by Julia Kelly
He watched her move, the sway of her hips apparent under her dressing gown. He’d known she was beautiful, but seeing her body free from her corset and bustle was something else entirely. His hands itched to frame the spread of her hips and slide up her unencumbered waist. He’d always liked the softness of women. Their skin, their curves, their sighs. If he’d been another man he might’ve tried to talk her into sliding into his lap—after all, he finally had her alone—but he had things to tell her. Things that were more important than his lust.
Just.
She returned carrying a small basin of water and a length of clean linen draped over her arm.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said as she dipped the cloth into the water.
She arched a brow. “You’re right, I don’t. Give me your hand.”
He obeyed, happier to comply than he probably should have admitted. “Then why are you?”
“Because I don’t have the good sense to tell you to turn around and climb back out that window.” She lifted her eyes to meet his, lips pressed into a displeased line. “And I like you.”
He leaned heavily against the back of his chair, the sting of the water hitting his raw fingers hardly registering. “You like me.”
“Against my better judgment, yes. You also infuriate me.”
He chuckled. “You aren’t the first woman to tell me that.”
She snorted softly. “That hardly surprises me. Do you make this a habit?”
“Annoying women?”
“Climbing through their windows.”
He shook his head. “You’re the first.”
The hitch in her movements might not have been noticeable except that he was so focused on every bit of millimeter of her skin touching his.
“You said you wanted to tell me something,” she prompted. They were not, it seemed, going to explore his admission that he’d never done this before.
“It’s about Trevlan,” he said. She went back to cleaning his wounds, so he pressed on. “He has skeletons in his closet.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Not like this,” he said. “There was a woman.”
Caroline straightened slowly, as though preparing for a blow.
“She was the daughter of a merchant. By all accounts, her mother and father had been dangling her in front of Trevlan for some time,” he continued. “The prospect of such a match made them a little lax in their supervision.”
“She fell pregnant,” she said in a flat voice.
He looked up at her sharply. “How did you know?”
“It’s a story as old as time,” she said. “What happened to her?”
She’d probably guessed, but he’d give her the confirmation she sought. “When her parents told Trevlan, he flatly denied that the child was his. She swears that she’d been a virgin the first time they were together and she’s never invited another man into her bed, but there was little she or her parents could do.”
“He’s a wealthy man.”
“And a powerful one.”
“He abandoned her,” she said quietly.
He nodded, watching her expression. He’d seen her angry and frustrated but never before had he seen her defeated. Resigned. Blank. It frightened him.
“Where is she now?” she asked.
“Living in a town where no one knows her. She has styled herself as a young widow with a child,” he said.
“You spoke to her?”
“A colleague of mine did. She’s talented at gathering this sort of information,” he said.
“The secrets no one wants found out. I imagine that’s useful in your business.”
She said it without malice, but he couldn’t help but cringe a little, knowing what her life must have been like with all of those reporters digging around in it. For all the scandal surrounding her trial and the private letters read out during it, she’d come across as well as a woman could hope. Young, innocent, genuine. Caroline didn’t have skeletons like Trevlan, but he could tell that her experience had burned her badly enough that she still wrapped herself up in a protective silence. She didn’t give her trust lightly—couldn’t—and yet in that moment what he wanted more than anything else was to earn it.
“I thought you should know what sort of man he is,” he said.
Her gaze caught his, and for a fleeting second he thought that perhaps this bit of information would be enough to convince her to give up Trevlan. No woman should be subjected to a man who was so careless with other people, but especially not Caroline. She’d already faced her own abandonment once before. Surely this would be enough to steer her attention elsewhere.
To you? But the thought was almost laughable. A woman like her could never want a man like him. She’d have asked Mrs. Sullivan for a gentleman, or at least a businessman who didn’t have to obfuscate the circumstances of his birth. He was an upstart. A fool who’d spent the first eleven years of his life believing that the man he called Father could actually lay claim to that title. A bastard.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Her words propelled him to his feet in a flash. “What?”
“Trevlan is still my most likely option for a husband. He seems eager and willing,” she said, calm as could be.
But Moray wasn’t calm. He was steaming at the idea that this woman would settle for such a man when he’d risked life, limb, and reputation to lay out the case against Trevlan. He couldn’t expect her to want him, but he could expect her to demand more for herself.
“He ruined a woman’s life,” he gritted out.
“I know that.”
“Then how could you possibly want him?”
“Because I don’t have the luxury of time,” she shot back with the same fierceness she’d shown him in Holyrood Park right before they’d kissed. She was glorious in it, eyes flashing and hair streaming around her like that of a medieval queen. A goddess ready to smite him from on high.
“But you don’t have to settle for him.”
“I’ll settle for whomever will ask me. If Trevlan asks, that will be that.”
“That’s insane,” he protested, his fists clenched so hard his palms stung.
“If I was eighteen I might be able to wait, but men look at me and think I’m nearly ten years too old to be a bride. They see me and they wonder just how likely I’ll be to give them an heir. At twenty-seven. When women have been having children far later in life than this for millennia.”
“Caroline—”
“You’re a man who can choose his life. You can decide if you wish to marry or not. You can make your fortune—you have. You never had to hope that someone might pity you enough to give you a home. The longer I wait to wed, the less chance I have of making any match at all.”
“I want you to want more than that!” He nearly shouted it, infuriated at the thought that this brilliant, beautiful woman was so resigned to her fate. He wanted her to fight with the fire he knew burned brightly in her.
She laughed in disbelief. “You don’t understand at all, do you?”
He stepped forward, knowing he was crowding her but hardly able to stop himself. He needed her to see that she didn’t need to be this woman—resigned and defeated.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
Her eyes narrowed. “I can’t have what I want.”
“What do you want?” he repeated slowly. “Name it.”
She peeled away from him and marched to a desk in the corner of her room. She took a key out from a small enameled box and unlocked a drawer. His stomach flipped when she pulled out a sheaf of papers. Newspaper clippings.
“Why do you send me these?” she asked, brandishing the articles like a weapon.
“I—I don’t know.” He stumbled over the words, stunned that she’d kept them.
“There must be a reason. ‘Police Stand By as Suffragist Speech Draws Crowd of Two Thousand,’ ” she read as she advanced. “ ‘First American World’s Fair Opens in Philadelphia.’ ‘Exploding
Tea Towels Plague Glasgow Tearoom.’ Why send these to me?”
Because each of them reminded him of her. The ones that related to something they’d spoken about. Those he thought might make her laugh.
“Why?” she demanded, shaking the papers at him. She was inches away from him now, this tiny woman pressing into his space just as he had hers, intimidating him not with her physical presence but with the sheer force of her will.
“Answer me, Jonathan.”
His name on her lips broke something inside him and the confession came rushing out. “Because I want you.”
The articles fluttered to the floor, but he hardly noticed, because in an instant, Caroline’s arms were around his neck, and she was dragging him into a kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
CAROLINE’S KISS WAS fury. It coursed through her, reaching every inch of her body and fueling this madness that had gripped her. It was reckless and delicious, swirling passion and anger together like dye dropped in water.
He wanted her. This interfering, frustrating man wanted her, and the only thing she’d been able to think when he finally admitted it was, Thank God.
Her arms twined around his neck and she arched her back to press her aching breasts hard against him. She wanted contact and friction. She craved the comfort of a man’s weight over her. She longed for the kind of intimacy she hadn’t experienced in years.
It took Moray a moment to recover from what must have been his shock at this whisper-yelling woman grabbing him and kissing him so ardently, but when he did, he caught on fast. He angled his lips to fit hers better, sucking her plump lower lip between his teeth and biting lightly. Her groan started low in her throat, and he caught her up by the waist, wrapping her into his arms.
Unencumbered by her usual undergarments, she hooked a leg around him, seeking the hardness of his cock against her heated sex. She’d been aroused since he’d surged up and demanded to know why she’d settle for a man like Trevlan. It had been the anger in his eyes that had set her off, for it had been years since any man had cared enough about her to grow furious on her behalf. The rational, practical part of her knew that his dislike of Trevlan motivated him more than any regard for her, but she didn’t want to be rational or practical this evening. Tomorrow she’d go back to being the sensible woman who needed a husband. Tonight she wanted fire and passion, and she wouldn’t deny herself.
One of Moray’s hands slid down and over the swell of her backside before grasping her other leg and boosting her up. She rode his hips now, linking her ankles at the small of his back. His mouth broke from hers to rain kisses down along her collarbone that had become exposed when her dressing gown had loosened, and her head fell back at the delight of it.
She hardly noticed that he’d been walking them across the room until he dropped them onto her bed. His body stretched out over her, his cock hard against her thigh, but he stopped kissing her. Instead, he propped himself up on his elbow, panting as he said, “This is a bad idea, Caroline.”
She wanted to tear his clothes off, dig her nails into his back, and make him try to say those six little words while she rode him. Didn’t he understand that she needed him with a physical ache that tormented her? Didn’t he understand that this was her choice?
“If you stop, I’ll never forgive you,” she whispered, her nails scraping lightly at his scalp.
His eyes rolled back as he moaned, pressing a kiss to the top of her night rail. She might have shivered, but it wasn’t enough.
“Your virginity is worth more than one night with me,” he managed to get out.
She shot up on her elbows. “My virginity?”
“Yes.” He stroked a hand up to caress her cheek, tender when she wanted passion.
“My body is mine to give to whomever I please,” she said. “I’m the one who decides what it’s worth.”
His expression softened, but still he pushed up and away from her. “You’re right.”
She caught his arms, and even though her fingers barely circled halfway around the muscles, he stopped.
“I want to make two things very clear, Jonathan. If you want me, I’ll have you tonight in this room. On this bed.”
He blew out a slow breath. “What’s the second thing?”
She pressed up off the bed until his breath feathered his lips apart. “I’m not a virgin.”
Shock filled his eyes, and for a split second she thought he might rear up and out of her reach, but an instant later he was on her. He tore at the belt of her dressing gown, freeing her from the quilted, dark blue fabric so that she lay with only a thin layer of cotton between her and the open air.
She pushed his jacket off his shoulders. “Take this off.”
Hinging up so that he towered over her on his knees, he shucked off the jacket. His fingers flew to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, the garment hitting the carpet with a dull thud that told her he hadn’t bothered to remove his watch. This idea of him climbing into her bedroom in his evening clothes tickled her, and she smiled with pleasure as his tie went next.
“You look like a cat who’s gotten the cream,” he said, pulling his shirt from the front of his trousers.
“Not yet,” she said, pleasure sliding through her when he began to unbutton his shirt and the lovely skin of his chest appeared. He was lightly thatched with hair, and she took pleasure in running her hand from his sternum down to the top of his trousers as he continued to unfasten the garment.
His shirt off, he planted one hand by her head so that he could lean down and kiss her, but she stopped him. “Take everything off.” When he hesitated, she leaned up, her lips to his ear. “Stop thinking you’re going to scare me. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
With a grunt, he rolled over on the bed to shed the rest of his clothing. When his back was turned to her, she lifted her hips off the bed and raised the hem of her night rail to pull it off. It hit the ground just as he turned around again.
“Dear God, woman. You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured.
He kissed her long and hard, but this time his hands explored without the encumbrance of clothing. He traced the swell of her breast, cupping her in his warm hand before thumb and finger slid up the peak of her nipple. The slight tug sent pleasure shooting through her, but it was nothing compared to the moment he sucked her nipple into his mouth.
“Yes,” she moaned, the word ripped from a place deep inside her she hadn’t accessed in years.
He sucked again, the suction sending a sting of pain followed by the soothing pleasure of his tongue circling the bud. She squirmed, knitting her fingers behind his neck to hold him there and wrapping her legs around him to press his cock against the wetness of her sex.
He worked her over, sucking, pulling, biting, tasting as she ground against him. Her hands grasped at his back, reveling in the bunch and coil of muscles while he moved over her. He was bigger than Julian. More man to press against. More man to please her.
When at last he let go of her and kissed the valley between her breasts, she was panting and desperate for him to fill her. He pushed up over her and rested his forehead against hers.
“I want to do this properly, but I fear that if I’m not inside of you soon I’ll expire on the spot.”
She laughed and dropped her legs open. “Then what are you waiting for?”
He kissed her hard, bruising her lips in a delicious way she’d feel the next morning, and then slung his legs over hers. He settled between her thighs, his cock rubbing along the slickness of her slit and hitting her clit. Her hips arched to meet him, needing that sensation again and again.
His hands caught hers and pinned them to the bed. “Impatient woman.”
She arched a brow, which made him grin crookedly this time. “I’m the impatient one?”
Another stroke of his cock.
“We’re each as bad as the other,” he whispered in her ear.
And then he slid into her.
Caroline bucked against his han
ds restraining her wrists, welcoming the press of him into her with a gasp. She felt so good. So full. He drew out slowly but thrust into her fast. She cried out, but he swallowed the sound with a kiss.
Using the press of his hands for leverage, she rocked herself up to meet him. Each thrust slammed into her, pushing deeper, filling her more completely. It was never going to be tender and slow with Moray. It was hard and fast and just a little rough and she loved it.
The promise of an orgasm pooled inside her, but when she grasped for it, it was still out of reach.
Moray’s eyes locked on hers. “Tell me what you need.”
“Let go of my hands.”
He did and she snaked a hand down between their bodies. He pushed up a little higher on his hands, his cock hitting her slightly higher, sending her a little higher. His head fell forward, watching as she found her clit and began to rub in rhythm with his thrusts.
“Jesus Christ, Caroline,” he bit out, his eyes fixed on the join of their bodies and her legs spread out under him.
Once, long ago, she might have felt embarrassed by such a brazen display of her own need. With Moray in her bed, however, she felt powerful and in control of the pleasure she could give them both. She was drunk on it.
Her orgasm slammed into her. She cried out beneath him, the hard thrusts of his cock and the ministrations of her fingers shattering her into a million pieces.
She clung to him as the waves of pleasure swept through her. His thrusts became short and fast, and he pulled out of her, spilling onto her stomach as he finished himself with his hand. Then he fell onto his side with a groan and pushed his hand through his hair.
“Well, that’s settled then,” he muttered.
“What is?” she asked in the slow, sluggish tone of a satisfied woman.
“You really are trying to kill me.”
She laughed, her head falling back into the bed linens. He lifted his head, smiled at her, and then slid off the bed to retrieve the cloth she’d used to clean his hands. He used the unbloodied end to wipe her clean and settled back into the bed next to her. Then he gathered her to him as though it was the most natural thing in the world to hold her close.