by Maya Rodale
Susannah wrapped her arms around him and pressed the length of her body against him, drawing a groan from his lips. After years and years and years without any affection, she deserved this and she was going to revel in every moment.
His skin, hot upon hers as he lowered her to the feather mattress. His body, a hard weight baring down upon hers. His arousal, warm and hard and pressing against her entrance. His fingers threaded with hers, their limbs entangled. She started to lose track of where he ended and she began. There was only this tangle of want and need and kiss and touch. It was thrilling like danger and secure like an embrace all at once.
It was just the beginning.
His kiss, hot, searching and exploring. His lips upon hers, a gentle nibble, the slightest pain that felt like pleasure. Damien dragged his mouth down to kiss her neck—who ever knew the skin there could be so sensitive? She shivered from the sensation, her body vibrating against his. Fireworks and sparks wherever they touched, which was everywhere. His kiss, lower now, upon her breasts. She sucked in her breath and held it. She knotted her fingers in his hair needing desperately to hold on as his mouth did such mad, wonderful, wanton things to her. His thumb, flicking across the dusky center of her breast, followed by his mouth and his tongue turning teasing circles around the stiff peaks. She writhed beneath him. She moaned. She arched her back: more.
It seemed he had learned a thing or two during his Grand Tour. She was glad he had spent his time so well. And that was the last thought she had for a while.
Damien could not touch her enough. A man did not encounter such beauty every day. Or ever. He drew a ragged breath and caressed her endless curves, from her full breasts down to the slight swell of her stomach, dipping into the curve of her waist and then following the flare of her hips. He’d had a hint of this wondrousness years ago. Still, he had fled—perhaps not like a man determined to sow his wild oats, but like a man who knew he wasn’t yet worthy of such beauty.
She would have been wasted upon him then. But he could appreciate her now, and damn did he ever. He lavished more attention on her breasts—she liked that, he could tell by the sharp intake of her breath and the way her fingers gripped his hair, holding him there.
Never let me go.
He pressed kisses upon her belly, lower and lower and lower still. Damien urged her legs apart. As much as he was dying—dying—to bury himself inside her and lose himself in the rhythm of making love he fought to keep himself in check just another moment longer. If she was truly to be the queen of pleasure, then she had to know…
This, oh God this was like nothing Susannah had ever known or imagined. His tongue traced a magical pattern around the most exquisitely sensitive spot. Around and around he brought her to slowly and surely to dizzying heights of pleasure. Her breath was fast and shallow now—it echoed in her head, sensations drowning out any other thought, such as it was afternoon and she was a lady and naked on a rogue’s bed. His touch brought her back, attuned only to a fire inside of her that burned brighter and hotter. His tongue made slow, deliberately teasing circles. Dear God, her heart was pounding. Dear lord, she could hardly breathe. Oh heavens, was that her voice shouting out his name?
Damien. Yes. Damien. More. God. Yes. Damien.
He could wait no more. His heart was thundering in his chest and his blood was pumping furiously through his veins. His cock had never felt harder and he thought he’d explode just from the sound of his name, in her voice, hoarse with pleasure as she climaxed.
Damien dragged himself up to kiss her mouth. His cock pressed against her entrance, and he could feel it was warm and wet. He would die if she refused him now. She could wreck him, break him, ruin him now with one word: no. Did she know the power she held over him?
“Susannah…”
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him slowly.
He pressed against her entrance. So warm. So wet. He wanted, needed, would die if he couldn’t sheath himself inside of her completely.
“Yes,” she gasped. And any thoughts of going slowly or gently were lost as he buried himself inside of her. She shouted out. He might have done too. She was tight around him. Gasping from the pleasure. Their mouths collided for a desperate kiss.
Then driven by an instinct he could not deny, he thrust long and slow and hard and she met him each time with the movement of her hips. Her breaths matched his. They were one. Just one. It was everything.
They were one. Just one. This man with whom she’d battled her whole life…in this they were united. She felt shock. She felt joy. She felt the slightest pain and the greatest pleasure. The uncertainty was oddly thrilling—she did not know what to expect. She felt absolute trust—he would never, never hurt her. She could just lie back and claim him as he claimed her.
Damien was losing himself completely and utterly. He held on tight, one hand holding hers, pining it to the mattress. He couldn’t let her get away. He laced the fingers of his other hand through her hair and it tightened in a fist. She moaned. Always pulling her hair, wasn’t he? “Yes,” she panted and he tightened his grasp even more.
In and out he moved, driven to distraction by the warmth and tightness and wetness. She was as aroused by this as much as he was. He knew because of her heavy breaths, her sighs, her moans, the writhing of her hips as she matched his rhythm and the way she dragged her fingertips down his back only to press him harder against and deeper inside of her.
Then she cried out, shouted his name, in another climax. He felt her tightening around him and that pushed him over the edge. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, inhaling her scent deeply and shouting her name. Susannah. Susannah. Susannah.
They lay there, still tangled in an embrace. Skin slick with sweat. Breaths still deep, hearts still pounding. The sun setting outside. If she didn’t marry him, he would die.
Chapter 5: Halo
Susannah woke the next morning in her own bed in her own townhouse. Alone. Very alone. A fire burned in the grate. Light streamed through the windows. The hour was late—a glance at her clock told her so. This time yesterday she had ridden astride like a mad woman. That alone would have caused a ruckus amongst the ton.
And at about this particular moment yesterday, she had kissed a girl, been challenged to a duel and was in the midst of fleeing for her life. The ton would be in an uproar if that were ever discovered.
Susannah collapsed back against her feather pillows, remembering what had occurred next.
She had taken a lover.
But not just any lover. Damien. Her lifelong nemesis. The bane of her existence. The obstacle to her freedom. He had shown her such pleasure as she had never imagined. He had made love to her like it was the first, last and only thing important in the whole world. It had been the wild, passionate, exhilarating lovemaking of two lovers, indulging and discovering each other for the first time, utterly uncertain of what the future might bring.
It was like she had awakened, with every rule he had her breaking.
If, perhaps, marriage with Damien was to be like yesterday, the greatest of days, she might consider it. It was a risk she might take.
Consider it she did. Highland Park and Bedford Hills perhaps weren’t the exile she had imagined. Pushing aside the unpleasant memories, she focused on pleasant recollections of running through the fields, collecting heavenly scented flowers from the gardens, basking in the sunshine and roaming freely through the land and the village.
Before…
Before the years of hardship, loneliness, uncertainty and general dreadfulness. They had now run their course, so she had hope, and thus Susannah dared to dream that she might enjoy the country life—not during the season, of course. And if the lovemaking continued, she might find some enjoyment in marriage after all.
By some she meant exquisite, overwhelming amounts of pleasure.
Somehow all the walls she had built to keep him out had come tumbling down. She hugged her arms around herself wishing that she was surrounded by hi
s embrace.
Perhaps she might send Damien a missive letting him know that if he were to call upon her she would be at home. She would sign it Percy.
First, she rang for Abigail, who delivered bad news when Susannah requested her boy’s attire.
“It’s in the wash ma’am. Needs extra hot irons. I can’t imagine what you did to get them in such a state,” the maid said with a sigh.
Susannah just smiled and agreed to an emerald green day dress instead. She paired it with sapphire and diamond earrings that made her eyes seem brighter. A matching bracelet encircled her wrist. And then the shoes…comfortable as the boots were, she did so love her pretty satin slippers. Today she selected a green satin pair embroidered with silver thread with a slight heel.
Before descending to breakfast, she composed a brief note:
Damien,
I am at home for calling hours this afternoon.
Percy
She charged a footman with delivering it and sat down to breakfast in her small morning room. Everything was just so: the pot of steaming hot tea with a bowl of sugar lumps. A china plate with toast and buttery scrambled eggs. Highly polished silverware. Freshly ironed newspapers just to the left of her plate.
Everything was just as she liked it. But she thought longingly of ale and meat pies and mismatched pewter. She missed Frannie’s smile. She missed having broken at least a dozen rules and having enjoyed a bunch of adventures before breakfast.
Then she turned to the gossip columns, immediately, as one does. She shrieked when she saw her name. And Damien’s name.
Susannah rang for a footman.
“Quickly, you must go and recall the note I sent to Lord Bedford and deliver him a message.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Tell him I said to hell with him!”
******
Damien woke to a strange combination of feelings. He recognized the slight ache in his muscles and the slight ache in his head indicating that he had slept in, likely due to overexertions the previous day or night. But he did not feel the aftereffects of alcohol: the pounding head, fuzzy mouth and odd sensation of his insides having been pickled from so much wine and whiskey. No, he felt fine—along with the faint satisfaction of having had a rollicking good time. Usually, he had not experienced one without the other.
This boded well for his determination to be good and married. He could still enjoy himself. He could still have adventures.
He took a moment to recollect the source of yesterday’s escapades.
Susannah, in breeches that clung to her shapely legs and bum the way a drowning man would hold tight to anything that might keep him afloat.
Susannah’s expression of wild, utter delight to be finally galloping while riding astride.
And then, at the tavern. Frannie. The kiss.
And then, after the tavern. Their kiss. They had made love. For all of his experience with bedding women, it had never been like that: passionate and playful, intense and delightful, teasing and utterly serious. The pleasure—soul deep, overwhelming, breathtaking, heart-stopping pleasure.
It had been a risk, encouraging her to break all those rules. But it was like she’d been awakened by it. He, too. They could start anew. He would never shut her out. Not again.
Damien rolled over in his bed, ready for more. She was not there. This was a grievous crime. He would go to her and propose again. But first—a bath, a shave, breakfast, and a quick glance at the day’s newspapers.
He flipped past the parliamentary news and intelligence from the continent and went straight to the gossip columns. He saw his name, linked with Susannah’s and began to swear.
Chapter 6: Irreplaceable
After his lengthy grand tour full of all sorts of reckless and debauched behavior, the new Viscount Bedford has returned home intent upon a life to honor the wishes of his late father—including upstanding behavior and finally marrying heiress Miss Susannah Grey, to whom he’s been betrothed to since birth (and whom he once called a scrappy brat).
He must have assumed she was still a scrappy brat—news of her beautiful transformation having not reached his drunken self whilst on the continent—otherwise he wouldn’t have dreamed of wagering with Lord Watson that he’d be married to her within the week. And for the paltry sum of fifty pounds, too.
One can only hope she refuses him on principle. Although, this author does love a happy ending and a love match. I should hope to read of their marriage—but not until next week.
--Fashionable Intelligence by A Lady of Distinction
The London Weekly
In Susannah’s drawing room, Damien paced nervously and pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration as he waited to learn if Susannah was “at home” to callers. More specifically, at home to him.
Upon reading the disastrous news reported by A Lady of Distinction, he knew his immediate attendance upon the queen of pleasure (or presumably, today, the queen of displeasure) was essential if he was to have a prayer of salvaging their relationship. Would The London Weekly’s infamous gossip columnist cause more havoc with her reporting? Would anyone believe it? Yes, The Lady of Distinction—whoever the hell she may be—was mostly right yet always believed.
The heavy oak doors burst open, slamming into the damask papered walls. A fashionable fury approached him.
“You have some nerve to turn up here,” she said coming to stand close in front of him. Her eyes were blazing. Her hair seemed redder. Her cheeks were flushed with anger.
“Susannah, allow me to explain.”
“I think the newspaper is quite clear. You just assumed that I would be yours, at your convenience. You just assumed that I was pining away, desperately, waiting for you to deign to shine your light on me. This proves that you do not know about me at all.”
“I did make those assumptions,” he said.
She paused, perplexed. “That’s what I said.”
“I was wrong,” Damien said.
She had been spoiling for a fight. He did not want to fight. He wanted to love her and make love to her. The carpet seemed plush enough…
“Very. You were very, very wrong,” she admonished. “You have made the mistake of thinking you are irreplaceable. When I could have anyone of my choosing, as fast as I could snap my fingers.”
“We are in violent agreement,” Damien said.
“And yet I am still utterly enraged at you,” she replied coldly.
“Tell me more.” She would vent her frustrations. He would listen. In time she would calm down and…perhaps the settee would be more comfortable.
“I’m going to call you a carriage,” she said.
The heavy wooden doors to the drawing room burst open. A young footman, dressed in a fine uniform of red and gray livery, interrupted them.
“Ma’am. Lord Bedford was not at home,” he said, apparently unaware or unconcerned that Lord Bedford stood before him. “Here is the note.”
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the paper, which Damien immediately intercepted it in spite of her protestations. He broke the wax seal and read her scrawled missive. The footman left the room.
“Ah, you have asked me to call upon you,” Damien reported what he read. “Signed, Percy. I was right about that. See, I am not always wrong.”
“While I am this angry at you, I’d advise you not to point out anything remotely in your favor. Also, I wrote that before I saw the newspaper.”
“Susannah, I am sincerely sorry for my stupid presumptions about you and I and our marriage. It was wrong of me and I have seen the error of my ways,” he said, clasping her hands and dropping to one knee.
“Oh, do get up.”
“I have so thoroughly enjoyed being proven wrong by you. Yesterday was certainly the best day of my life. Please, do me the favor of becoming my wife.”
At that moment—before she could reply—the drawing room doors burst open to reveal another young footman, who, upon seeing Lord Bedford shouted: “To hell with you!”
“Yes, what he said,” Susannah replied, slightly bemused. “Thank you, Footman. That will be all.”
“I presume you sent him to rescind the invitation,” Damien drawled.
“Precisely.”
“So you’re saying I’m right,” Damien said. He couldn’t resist.
“Oh!”
“It seems you are still angry,” he remarked as she pummeled his chest with her small, ineffectual fists. He would have wagered—but he would not—that she’d longed to hit him like this. It didn’t hurt in the slightest so he let her carry on.
“I’m always angry at you! For my tea set and my white dress and a hundred other pranks and indignities. I am still angry because you did not come for me when I asked you to. I am angry at you for coming back now when I didn’t want you to. And I am livid that you would think I was still a scrappy brat who would just tumble right into your arms!”
He clasped her wrists, holding her still. She huffed, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her furious eyes.
“What can I do, Susannah, to win you?”
“I am not something to be won! I am a girl to be loved.”
With that, she wrenched out of his grasp and stormed away, slamming the heavy oak doors behind her.
It was only later that he realized what else she had said. Once upon a time she’d bidden him to return and he hadn’t come to save her. He thought of that letter, long burnt and long forgotten. What heartache they all—Susannah, his father, himself—might have been spared if he had only listened to her then.
Chapter 7: Broken-Hearted Girl
When Damien came to call again the day after their fight, Susannah could not deny how emotional he made her feel. There was lust—pure, scorching, molten lust. An outrageous craving to touch his bare skin, nibble his lower lip, or rock her hips in time with his as he thrust deeply into her…