. Her cries were loud, echoing in the chamber.
It was all he could take, hearing her throaty moans, feeling her climax tremor through her as she milked his cock. His ballocks drew tight, and he could no longer avoid his own release. With one last, unrestrained thrust, he withdrew, gripped his cock, and spent all over her lacy white drawers.
Chapter Sixteen
“How are you settling in here at Harlton Hall, Your Grace?”
Ara glanced up from the untouched food on her dinner plate to find Clay’s mother giving her a warm smile. Her thoughts took a moment to gather themselves, to form a semblance of coherence. For a beat, all she could think was this woman’s son had made love to her. Had been inside her hours before. Had spent all over her drawers before tearing from the chamber and disappearing.
She had not seen him since. How awkward this dinner was, two women who were utter strangers, one mother and the other lover, though she felt certain his mother was blissfully unware of what had transpired earlier. Edward had gone to bed early, tired from their travels, and her host had not reemerged since their frantic coupling of hours before.
And then another strange thought walloped her with the force of a storm gale. This woman was her son’s grandmother. Had Clay told her? Would he tell her?
She swallowed, wondering how much his mother knew. “Very well, thank you, Mrs. Ludlow.”
“I am so very sorry to hear of the circumstances which have necessitated your stay here,” Clay’s mother continued, seemingly unaware of Ara’s extreme discomfit.
Clay’s mother preferred bold colors and made no effort at subduing them, her evening gown a rich, bright shade of red. She was lovely and elegant, a radiant woman with a melodious voice. She resembled Clay, her almost ebony hair shot with silver, her eyes dark, her nose the same slashing blade, her mouth held in almost the identical, stubborn fashion.
The same as Edward’s.
Ara reached for her wineglass, bringing it to her lips for a long and indelicate draught. “It has been a difficult time indeed.”
“I can only imagine,” his mother said, her expression one of commiseration. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Your Grace. The Duke of Burghly was an excellent politician.”
Yes, Freddie had been.
He had fought valiantly for the causes in which he believed. She inclined her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Ludlow.”
“You may call me Lily,” Clay’s mother invited, her eyes assessing.
Ara replaced her wine goblet on the table. “Thank you, Lily.”
“You are the Earl of Wickham’s daughter, are you not?” Clay’s mother continued in a conversational tone as she returned her attention to her dinner, cutting a slice of veal.
Ara lifted her wine back to her lips for another healthy swallow. She was beginning to feel lightheaded, the dining hall swirling at the edges of her vision. Perhaps she ought to eat a bite, but she was at sixes and sevens. First, she had been stalked by a killer, then she had relocated to the country, Clay had made scorching, frantic love to her, and now she was faced with his mother whilst he hid himself only the Lord knew where.
The wine was strong. She needed more. Needed distraction. Fortification. Anything.
She took another sip.
Then another.
“Yes,” she forced herself to say at last. “I am the Earl of Wickham’s youngest daughter.”
It would be the height of impoliteness to point out she knew Lily had once been her father’s paramour. Or at least the paramour he had wanted for himself. She knew not the details, nor had she ever presumed to ask. She would not dare.
“I knew your father once,” Clay’s mother said softly. Almost sadly.
Ara glanced back up, shocked to hear the open acknowledgment. “Oh?” she asked politely. Noncommittally. For what could this woman possibly say that she needed to hear on the matter?
Nothing, she was sure.
“Yes,” Clay’s mother continued, surprising her. “We did not part on good terms, unfortunately.”
It was difficult indeed for Ara to picture her stoic father falling beneath the spell of a woman like Lily Ludlow, who was almost exotic looking, bold and beautiful, frank and unapologetic. Ara’s mother was nothing like her—an icy, pale blonde with a determination to be proper at all costs.
“I am sorry to hear that,” she said at last, worrying a slab of veal with the tines of her fork.
“It was your father’s choice,” Clay’s mother said, watching her with a shrewd gaze. “I do not think he ever forgave me.”
Ara did not know what to say, so she maintained her silence, cutting a bite of veal and raising it to her mouth at last. Nothing had ever been more tasteless.
“I am sure he must have,” she said at last with an attempt at a smile.
“No.” Clay’s mother shook her head slowly, her gaze stern and steady on Ara’s. “He did not. I know because of the way he treated my son.”
Clay.
Ara stiffened, wondering where this particular line of conversation would proceed. “In what way is that?”
Clay’s mother gave her a forlorn smile. “As if he did not matter.”
How bitterly familiar, for it was the same manner in which her father had treated Ara after he had learned she carried Clay’s child. She could still recall the twisted rage on his countenance. Could still feel the sting of his slap across her cheek. The vicious lash of his words.
No daughter of mine makes herself a bastard’s whore. You will go abroad and be rid of your sins, or you will marry. But whatever choice you make, know you will not be welcome within Kingswood Hall with your bastard’s bastard.
Ara’s fingers rediscovered the stem of her wine goblet, clenching on it. She had not forgiven her father. Was not sure forgiveness of a betrayal so deep was even possible. Edward had never met her family, and she was happy to keep it thus. Her mother cared only for her own entertainment, her father for his pride. Her brother had sided with their father, and her sister had died birthing her lover’s babe some six years ago.
She returned to the present with a jolt. Clay’s mother’s gaze remained intent upon her. Seeing far too much, she was sure. “Mrs. Ludlow, I do not wish to revisit the past.”
Revisiting it was far too painful, like a wound that had been sliced open all over again. She had not known, on the day she had discovered Clay had gone abroad, that she carried his child. But in the weeks that followed, her illness and lack of courses had spurred her lady’s maid into action. Mama had been summoned. Her father had been notified. She had been sent to live with Rosamunde, and it was through her sister that she had met Freddie.
“Please, call me Lily, my dear,” Clays mother urged again into the silence that had fallen between them. “Forgive me for broaching a painful subject. I did not intend to cause you distress.”
She raised her wine back to her lips, took another bracing sip. “My father and I have not spoken in years,” she admitted for reasons she could not fathom. She had not confided the rift with her family to anyone except Freddie in all these years. Why would she unburden herself now to Clay’s mother?
“Such a division in a family makes me sad, Your Grace.” The look Clay’s mother bestowed upon her was warm, sympathetic.
Ara inhaled slowly to stave off a wave of unwanted emotion. It had been seven years since Edward was born. The knowledge her father and mother did not wish to meet their grandson would forever be a knife in her gut. “I have learned that time forces us to accept the pains we are dealt, but it cannot make us forget them.”
The moment the words left her, she wished she could recall them. Wished she could tuck them back into her heart, back into her mind. For Clay’s mother was eyeing her shrewdly, as if she understood all the things Ara left unsaid. As if she saw and knew far too much.
For Ara was not just speaking about her family. She also spoke of Clay. She had accepted that he left her. She’d had no other choice. She had been alone, a babe in her belly, nowhere left to turn. But even now that he was back in her life, even after she had allowed him back inside her body, she did not know if she could forgive him for leaving her. For turning his back on her. For letting her wait for him that long-ago day and then leaving before she could speak to him once more.
“I understand such sentiment more than you can know,” Clay’s mother said softly. “Do you know, Your Grace, how my son’s face was scarred?”
The abrupt change of conversational direction—returning to him—unsettled her. She shook her head. “I would not presume to ask him such a question, as it would not be my place. Nor has he ever offered the information of his own volition.”
The older woman’s expression changed. A new light entered her eyes, but Ara could not be certain what the emotion was, or what it meant. Clay’s mother could be as difficult to read as he was. “He was cut with a blade, Your Grace. He was attacked from behind, cudgeled over the head, and woke to the knife on his cheek.”
Ara shivered at the thought of some unseen foe laying Clay low. It seemed so impossible to imagine, that her mountain of a man could be overpowered by anyone. Not her mountain of a man, she reminded herself. Merely a man. She could not let their foolish, frenzied coupling affect her. Could not allow it to throw her. She had too much at stake. Everything, it seemed.
Nobody's Duke (League of Dukes Book 1) Page 18