by Mary Campisi
“Please . . . ”
He stilled again.
“ . . . don’t stop.”
It was all he needed. “Oh, Sophie.” So deep, so tight, so . . . his efforts quickened in frantic desperation.
“Yes!” She clutched his buttocks and jerked her hips forward.
He thrust into her, withdrew slowly, once, twice, ten times. All thoughts of gentleness fled as Holt pumped into her, long and deep and hot with need, fueled by her naked cries of pleasure.
“Gregory!”
“Come to me.” He reached a finger between them and flicked her swollen nubbin.
“Gregory!”
He buried himself deep, pulled out until she whimpered. One more stroke of that delectable nubbin and she threw her head back and jerked against him in wave after wave of convulsive pleasure. The sight of her enjoying her woman’s release proved his undoing. He thrust into her one last time, cried out her name and buried his hot seed inside her welcoming body.
Chapter 11
He watched her sleep, thinking her a mix of angel and she-devil, the likes of which he’d never encountered before.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Gregory? Is something wrong?”
Damnation, he was growing tired of hearing that name on her lips.
“Gregory?”
It was that soft voice, like a velvet temptress that coaxed the truth from him. “Being with a woman has always been nothing more than a recreation for me.” When she offered no comment, he continued his confession. “Until today. You made me feel, Sophie. You made me care.” He pulled her into his arms and said, “We shall make a good match, you and I.”
She responded by burying her head against his chest and kissing his nipple.
“Enough of that or I’ll start all over again.”
“And that would be torture?” she whispered, swirling her tongue over his other nipple.
“You are much too sore. For once, I shall force myself to play the gentleman.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and eased away. “I must return you to Waverly before your father sends someone after you.”
Before she could protest, he released her and rolled out of bed to retrieve his clothes. It was then he noticed the red stain on the sheets. Damnation, he should not have taken her, but he’d wanted her so badly and she’d wanted him. She was a lady, she deserved better. But she’d responded so quickly and hotly, how could he resist? He couldn’t. And that was a problem.
“Gregory!” Sophie scooted across the bed toward him. “What happened to your shoulder?”
Holt turned and shrugged into his shirt before she could get a closer look. He was not in the mood to discuss his father, but neither did he have the desire to lie to Sophie, for there had already been too many untruths between them. “It’s the result of a fight that ended badly, but then most do when one man is armed and the other isn’t.”
She bit her lower lip, her gaze darting in the direction of his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“I rarely think of it and you should not either.” He would not ruin what he and Sophie had shared with thoughts of his father. Anxious to regain the intimacy of the moment, Holt removed the ruby pendant that many a woman had tried to claim and placed it around her neck. “This pendant has journeyed with me in all of my travels. I give it to you as my future wife.”
Her eyes glistened. “I will wear it close to my heart.”
His lips twitched. “You might look a bit ridiculous in a ball gown with that dangling from your neck.” He touched her cheek, already anticipating the next time she’d lay naked in his arms.
“I believe I can pin the jewel to the inside of my chemise. Close to my heart.” She leaned on tiptoe, placed her hands on his shoulders and kissed his mouth ever so gently. “As you will also be.”
Holt groaned and wrapped his arms around her, deepening the kiss. If this weren’t her first time, he’d hike her gown about her waist and take her again. The very thought of bedding her made him hard and greedy to touch her naked flesh once more.
Sophie pulled back slightly and removed the green satin ribbon she’d recently re-tied in her hair. Pressing it into his hand, she whispered, “Keep this and think of me, until we can be together again.” She leaned on tiptoe once again and kissed him. Open-mouthed. Tongue to tongue.
Holt ended the kiss, abruptly setting her aside. “We can’t.”
“Can’t what?” She smiled and eased her fingers beneath the thin material of his shirt. “You have a most magnificent chest,” she murmured, placing soft kisses beneath his shirt.
“Sophie. Stop.” He grabbed her wrists and stilled her roving hands.
“But I don’t want to.” She nuzzled her face against his chest and proceeded to punctuate her next words with tiny kisses. “I absolutely. Do not want. To stop.”
Holt squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the seductive picture she presented to his weakening conscience. “Please. I am only a man.”
Her soft laughter shot through him, straight to his rock hard shaft. He hadn’t thought he could get any harder but her next words proved him wrong. “Yes, indeed you are a man. I’m well aware of that.”
Was she engaging in sexual teasing? If she didn’t stop soon, his attempts at playing the gentleman would be short-lived.
“Gregory?”
“What?” He fixed his gaze on an empty chair in the corner. There was nothing sexual about that. It was just a wooden chair, brown, common.
“I’m feeling a little tired.” She pressed her body against his arousal, rubbing herself along the length of him. “I think I’d like a short nap.”
Was the chair made of pine?
“ . . . on the bed . . .” her hips began to move faster.
Or was it maple? He squinted, gritting his teeth.
“ . . . with you.” Her words fell out in short, choppy gasps. “Naked.”
Christ, he didn’t care if the goddamned chair was made of gold. He grabbed Sophie’s hips and fitted her between his legs, easing her along the length of his shaft. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Let me feel your hands on me.” She flicked open a button on his shirt. Then another. “Feel your mouth on my body.” Her fingers slipped to the top of his breeches.
He thrust against her, once, twice. “God, you’re torturing me.”
She slid her hands inside his breeches and cupped him with both hands. “Make love to me.” Her eyes glittered with passion and need. “Now,” she murmured, stroking his stiff cock.
“I don’t want—”
She cut him off with a kiss, plunging her tongue deep in his mouth. “I don’t want you to be a gentleman. I pray you aren’t one.” She eased her hands from his breeches and slowly lifted her gown, exposing glimpses of creamy flesh. “Because I don’t care to act the lady right now.”
“God help me, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,” he said, eyeing the top of her thigh.
She smiled.
“I could tear that gown off you this moment and bury myself so deep inside, I wouldn’t be able to find my way out for a week. That’s how much I want you.” He traced the chain of the medallion from her collarbone to the dainty lace trimming her neckline. He held her gaze as he dipped his fingers beneath her gown and stroked the ruby nestled between her breasts. “But perhaps we should save that for the honeymoon.”
She swallowed twice and said, “I will look forward to it with great pleasure.”
“Trust me, Madame, the pleasure will be all mine.” He reached for her pantaloons and tugged them down her legs. “Perfect.” He cupped her and buried a finger inside her woman’s heat. She jerked against him, moaning his name. Holt sat on the edge of the bed and dragged her on top of him. “Straddle me,” he rasped.
“I’m not sure—”
“Like this.” He positioned her legs on either side of him. “Now, put your knees on the bed.” He buried his hands under her gown and gripped her buttocks. “Closer,” he murmured, urging her toward him.
She
moaned when his hardness pulsed against her woman’s heat. “Should I lay down now?”
“No, my sweet. We’re going to do it, just like this.” He lifted her onto his cock. “Take your time to get used to me. We’ll go slow.”
He should have known there would be nothing slow about this coupling. “Oooohhh,” she sighed with undisguised delight as she slipped over him. Once, twice, she slid up and down the length of him, fast, faster, until she was shouting, “Gregory! Gregory, please!” Holt leaned back and thrust into her with bold, desperate need. Again and again they came together until Sophie shrieked her pleasure and collapsed against his chest. Holt thrust into her welcoming body twice more and exploded.
Much later, Sophie lifted her head from his chest and sighed. “Don’t look at me like that, Sophie.”
“Like what?” Her eyes shimmered as she spoke.
“Like you want me to devour you again.”
She ran her tongue over her lips and smiled. “Why would you think a thing like that?”
“No.” He was a strong man but if this kept up, she’d be a widow in six months.
“No, what?”
“No, we are not going to make love again.” There, he’d said it.
She cocked a brow and said, “Ever?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Not ever. Just not right now.”
“Oh.” She looked away.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
Damn, the woman could be trying.
“It’s just that,” she hazarded him a quick glance, “lovemaking is quite like eating chocolates.”
“It is?” His lovemaking had never been compared to a piece of confection.
“Most definitely.”
“How so?” Was he marrying a lunatic?
“Every woman knows chocolate is quite wonderful.”
“Hmmm.” He liked that.
“And though there are many kinds of sweets, nothing is quite like chocolate.”
His lovemaking was unique.
“But every woman also knows one tiny bit of chocolate is never enough.”
Tiny? Was she implying his size was inadequate? He stiffened and waited.
“Therefore, every woman knows if one bite is good, two bites are better.”
“You don’t say?” What the hell was she saying?
“Indeed.” Her lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Hmmm.” And what was this about biting? Biting what? Holt squirmed, uncomfortable with the mention of that word in association with his cock.
“Yes, so there you have it. And Gregory, if two bites are better,” she leaned close and brushed a kiss over his lips, “three is exquisite.”
“Sophie, what are you talking about?”
She stared at him, her eyes bright with mischief and something else . . . desire? “I want you, Gregory,” she said, all hints of teasing aside. “Once, twice,” she kissed his mouth, “three times.”
“Three times?” She’d be a widow in one month.
“Every day.”
Correct that prior calculation; two weeks.
“I must believe if the first time we made love was so wonderful and the second even better, what will the third be like? And the fourth? And the sixteenth?”
Ah, so now he understood. The woman planned to rate their sexual encounters. All of them.
“Sophie, each time we make love will be as special as or even better than the last time.”
She nodded her head in eager agreement. “I know.”
He brushed an auburn lock from her forehead. “But we can’t make love sixteen times in one day.”
“I know that.”
“Good.” He smiled and brushed his lips over her temple.
“Four times a day, no less than three.”
Was she mad? “I’ll be a dead man.”
“Well then, what are you offering?”
Was she serious? They were negotiating their lovemaking?
“Twice a day,” he said, “but no less than once a day.”
“Deal!” she said with such conviction he wondered if it had been her plan all along.
“While we’re on the subject of lovemaking, there is the little matter of the marriage.”
“Oh yes, there is that,” she murmured, settling her head on his chest with a long sigh.
“What do you say to three week’s time?”
“Three weeks?” Her head popped up and she stared at him as though he’d just admitted to wearing women’s drawers. “Where will we live? And what of Caroline? And your family, I know nothing of them.”
“Caroline will come with us, no matter where we go. I’m looking at property nearby that should suit us nicely. I very much want you to meet my family but that will have to wait until I return from London.”
“London?”
“I’m leaving in the morning on a few days of business. When I return, we’ll settle everything.”
“I shall miss you horribly.”
“Soon, we’ll be together every day.”
She kissed a nipple. “And every night.”
“Yes, there is that.”
“Indeed.”
“Once I return we’ll discuss the details of the wedding and you’ll meet my family.”
She stroked his cheek. “Will they like me?”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.”
“You’re worried about me?”
He avoided a direct answer. “My family is different. I want to make certain you don’t cry off after you meet them.”
She hugged him. “You could tell me your sister was a three-headed monster who ate dragons, and I would still marry you.”
His hold on her tightened. And what if they were Langfords, would you still marry me then?
Chapter 12
A solitary figure crouched behind a cluster of trees, eyes narrowed on the couple emerging from the cottage. They had no idea they were being watched, which made the whole affair so much more tantalizing.
The man’s tanned fingers brushed a tumble of auburn hair from the Seacrest woman’s neck. The woman laughed softly when he leaned in close and placed a lingering kiss behind her left ear.
Damn the bitch! She would pay for taking something that wasn’t hers.
The figure backed away from the trees.
Soon, the Seacrest chit would pay dearly for her indiscretions.
Very soon.
***
Sophie stared at the ledgers spread out before her. Business continued to decline and she could no longer blame it all on the blasted Langfords for her father rarely spent time with the business and when he did, his decisions were erratic and driven by his current mood.
With her thoughts in turmoil, Sophie did not hear the library door open. She glanced up from the ledger to find her aunt standing beside her, arms crossed over her flat chest, a scowl pasted on her thin face. “Is it not passing strange that Mr. Thurston left for London the very day after you announced your betrothal?”
Sophie feigned indifference. “He had urgent business to attend to.” Had he not told her it was imperative he travel to London and deal with said business posthaste?
“A man as virile as he is must certainly have at least one mistress. Have you considered that?”
“No.” She would be enough for him. Wouldn’t she?
“Employ reason,” Aunt Vivian persisted. “Of course he has a mistress, probably several if he’s as widely traveled as he says. Don’t look at me as though I’ve told you some horrific tale. I’m merely asking you to employ logic.”
“You’re trying to destroy my happiness.”
“I’m trying to protect you from your own stupidity,” she corrected. “Men like him aren’t capable of love. Remember, naiveté is worse than hemlock and twice as deadly.”
***
“Now, you must promise not to say a word of what I’m about to tell you,” Julia whispered.
“Of course, I’ll not say a word,” Francie Bishop whis
pered back. “Have I ever betrayed a confidence in the seven months we’ve known one another?”
“No, and I’m not doubting you now. It’s just that if this information erupts prematurely, there could be grave consequences.”
“Do tell.” Francie leaned closer. “Is someone’s life in jeopardy?”
“No, nothing like that.” She gave Francie a knowing look and said, “But someone’s heart is.”
“Ahhhh, I see.”
They sat in the Bishop’s drawing room, sharing tea and cinnamon bread, the bread being one of Francie’s latest concoctions. She was always concocting one thing or another, matchmaking plans included.
“Well?”
“Where’s your husband?”
“Alexander? He had a business meeting. Why?”
“You know he doesn’t like me,” Julia said, wanting to add the feeling was mutual.
“Of course Alexander likes you.” Francie paused. “At least I think he does. Perhaps I should ask him.”
“Please don’t.”
There was something intimidating about the man, even more so than Holt. Perhaps it was the fact that he rarely smiled and when he met a person, he studied them as though he were conducting an investigation for the Crown. It was quite unsettling. And she wouldn’t mention the little chat they’d once had about Julia filling his wife’s head with schemes and ideas. As though Francie needed any help from her!
“I don’t know why you would think Alexander doesn’t like you.”
“Perhaps because he neglects to inform you when I’ve come calling.”
“He’s forgetful.”
“He makes a point of seeing that our seats are rows apart at operas and recitals.”
“Hmmm. I did find that a bit odd. Do you think he had something to do with that?”
“Who else? And why has he refused five dinner invitations from Ellswood in the last several months even though he and Jason are business acquaintances?”
“Why indeed?” Francie mused, rubbing her jaw. “My goodness, Julia, perhaps he doesn’t like you.” They looked at one another and burst out laughing. “I shall see to this posthaste.” Francie sipped her chamomile tea and added, “Expect an invitation to dinner by week’s end.”