“Yes, well, there are things you don’t know about me.” She took a deep breath, then looked down at her fingers, which were twining and untwining nervously. “When I married my husband, I loved him too much, and he didn’t love me at all. As a result, he felt smothered, I felt undesirable, and our physical relations were . . . disappointing for both of us.”
“Undesirable? You? Stuff.” Nicholas made a sound of disbelief. “Was he impotent?”
“With me, yes. Sometimes. With his other women, I don’t know.”
Still holding her wrists, he leaned forward and kissed her. “I won’t be disappointed, Belinda.”
She smiled a little. “Don’t say that quite yet.”
She started to pull her hands away, but he didn’t let her. “There is no way on God’s earth you could disappoint me because you are lovelier than anything my imagination has ever conjured up, and believe me, I have a very good imagination.”
He released her wrists. “Everything about you is desirable to me. Your hair, for instance,” he said, smoothing the inky locks with his palm. “It’s so black it’s almost blue, and it feels like silk. Your eyes—all different shades of blue in the daylight, gray in twilight—stun me every time I look into them. Your skin, your scent intoxicate me. And your figure, well . . .” He paused and grasped her wrists again to spread her arms wide. His throat went dry at the sight of her pale, smooth skin, and her round, full breasts with their pink nipples and darker aureoles. He slid his gaze farther down to her perfectly proportioned hips, and he cursed himself for not taking off her drawers earlier. By the sunlight that peeked between the curtains, he thought he could see the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs, and the desire he’d been holding in check for weeks threatened to flare up out of control. He forced his gaze back to her face, but it still took him a few seconds before he could speak again because her face was every bit as wrenchingly beautiful as her body.
He cleared his throat. “As for your figure,” he resumed, “I hope it’s all right if I reserve judgment on that for a bit.”
“Reserve judgment?” she echoed, and he didn’t know whether what he heard in her voice was disbelief or fear. Possibly, it was both.
“Yes,” he answered. “You see, I think I have to do quite a bit of research on this particular topic before I pronounce an opinion. I think I’ll begin here.”
Still holding her hands apart, he bent his head and kissed her breast. “Lovely,” he said, and grazed her nipple with his tongue, gratified to hear her sharp intake of breath. He let her hands go and cupped both breasts. “Pink and white, and such gorgeous nipples.”
He played with her breasts, shaping them. He toyed with her nipples, relishing how they hardened in response. He pulled one into his mouth and suckled her, softly at first, then harder, until she was moaning low in her throat and her hands were raking through his hair to pull him closer.
He could feel her arousal growing hotter. He wanted that. It was clear Featherstone had been a piss-poor lover, and though the other man had clearly had no idea just how much passion Belinda possessed, he knew, and he intended to stoke that fire as hot as it could go.
He gently scored her nipple with his teeth, and she cried out, her knees giving way beneath her. He wrapped an arm around her to hold her upright, his tongue still licking her nipple as he guided her body backward until she hit the brass footboard of the bed.
“Now, where was I?” he murmured, pretending to think about it. “That’s right. I was doing research.”
His hands slid to her waist. “Perfect,” he said. “I think you should leave off the corset from now on. You don’t need it at all, and if we do decide we want a cinq à sept, it will be far easier to manage it. Particularly if we’re in some farmer’s field somewhere tomorrow afternoon.”
“In a field? Lovemaking outside, in the open?” She was staring at him as if he’d gone mad.
“I suppose that sort of thing wasn’t to Featherstone’s taste either?”
She shook her head. Her tongue shot out to lick her lips. “Never. Not even at night.”
“Then he was a fool. Anywhere I have you to myself I want you.” He grasped her hips and turned her around, then slid his arms around her to grasp the drawstring of her drawers. “Hang on to the bed,” he told her.
Belinda did so, curling her fingers around the brass on either side of her hips, but as he undid the bow that secured her drawers, she had no idea what he was going to do. Take her right here?
The air was warm and sultry in the room, but as he slid her drawers off her hips, and they fell to her ankles, she shivered, feeling terribly vulnerable because she was naked and it was daylight and he could see her from this position, but she couldn’t see him.
What was he doing?
He knelt behind her. “Lift your feet,” he said, tugging at the drawers tangled around her ankles. They joined the rest of her clothes in the corner, along with her stockings and garters, then his palms glided up the outsides of her thighs, scorching hot. Oh, God, she realized, he was staring straight at her bare backside. He kissed her there, his lips warm against her buttock, and she was seized by another paroxysm of her girlhood shyness. She made a sound of protest, moving to turn around, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Ssh,” he admonished, trailing kisses across the base of her spine. “Let me do this. I want to look at you and touch you. Every . . . single . . . part of you.”
The heels of his hands cupped her buttocks, shaped them. “You have the most gorgeous bum,” he said. “God, I’m making myself insane.”
Abruptly, he stood up and leaned into her, dipping his knees so that his hips pressed hers, and she groaned at the hard ridge of his arousal against her bare bottom. Combined with the rough-textured wool of his trousers, it was unbelievably erotic.
“There now,” he said, his breathing ragged as he flexed his hips, sliding his hardness against her buttocks. “I hope we’ve now settled the question of your desirability? If not, I could keep going.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want that. She wanted what she’d come here for. She wanted his body on hers and his mouth on hers and his manhood inside her. She ached for it. “No,” she gasped. “I believe you.”
“Good.” He kissed her shoulder, and she was sure he would undo his trousers and come into her now, but he didn’t. Instead, keeping his arousal pressed to her bottom, he reached around her, over the footboard and back between the bars to touch her. When the tip of his finger slid between the folds of her sex, she moaned, pleasure fissuring through her, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
She tried to wriggle her hips, but his superior weight had her pinned to the footboard, and all she could do was stand there as he caressed her through the bars, a tender, almost delicate caress as he pressed hard against her from the back. It was like nothing else she’d ever felt. His fingertip was a tease, a whisper, a promise of what might be if only she could get closer. And behind her, his manhood was another tease, a harder, deeper promise of something still just out of reach. Caught, she was desperate for a deeper caress, but unless he gave her more, this was all she could have.
It was agony, to have desire held out of reach. It was unbearable. She tried to tell him that, but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and the only sound she could make was a sob of frustration.
He kissed her ear, flicking his tongue against her lobe and sending shivers through her body, but he didn’t bring his hand any closer. He didn’t let her go. “Is there something you want?” he whispered. “Tell me.”
Tell him? How could she tell him? She couldn’t talk. She could barely breathe.
He waited. He didn’t deepen the caress. He didn’t unbutton his trousers. Instead, his fingers slid away, and she gave a gasp. “Nicholas,” she whispered, feeling all the awful shyness of her girlhood coming back. “I can’t. I can’t.”
He
turned her around, and sank to his knees in front of her, catching her hands as she frantically tried to cover herself. He entwined their fingers, spread her arms wide, and pressed a kiss to her stomach, making her quiver inside. And then, to her utter shock, he pressed his lips to the hair at the apex of her thigh.
She squealed. She couldn’t help it. She felt panicky, embarrassed, overcome by another wave of shyness. “Oh, don’t,” she moaned, her hips jerking as if to push him away. “Don’t.”
“Belinda, you were a married woman,” he murmured, his lips caressing her as he spoke. “I can’t believe your husband never did this.”
“Of course he didn’t do this. Nobody does this!”
That made him laugh, warm breath against her curls. “Ah, but they do. They do it quite often, and for good reason.” He paused and looked up at her. “I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?”
She bit her lip. “Yes,” she said after a moment.
“Then let me kiss you here.” He let her hands go, then his fingers touched her, tangling lightly in the curls. “Open your legs for me and let me do this.”
“All right,” she said in a miserable whisper, and when she allowed him to part her legs, her embarrassment became so great, she felt as if it were burning her from the inside out.
She had to look away. She braced her weight on the footboard behind her, her bottom perched on the edge, her fingers curled tight around the brass and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, as his lips brushed her again and she fought the impulse to tear away.
“Look at me, Belinda.”
She shook her head, still looking at the ceiling.
He kissed her again. “Look at me.”
She forced her gaze down to meet his. “I want this for you,” he said, and his eyes locked with hers as he eased his hand between her thighs. “I want you to have this. There’s no shame in it.”
“I’m not ashamed. I’m just . . . shy. I was, you know, as a girl. I still am, sometimes.”
“I didn’t know that. You have no reason to be shy, not with me. You’re beautiful.” He lowered his head to look at her most intimate place. “Everywhere,” he added. “I knew you would be.”
She stared down at him, at his hair—burnished in the shady dimness of afternoon, at his thick brown lashes—gilded at the tips, at his face—filled with desire as he looked at her, and when he kissed her again, all her shyness seemed to dissolve and float away, no longer of any consequence, like so much flotsam vanishing on a summer breeze.
And then . . . oh, God . . . and then his tongue touched the crease of her sex. She gasped, a gasp of astonished pleasure as his tongue began to lash her with the softest, most incredible caresses she’d ever felt.
She couldn’t think, she was lost in sensations beyond anything she’d thought possible. She’d known—at least, she thought she’d known—all about intimate relations. But this? She hadn’t ever imagined such a glorious thing as this.
Because of him, all the desires she’d suppressed for years, desires that had diminished and died because of another man’s indifference and neglect, came to life again, and she unfolded to him like the petals of a flower opened to sunlight. He was like air and food and light for her parched soul.
She needed to move, and this time, he let her, his arm wrapping around her thighs to hold her as his tongue gave her these carnal kisses. This wasn’t at all like that afternoon in Chelsea. That had been a quick, powerful jolt of orgasm, a primitive instinctual response to need. This was something else. It was languid and lovely, but as it deepened and spread, it grew stronger and more powerful, until her body was moving in frantic little jerks, and she was sobbing with the exquisite pleasure of it. She climaxed at last, a powerful wave that flooded every part of her body with sensation. And then, to her amazement, the wave came again, and again, then again. She thrust against his mouth with each wave, savoring each climax, until at last, she collapsed, so overwhelmed by it all that she would have fallen had Nicholas not been holding her.
She blinked, staring down at him in wonder, and when he looked back up at her, he was smiling, just a slight, knowing curve of the lips. “Now you know why people do this.”
Belinda shook her head. Never had she experienced orgasm like this. During her marriage, climax had been a quick, frantic coupling in the dark, usually followed by a crushing sense of frustration and disappointment and months of indifference. And even the rare times it had been tender, it had never been like this. Pleasure that came in waves over and over, until one slid off the edge of the earth into utter bliss? Never.
Until now.
“I never knew,” she whispered, giving a little laugh. “I . . . I’m stunned.”
Nicholas thought that was most gratifying thing anyone had ever said to him. “I’m glad. Very . . .” He paused to press a kiss to her stomach. “Very glad.”
When Nicholas lifted his head to look up at her again, his pleasure at her compliment gave way to something deeper. In a shaft of late-afternoon sun that peeked between the draperies, she looked tousled and luscious and thoroughly pleasured. Her smile was radiant. Her long hair fell in waves all around her, and the nipples of her breasts peeked out between ink black locks. Her lips were puffy from his kisses, and her skin was still flushed a delicate pink from the orgasms that had overcome her. He could only stare, knowing that as long as he lived, he would never see anything more beautiful than Belinda was at this moment. “I love you.”
He hadn’t meant to say it; hell, he hadn’t even thought it, not consciously, anyway. It had just come spilling out. It was only the second time in his life he’d said that particular phrase to a woman, but now that the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were the simple truth, and even though her smile vanished at once, and he feared he might have made a serious mistake, he wouldn’t ever regret saying those words to her.
Nonetheless, he felt impelled to throw himself back onto solid ground, and he did it the only way he knew how. “Stunned you again, have I?” he said, pasting on a grin. “I wonder how many times I can do that in one afternoon. I say we find out.”
He stood up, and as he did, he became aware—painfully aware—of his own banked desires. He was rock-hard, aching for her, and he knew he didn’t have much time before his self-discipline was utterly exhausted.
He undressed, yanking off his shoes and stripping off trousers and linen as quickly as he could. Taking her hand, he led her around to the side of the bed, falling back into the mattress and pulling her down beside him.
But still, he didn’t move to enter her. Instead, he rolled onto his side, and his fingers eased between her legs again, spreading the moisture of her arousal, over velvety folds and silken curls, across her clitoris and just inside her opening, over and over. Beneath his hand, he could feel her arousal rising again, her pleasure thickening, and the depths of her hunger made him realize just how starved for tender lovemaking she was. Good thing Featherstone was dead, or Nicholas just might have had to go off and shoot the son of a bitch.
He stroked her, his finger sliding up and down in the way that seemed to please her most until each pant was a sob.
“Want me?” he asked, but she couldn’t reply. All she could do was give a frantic nod, and, thankfully, that seemed enough.
He withdrew his hand, and as he moved on top of her, her legs opened beneath him. He wanted to go slowly still, but as the head of his penis touched her warm, silken folds, he just couldn’t do it, and he thrust hard into her.
She came almost at once, crying out as she clenched tight around him, and the pulsing sensations of her climax were just too much to bear. With a force he could no longer contain, he thrust deeply into her, again and again, losing himself in her softness and her scent and her passionate cries, and when at last he climaxed, the pleasure was explosive, so acute and intense it was like pain, shattering him to bits.
He c
ollapsed atop her in complete release, his arms sliding beneath her to hold her tight, his panting breaths mingling with hers in the hush of afternoon. He kissed her lips, her hair, her throat—anywhere he could reach without pulling out of her. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer, and he pulled back to look at her, resting his weight on his forearms, his hands beneath her back, his penis still inside her. “Belinda, are you all right?”
“Oh, God,” she whispered and her eyes looked into his, wide with wonder. “Oh, my God. I never knew making love was like this.”
He laughed, and a wave of satisfaction better than any orgasm rose up inside him, filling his chest, squeezing his heart, pouring joy through his veins, and he knew he believed in love again. For the first time in years, by heaven, he believed in love. What a ripping miracle.
Chapter 20
They came down for dinner, took a walk in the gardens, and made love again that night, but she didn’t sleep with him. He wanted her to, but she hated the idea of servants coming in to find her in his bed. He pointed out, quite reasonably, that they already knew what was afoot. Servants always knew that sort of thing. Nonetheless, Belinda had her own sense of propriety about things, and she slept in her own bedroom. But she also hugged her pillow all night and pretended it was he.
The next day, he wasn’t in the morning room when she came down for breakfast, and when she inquired as to his whereabouts, Forbisher informed her that His Lordship had already gone out. He was in the hops fields with his land agent, Mr. Burroughs.
“Do you wish to attend Sunday services, my lady?” the butler asked her. “If so, Robson can take you to Maidstone in the gig.”
She did not want to go into Maidstone. And considering what had happened yesterday, church was a bit hypocritical. “No, I don’t think so, Forbisher.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 25