“Will it hurt, Brock?”
The quake in her voice ably snuffed his mischievous machinating. “Never with me,” he said quietly, willing her to believe it. “Do you recall the pleasure you felt at my touch?”
Too concerned about the answer to her own question, she ignored the absurdity of his.
At her nod, he continued. “Joining with you allows us to share that pleasure. There is no pain. Trust me in this.”
“I do.” She returned his kiss, prolonging the contact.
Encouraged, he gripped the edge of the blanket she had wound around her body. Amara slapped his hand and shifted away from him. So his lady wanted to play games. He was primed and quite willing. Brock lunged.
Squealing with laughter, she rolled away and struggled to her feet. She was halfway across the room before he caught her by the waist and spun her around.
“Stop, stop,” she pleaded, trying to catch her breath. “I will get sick!”
“A ruse. I have never met another with a sturdier constitution than yours.” He set her down anyway, but held her close. Brock groaned when her backside brushed against his erection. Within her proximity, he felt like a randy beast quivering in front of his mate just as he readied himself to enter her. The image of tearing away the blanket, pushing her against the wall and taking her chipped at his civility.
Amara must have sensed the change in him. As she turned her head, he took advantage of the tender curve between her neck and shoulder that she offered and sank his teeth into her. She leaned into him, her hand reaching back to touch his face. Last time, he had shown her gentleness. Now he would show her the passion she roused. Brock scooped her into his arms and carried her to the pallet. She fell onto the blankets, losing her hold on the one covering her.
“Do not move,” he ordered while he tugged off his shirt. His hands tore at the buttons on his breeches. In his frenzy, he struggled to free them.
“If you will permit me?” The blanket fell to her waist, as she rose on her knees to assist him. Staring down at her endearingly awkward attempts to unfasten his falls, his blood pounded the beat of his heart in his ears. “There, it is done.” She sat on her heels, her eyes solemnly fixed on his aggressive arousal.
“Trust me, Amara.” Brock peeled his breeches down his legs and kicked them aside. “It will be like before. Only pleasure.”
“I never realized there was—are you not too large?” she blurted out.
Comfortable with his nakedness, he sat down beside her and pulled her into his lap as he had done earlier. “Stroke me,” he entreated.
He thought she would refuse such a bold command. But she was braver than she realized. His cock twitched as her cool fingers petted the length of him. She pulled her hand away, faltering at his response.
“Explore me. It hurts more when you are not touching me.”
“I do not understand.”
“Let me show you.” Putting his hand between her legs, he pressed his fingers into her nether curls. The dampness coating his fingers was enlightening. “You are so responsive, dove. Touch me again.” He teased her with his fingers, making her squirm.
Amara enclosed her hand around him. Encouraged by his own questing, she measured the length of him. “Smooth, hot to the touch, and yet rigid as a sword,” she marveled as if he were a specimen she was studying. “You are not wet.”
She was killing him and she was not being merciful about it. “You are. You are too generous not to share.” Kissing Amara, he lifted her and arranged her position so that she straddled him. He cupped her buttocks. Rubbing himself against her, the blunt head of his cock was anointed with her yielding wetness. “Take me.” Crushing her to him, he filled her with one stroke.
She dug her nails into the back of his neck at his swift impalement. Her lashes fluttered open and their gazes collided. “No pain,” she whispered, amazed.
“No.” Not the sort that put fear in her eyes. Holding still deep within her, Brock slid his hand from her hip down the length of her leg, wrapping the limb around his waist. His fervid kiss contrasted with the restraint he had imposed on his body. “We are not limited by rules, only by our originality and endurance.” He rocked within her, proving she could accommodate his loving invasion.
Her blue eyes widened at his upward thrust. “I have always considered you a clever man.”
Amara clung to Brock like ivy on stone. Not that he was trying to get away, she thought smugly. From the approving noises he made, he was quite content with his situation. She followed his lead, and they moved together, slowly at first, savoring the unique joining of man and woman. Rising and falling, Brock forged into her intimate slick depths and what had shimmered just out of reach earlier coalesced into a low blossoming heat. She had always believed lovemaking was solely for a man’s pleasure. Brock had helped her discover a part of herself she had never known existed.
“More,” he muttered savagely, his movements losing their fluid grace. She swung a bracing hand out when he pitched forward intending to shove her on to her back. Realizing what he was about to do, Brock cursed and pulled her upright. Before she could question his indecision, he said, “This way.” Lying back, he tugged her forward.
Leaning over him, Amara folded her legs while she straddled his hips. The change in their position stretched her. Brock clenched his teeth. His hands settled on her hips, coaxing her body into accepting the full measure of his manhood. He looked as if the new position pained him.
“Am I hurting you?”
The shudder began in his chest. Soon she realized he was laughing.
“Exquisitely, dove,” he bit out, guiding her movements with his hands. “Promise you will never stop!”
Lowering her head so her hair hid most of her face, she shyly replied, “You are easy to please.”
“Mayhap my dove thinks her beast is too tame.” Mischievous delight enhanced the green hue of his eyes. “Persuading you to reverse your opinion shall bring pleasure for us both.” He turned his face into her right breast and suckled her nipple. Amara moaned, enjoying the subtle tightening in her breasts.
“Brock.”
“Which strokes give you the most fulfillment? This?” He teasingly kept his thrusting shallow.
Being denied the full length of him aroused and tormented her in ways she had not thought possible. When she tried to press her weight down on him, the scoundrel anticipated her reaction. Smacking her on the bottom, he grinned and held her off with incredible ease.
“Who holds the power?” she queried archly.
“Or perhaps this is more to your liking,” he said, piercing the heart of her. They both cried out.
Having gained her answer, Brock was unrelenting. She might have been the one on top, but he was the one who set their reckless pace. The cords in his neck grew prominent as he drove his hips upward, plunging his thick manhood to the hilt, repeatedly, so that her entire body bucked with each battering thrust.
A sinuous warmth began intensifying in her belly, spreading and constricting every inch it consumed. Without warning, it exploded, similarly to the hammer of a pistol striking the priming pan. Her vision was a blinding flash of white as she was racked with pulse after pulse of ecstasy. As she endeavored not to collapse on him, his name erupted from her lips in a strangled gasp.
Her writhing cries severed Brock’s arrogant restraint. Rearing up frantically in cadence with her fading release, he stilled, letting his head fall back, and his hips arched to meet hers. They were locked together, and his breath was a hiss between his teeth. Amara held him closer, feeling the rhythmic contraction of his manhood, the forceful gush of his seed against her womb. Brock had described their joining as a sharing of their bodies. She disagreed. It was a claiming.
Sated and sleepy, neither spoke while he absently stroked her back. His manhood had remained turgid after the release. Still, nestled within her, Brock made no attempt to disengage their tangled repose. Finally, he asked, “Have you figured out who holds the power, dove?�
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He reached over and flipped the blanket over them. Pondering the answer to the riddle, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Brock was alone on the pallet when he awoke. Stretching out the kink in his right shoulder, he searched the hall for some hint of Amara’s whereabouts. The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting an indulgent grin. Poor little dove, he thought. Waking up naked beside her lover must have triggered a bout of shyness. She was probably upstairs castigating herself for her lapse of judgment while she wiggled herself back into her corset and gown. A gentleman would dress and respect her privacy, he mused, scratching the stubble under his jaw. Unfortunately, for Amara, he threw on and shed his decorum like a pair of breeches. After last night, he was looking forward to finding her and stripping her of her misgivings and whatever else she was wearing.
“Looking for me?”
She had paused at the threshold. From her expression, she must have been watching him for some time. Instead of donning her gown, she had slipped on his shirt. The sunlight beaming down from overhead gave him enticing glimpses of the naked curves beneath. A flood of possessiveness filled him, knowing only hours earlier he had feasted on the forbidden and she had let him.
Brock had been prepared to coax her from her shyness. He was unsure of the confident woman who stared brazenly at his nakedness. “Where did you go?” he asked, pulling a blanket over his hips. Seeing her rumpled and bathed in sunlight only inflamed his morning arousal.
Amara held up a bean tart. She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “I was hungry.”
His mouth went dry as he watched her tongue dart out, ensnaring a crumb at the corner of her mouth. “Were you planning on sharing?”
She blushed at the question. Belatedly, he recalled telling her that joining with her was a kind of sharing. It appeared she was more ill at ease with their lovemaking than she had wanted him to know. After a moment, she walked over to him. “You may have it all, if you like.” She offered him the tart.
He leaned toward her and took a bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he held her gaze while he caressed her knee. His hand slid between her legs and up her inner thigh. “Are you terribly sore?” He found her silken nest, and she dampened under his skillful fondling.
“I—I am not c-certain,” she stammered. The forgotten bean tart fell from her hand to the stone floor.
Reaching for her hand, he meticulously licked the crumbs from her fingers. Shivering, she closed her eyes.
“Then I will have to find out for myself.”
The hackney had been her inspiration. If she had allowed Brock to have his way, he would have driven her home and brashly escorted her to the door. That would have been a fearsomely awkward scene. At the sight of her in Brock Bedegrayne’s custody, her mother would have collapsed in an apoplectic fit while her father quietly started plotting Brock’s murder.
She could not let that happen.
They had argued most of their journey back to London. In the end, he had conceded to her wishes and put her in the hired coach. The hard kiss he had pressed onto her tender mouth had not been half as daunting as his parting words.
“Retreat if you must, but remember well that you are mine.”
How could she forget? She ached from his claiming and was likely to for days. There was no part of her that had not been marked with his mouth and hands. Even the morning had not hindered his ardor. Shameless, he had risen naked from the pallet and led her to one of the chairs near the hearth. After what they had done, she wondered if she could ever look at a chair without blushing.
Remember well.
Oh, she would indeed. Although she had washed away the evidence of their night together, his unique male scent clung to her, mingling with her own. She could close her eyes, but it was his green hungry gaze that devoured her in her mind, his guttural voice that demanded she take more of him.
Nothing could make her regret their lovemaking. Even though she had been terrified initially, he had spent the night banishing her demons one by one. She had brought him pleasure as well, she thought, a dreamy smile softening her lips. If one day was all the fates offered them, she would be content, for the memory of them together would warm her heart for a lifetime.
Lost in her thoughts, she was only vaguely aware that the hackney had stopped. The door opened and Amara looked blankly at the face of the coachman.
“’Ere ye go, lass,” he said encouragingly, helping her out of the coach.
The front door of their town house swung open. Their butler, Buckle, must have noticed her arrival from one of the windows. Rushing forward, he was at her side before she had taken four steps.
“Thank you for your services,” the butler said to the hired coachman. “I will return with your fee after I have seen to Miss Claeg.”
“The g—”
“The good man has been paid, Buckle,” she said, rushing over the man’s declaration that a gentleman had paid her way in advance.
The coachman cleared his throat, understanding too well her need for discretion. “True ’nuff. A good day to you, miss.” He tugged the rim of his hat and backed away.
“You look tired, Miss Claeg. Shall I call for a bath or have Cook fix you a tray?”
She absently patted her stomach. Brock had distracted her earlier when she had been hungry. “Both. I am famished. Are my parents at home?”
“No, miss. Lord Keyworth departed with Conte Prola an hour ago. I believe they were anticipating a falconry demonstration at one of the commons.”
“And my mother and Miss Novell?”
“At the dressmaker’s. Lady Keyworth expressed concern that you were not available for the fitting of your new gown.”
Amara winced at the reminder of the upcoming ball being held in honor of her birthday. She had deliberately skipped several of her fittings when she had begun to suspect the true reason for the festivities. Lord and Lady Keyworth intended to announce her betrothal to the conte.
“Is something troubling you, Miss Claeg?” he politely inquired, noting her pained expression.
“Nothing important. Just a loose pin,” she improvised, recalling the trouble Brock had had acting as her maid. They had quickly discovered that duplicating Corry’s efforts was more challenging than he had arrogantly assumed. “Anything else?”
“Just your brother.”
She halted and gripped the butler’s arm. Doran had tried contacting her, and once again she had missed him. “There has been a message from my brother?”
If he thought her reaction odd, his visage did not betray his opinion. “Mr. Claeg surprised the household with an unexpected visit this morning. He was rather intent on speaking with you.”
“Mallory,” she said cautiously.
“Yes, miss. He and Lord Keyworth briefly exchanged words and then Mr. Claeg departed.”
She doubted their meeting had been a pleasant one. “Were they arguing, Buckle?” If there was discord between father and son, the entire staff would have witnessed a thunderous display.
“I cannot say. I was not privy to their discourse.”
It was too much to hope they had put aside their differences. Something was troubling her brother to rouse him out of his bed before twelve. “Very well. Thank you, Buckle.” She moved toward the stairs.
“Miss Claeg?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me for any disrespect, however, I must inquire. Are you all right?” he asked, his gaze dwelling on the soiled condition of her gown.
She glanced down ruefully at the front of her skirt. “It is the gown that inspires your concern. A sorry state, I must confess. I am dreading Corry’s scolding when she sees what my clumsiness has done to her fine handiwork.”
Amara waved farewell to the butler and rushed up the stairs before he asked questions she was not prepared to answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Entering the house he had rented for the season, Brock longed for a bath, food, and a few more hours of sleep. He was not particular about the
order. No one rushed out to greet him as he discarded his hat and gloves. Amara had teased him about his lack of staff at Whitmott Park. This house could use a few more servants too. Only a manservant, cook, and housemaid were looking after him. It had seemed enough a few weeks ago, but he suspected the trio fell short of a lady’s expectations. After all, the household was a woman’s domain.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bedegrayne,” the manservant said, struggling to put his arm into the sleeve of his coat. “Forgive my tardiness.”
“I managed to open the door all on my own, Sellick.” Brock could not say the same for his manservant. The man was contorted and flapping about like an outraged goose. He grabbed the servant by the scruff of his neck and forced him to stand still while he worked the man’s arm into his sleeve.
“Thank you, sir.” He tripped over his own foot as he picked up the hat and gloves Brock had tossed on the floor. “I suppose you will want refreshments for you and your guest.”
“Entertaining whilst I am out of town, Sellick?”
The younger man’s eyes rounded in horror. “Oh, no, sir! The gentleman claimed he was a close friend of yours. He assured me that you would not mind if he waited for your return.”
Brock heard a suspicious sniffle. “Good God, man, are you crying?”
“The dust, sir, it tickles my nose.”
He had a servant who suffered from an aversion to dust running his household. Brock liked Sellick well enough, but it was obvious the man was too inexperienced for his position. On the morrow, he would consult Wynne about finding some additional staff. As for Sellick, well, perhaps the man would be better suited as his valet.
“Get rid of whoever hoodwinked you to get into my parlor. Friend or foe, I have no interest in entertaining anyone.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 24