by Candace Camp
She remembered now where she was. In Jack’s bed. She had, astonishingly, curled up in his lap and fallen asleep. Vaguely she remembered opening her eyes for a moment and finding herself in his arms as he carried her across the room. He had laid her down on the bed, and she had instantly gone back to sleep. In sudden alarm, she looked down at her body. A sheet and blanket covered her modestly. Her dress was gone, as well as her shoes, but she breathed a sigh of relief to see that she still wore all her undergarments.
Jack must have heard some noise from her, for he turned his head. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No. I don’t know.” She was glad for the cover of darkness, which made the situation somewhat less embarrassing. “What are you doing?”
“I was watching the revelers. I must say, your countrymen celebrate with great enthusiasm.” He strolled over and sat on the other side of the bed.
“I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”
“You had a tiring day.”
“And you carried me to bed. Thank you.”
“I did, and you are welcome. It seemed the least I could do. As pleasant as it was to hold you, I thought it would prove awkward for the entire night.”
“I . . . my dress . . .” Her hand went to the covers over her, as if to hold them in place.
His grin flashed. “Yes. I removed your shoes and dress. It seemed a mite uncomfortable to sleep in them.”
“Oh.”
He leaned closer, bracing his hand on the bed. “I confess, I enjoyed every lascivious moment of it. But I stopped there.” He reached out and hooked his forefinger in the sheet, tugging it down to reveal the top of her chemise. “I would rather discover your body with you awake.”
“Um.” She cleared her throat, heat rising in her cheeks. “Is it morning? Have you not slept?”
“I lay down, but”—he shrugged—“I had trouble sleeping.” He ran his finger along the neckline of her chemise. “I found my promise to you rather more difficult to keep than I realized.”
“I should leave.”
“No. Don’t go.” He leaned over her, bracing himself with a hand on the edge of the bed, effectively trapping her.
“Jack.” She shifted uneasily.
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of breaking my word to you. I shall do nothing you do not want. Lying in bed with you is a form of torture, but it is one I enjoy.”
Isobel could find no place to set her gaze. His face never failed to stir her, but it was no safer to drop her eyes to his chest, a large swath of it laid bare by his open shirt. The sight of the hard center line of his chest, the hair black against his skin, made her mouth go dry. She could see the play of muscles across his stomach as he shifted position and the ridges of his ribs. Her fingers tingled with the desire to touch him, to learn the texture of his skin and hair, to discover the map of his bone and muscle. She had never imagined how fascinating the male body might be, how tempted she could be to explore it.
As if he knew her thoughts, Jack took her hand and brought it to his chest, holding her palm against him. Isobel drew in a shaky breath. She should pull her hand away. She should turn aside and leave his room. Leave his bed.
Instead she slid her fingertips down him, intrigued by the smoothness of his skin, the tickling brush of his hair, the firm padding of muscle beneath his flesh. His skin was hot, and it flared into even greater heat as she touched him. Her fingers moved onto the hard ridges of his ribs, gliding around toward his side. Isobel looked up into Jack’s face, and her breath caught in her throat at the stark stamp of desire she saw there—his eyes dark as a storm, skin stretched tightly across his bones, mouth softening.
She snatched her hand away and started to push herself up from the bed. “I’m sorry. I should not—”
“No. You should. You very much should.” The blanket and sheet had slid down at her movement, and he edged them lower. “Stay. Just a moment. Let me show you how it feels.”
Isobel let her head fall back to her pillow, the humming anticipation of her body overriding all sense of caution. She wanted, she hungered, to know the things he offered. His smile was slow and sensual as his hand drifted over her, soft and light as falling snow. Every inch of her flesh was suddenly alive with nerves, so that the merest brush of his fingers, even through the cloth of her chemise, inflamed her skin. She trembled beneath his touch, amazed by the flood of sensation. She was filled with a yearning so fierce and commanding that it shook her to the core.
Closing her eyes, as if to hide from the embarrassment of her desire, she gave herself up to the moment. What she felt was delightful, yet it was not enough. She wanted to have his fingers upon her skin without the barriers of her clothes, a desire so strong that she had to bite her lip to keep from asking him to remove the thin cotton shift. Again, he seemed to sense what she wanted, for he undid the bow of ribbon at the top of her chemise, loosening the neck and sliding his fingers beneath it, roaming down over her breasts and coming to rest on the hardened center of her nipple. Stroking and teasing, his fingertips glided farther, moving across the soft plateau of her stomach and downward until he was stopped by the waistband of her petticoat.
Isobel let out a little noise of frustration. She heard his low, smugly satisfied chuckle, and he grabbed the hem of her chemise, pulling it up and over her head. The cool air on her bare breasts was another touch all its own, and her flesh prickled in response. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, his hot, hungry gaze moving over her bare flesh like the stroke of his fingers. Shocked, she realized that mingled with her embarrassment, pushing it aside, was a profound satisfaction, even pride. There was, she realized, an eagerness to arouse him, a pleasure in being naked before him.
“Isobel,” he murmured, and bent to press his lips upon the soft flesh of her breast. “Beautiful Isobel.” Bracing himself on his forearms, he roamed across her with his mouth, planting soft, lingering kisses. “I have been dreaming about this night for days. Weeks.”
The low timbre of his voice, the caress of his breath against her sensitive skin, stirred Isobel almost as much as the velvet touch of his lips, and the ache between her legs grew.
“Lying awake at night, thinking about you in your bed only a few steps down the hall. Remembering how you looked when you ran downstairs in your night rail, the light behind you outlining every sweet curve of your body.” He kissed one rosy tip, then the other. “I wanted you like a madman that night.” He hooked a finger in the waistband of her petticoat, tugging it down to expose her navel. “And every night since.” He placed his lips against her quivering flesh, his tongue stealing into the shallow depression.
Isobel sucked in her breath in surprise and her hands moved involuntarily, her fingers clenching the sleeves of his shirt. He did not seem to mind that her fingertips dug into his arms, for he gave a breathy, little laugh, shoving the covers off her. As his mouth explored her upper half, his hand roved down over her petticoats, smoothing up and down her legs. Her petticoats grew shorter with every slide of his hands.
“I tortured myself wondering exactly how long those elegant legs were. All that kept me sane was knowing soon I could measure them with my hands. Learn each curve and line. Feel them wrap around my back.” He slipped his hand beneath the thin petticoats and up her leg, skimming over the stockings and garter and onto the bare flesh of her thigh.
Isobel started at the unaccustomed touch, and his name fell from her mouth in a soft moan. “Jack . . .”
His skin flared with heat. He gazed down at her, his eyes fierce and consuming, watching the play of emotions on her face as he slowly glided over her skin, setting every nerve tingling in response. “Say it again. I have been waiting to hear you call out to me in just that way. Say my name.”
His hand crept higher, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her flesh.
“Jack.” Her whisper caught as a shiver took her. “Oh, Jack . . .”
He moved over her, taking her mouth in a long, hard kiss. His body was heavy on hers, p
ressing her into the soft bed, but Isobel relished the weight. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, her mouth as eager, as hungry, as his. The ache between her legs throbbed and she was seized by a mad desire to wrap her legs around him as he had described.
He broke their kiss, rearing up on his knees to yank off his shirt and toss it onto the floor. He fumbled at the drawstring at her waist and Isobel shoved his hand aside, expertly unknotting the ribbons. Light flared higher in his eyes, and he slid out of bed, skinning out of his breeches as she shoved down her undergarments and kicked them aside. Isobel turned to him and went still as she took in her first sight of a fully aroused nude male.
Then he was kissing her again, his hands and mouth awakening her every sense, and she lost all thought, all hesitation, knowing only that she wanted him more than she had ever dreamed of wanting anything. His hand went between her legs, finding the moisture there, and he let out a half laugh, half groan, as if lost somewhere between pleasure and pain. He took her breast in his mouth, sucking gently, as his fingers opened and stroked her, and the combined pleasure coursed through her with such heat and urgency that she dug her hands into the sheets, unable to silence the soft moans that slipped through her lips.
He mumbled against her skin, low, incoherent words, but her body was well attuned to their meaning. His fingers slipped down and inside her, opening and stretching her, and Isobel lifted her hips against his hand, seeking the satisfaction that her body craved though she hardly knew what she sought. He slid between her legs, and instinctively she opened them wider to receive him. And this, she knew at last, this was what she longed for, the single thing that would satisfy her hunger and fill the aching void.
Bracing himself on his forearms, Jack loomed above her. His face was dark, almost gaunt, all courtesy and polish stripped away, and Isobel thought, with a little spurt of triumph, that this at last was him.
“I meant to go slowly with you,” he told her, the unevenness of his breath betraying the urgency pouring through him. “To beguile and tease and teach. But I fear I cannot wait.”
His hands slipped under her buttocks, lifting her, and Isobel felt the full, hard length of him probing and entering, and for an instant she tightened all over, her fingers digging into his arm. Then, with a flash of pain, he was inside her, filling her in a way that made her groan with pleasure. He began to move, stroking in and out, and a delightful friction built in her, rushing ever faster toward that elusive, beckoning end.
Her world exploded, and she cried out, shaken to the core. Isobel felt him strain against her, shuddering, muffling an explosive cry against her neck. She went limp, clinging to him as if to hold that ecstasy forever. Slowly, sweetly, the world righted itself again.
Isobel jerked awake, pulled up from some hot, urgent dream. Her breasts were swollen and sensitive, and her skin tingled all over. Deep inside her, she felt malleable and warm, aching slightly but in a pleasurable way. She realized, with great surprise and a newfound awareness, that she was aroused.
The reason for that state was stretched out beside her, his arm flung across her and his hand curved around her buttocks. If he moved that hand just a few inches, his fingers would slide between her legs from behind, seeking out all the supremely sensitive and pleasurable spots residing there. Isobel blushed a little at her wayward thoughts. Whatever had happened to her?
She had set out yesterday full of trepidation, certain that she would not consummate this pretense of a marriage, yet here she was, no longer a maiden, replete with satisfaction, and utterly in the thrall of this man and the heart-stopping pleasure he brought to her. It was deplorable, and she was undeniably weak and licentious.
And she would like very much to explore every inch of Jack’s bare skin. A smile crept across her lips.
“I like that smile,” a voice rumbled not far from her ear.
Startled, Isobel jerked upright. The covers slid down to her waist, exposing her bare chest, and she grabbed them to cover herself, but Jack laid a stilling hand on hers.
“Don’t.” He grinned. “I like that even more.”
He lay propped up against the pillows, his face rough with stubble and his eyes languid with sleep. His broad shoulders and bared chest were as enticing in the clear light of morning as they had been last night. Isobel did not know where to look, what to say, and she turned her head aside in confusion. How could it be that her insides melted under the heat of his smile?
She had never thought of herself as a woman of loose morals, but she was too honest not to admit that she was brimming with lustful thoughts about a man who, while he might be her lawful husband, was not a man she loved or even knew well—though, she thought with a tightening deep in her abdomen, she had to admit she did know him now in a basic way.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eye. Arms folded behind his head, he was continuing to study her in a leisurely manner, his face softening with desire. Reaching out a hand, he cupped her breast, eliciting a sharp indrawn breath from Isobel as his thumb rubbed gently over her nipple.
“You are a beautiful sight first thing in the morning.” His eyes went to hers and he smiled. “I think I could get used to waking up this way.”
“I . . . um.”
“You are even more charming when you’re flustered. Come here.” He took her arm and pulled her down to him. “Let’s rest a moment longer. What is it you say? Bide a wee?”
“Yes.” Her voice came out shakily as she nestled against him. His skin was warm beneath her face, and the scent of him filled her senses—sweat and sex and the lingering bit of whiskey. If she turned her head a little, she could press her lips against his chest, and the thought tempted her. She laid her hand on his arm instead—and found that his smooth skin stretched over the pad of muscle was arousing, too. The wicked pulse between her legs, already ignited by her lustful dream, picked up heat.
Jack smoothed her hair back from her face, his fingers gliding over the thick mass, lifting it, then letting it cascade back over his chest. Isobel drifted her fingers down his arm and back up, enjoying the tickle of the hair on his arm. She traced the tendons and bones of his hand, intrigued by the contrast of textures. She closed her eyes, imagining how it would be to run her hand down his legs or to touch the soft skin of his stomach.
“I heard you this morning, before you woke.” He ran his thumbnail up her arm from wrist to shoulder, sending a tendril of pleasure rippling through her.
“Oh.” Embarrassment heated her skin. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It was a pleasant way to wake up.” He ran his thumb down her side in the same fashion. Kissing the top of her head, he went on in a husky voice, “What were you dreaming? What brought such delicious little moans from your lips?”
Now her skin was hot as fire and she turned her face into his chest to hide it. It seemed the height of humiliation that he had heard her, had realized what sort of thing she was dreaming. He chuckled and lifted her hair to kiss his way down the back of her neck. Isobel trembled, desire flooding through her, overwhelming her embarrassment.
With one hand, he flipped back the covers, exposing her completely to his gaze. Starting at her shoulders, he moved his hand unhurriedly down her, curving over her breast and across the slats of her ribs, up over the swell of her hips, then slipping back to roam over her stomach and down until his fingers tangled in the wiry hair at the apex of her legs.
Isobel stiffened, stifling a noise in her throat, and squeezed her legs together, but his fingers crept insistently between them, seeking and finding the hot, wet heat, the quivering, tender flesh.
“Jack,” she choked out as his fingers stroked her slowly and rhythmically. She felt as if she were melting beneath his hands, dissolving into a mindless pulse of desire. “No—what are you doing?”
“Pleasing you, I hope.” His voice was husky and a little unsteady. He pressed his lips into her hair. “Does it? Please you?”
She coul
d not hold back a low groan. “Yes, but, oh—” She broke off with a shudder as the undertow of desire caught her. His clever fingers were slow, then fast, stoking the fire blossoming between her legs. She dug her heels into the bed, opening herself to him, and he responded by driving her deeper and deeper into a sultry maelstrom of passion. Her hips moved instinctively, urging him on, and her breath rasped in her throat as she raced, desperate and eager, toward the shimmering goal that waited just beyond her grasp.
Then it crashed over her, dragging her down into the dark, mindless depths, and she moaned, arching up against his hand. He buried his face in her hair, holding her as she collapsed against him, trembling.
Isobel lay, limp and replete, blissfully naked in Jack’s arms and beyond all sense of shame. She stretched to her fullest extent, pulling her arms back above her head and arching her back. She felt as boneless, elegant, and smug as a cat stretching in the sun. Jack’s skin was searing, and she was aware of his manhood, engorged and prodding against her hip.
“But, Jack . . . aren’t you . . .” She twisted and raised herself onto her elbow to look up at him. One look at his face, heavy with desire, answered her question. “Why did you not—I mean, did you not need to, um, want to . . .” Isobel stumbled to a halt.
“Yes, I need . . . I want.” He reached out to toy with a strand of her hair. “But I thought it might be too soon, that you would not be ready.” He smiled faintly. “I have little experience with virgins, I fear.”
“Really? You have never taken a maiden to your bed?”