Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  ‘‘Not even Waterston told me of this.’’

  ‘‘Who . . . ? Told you of wha—’’

  He silenced her with more kisses, the entirety of his being absorbed into the heat of her mouth. Her fingers curled in his hair, triggering the memory of a certain bite on the lip, instantly forgotten when her sighs purred into him.

  His heart pounded. His blood roared. He nudged her mouth wider and entered with his tongue, a quick dart, a soft caress. She responded with more counterfeit innocence, tasting him and offering a tenuous welcome to her sultry secrets. Her body melted so sweetly against him, his arousal throbbed as never before.

  By God, he’d never been interested in virgins, but this make-believe maiden inflamed him. With his need to have her weakening his knees and trembling through his thighs, he swung her into his arms and blindly made his way to the bed, lost in the lustrous tangle of her hair.

  She clung to his neck, her alluring little whimpers muffled against his shoulder. He backed onto the bed and settled her on his lap. Using his forearm he swung her hair out of her face and smoothed it down her back. His palm settled on her bottom and her eyes flashed with anticipation or, if he didn’t know better, alarm.

  ‘‘Isn’t it time we dispensed with coyness, darling?’’ He bent his head and set about devouring her mouth while his free hand dipped beneath her neckline.

  She broke the kiss, slid her lips to the corner of his mouth and uttered a breathless word. ‘‘Coyness?’’

  ‘‘You perform it brilliantly, but it’s no longer necessary.’’ Yet he found her game exquisitely erotic. He was like a barbarian imprisoned, a warrior shackled by a petite adversary who held him merely by the force of her whim and the fire in her fingertips.

  ‘‘You have me utterly at your mercy.’’ His tongue traced the curve of her ear, eliciting shivers, squirms, a breathy moan. ‘‘I surrender.’’

  Her fingers combed in little stops and starts, one might say shyly, through his hair, then went still. ‘‘What was that?’’

  ‘‘Just my tongue, darling. Nothing to worry about. You have the most adorable ear . . .’’

  ‘‘No.’’ She tilted her head to one side, effectively removing the object of his present fascination from reach. ‘‘That noise.’’

  ‘‘I don’t hear anything.’’ He caressed her nape, attempting to coax her into relaxing back into pleasure. ‘‘Is there anything about me you particularly like, Honora?’’

  ‘‘There it is again. That scratching sound.’’

  Despite his frustration, he couldn’t but admit he’d heard it that time too. Muffled and faint, the sound came from across the room.

  ‘‘Do you have mice in your walls?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘The man and his ferrets were here less than a fortnight ago. No mice.’’

  With their arms entwined they sat silently and listened. Honora propped her chin on his shoulder in a gesture of such familiarity, he experienced another of those odd crimps in his chest. When she lifted her head and started to speak, he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘‘Shh. It’s coming from the door. I fear there may be a spy in our midst. Wait here.’’

  He slid her from his lap and stole noiselessly across the room. Ear pressed to the door, he quite distinctly heard the unmistakable shuffling of feet, the rustle of fabric. He flung a nod toward his wife, grabbed the latch, swiftly rotated the key and swung the door wide.

  Millicent Thorngoode—no great revelation—yelped, flinched upright and removed her cupped hand from behind her ear. Her startled expression instantly rearranged into a broad smile. ‘‘Oh. I didn’t mean to disturb you children. I just wondered . . . that is . . . would you like tea sent up?’’

  Chapter 6

  "Mama, how could you!’’

  Alternate waves of chagrin and fury scorched Nora’s cheeks as she bore down on the most infuriating, interfering parent in the entire history of parenthood. ‘‘Have you been eavesdropping all this time?’’

  ‘‘I was doing nothing of the sort, Honora.’’ She crossed the threshold, but Nora thrust up a hand.

  ‘‘Not another step. Did I not tell you—’’

  ‘‘Yes, dearest, I know you said you could handle Sir Grayson but—’’

  Nora didn’t know whether it was Mama’s excruciating disclosure or Grayson’s indignant snort that sent spots dancing before her eyes. Sweeping past Millicent and a flabbergasted Grayson, she leaned out into the corridor.

  ‘‘Papa! Papa, please come at once! Papa!’’

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have bellowed so. Perhaps she merely should have escorted Mama from the room and shut the door. In the next moment a door down the hall burst open and her father charged out.

  He didn’t stop charging until he’d breezed past both her and her mother, wrenched Grayson’s arm behind his back and kicked his legs out from under him. She watched in dismay as her husband of but a few hours landed hard on his knees with a grunt of pain.

  Papa stood glowering over him. ‘‘What have you done?’’

  Her mortification grew as she witnessed the resentment churning in Grayson’s eyes, heard the jaw-clenching, emphatic precision with which he pronounced each word of his reply. ‘‘I. Merely. Opened. The. Door.’’

  ‘‘Release him this instant, Papa. He didn’t do anything. It’s Mama. She’s been listening in on us.’’

  Millicent’s hands flew up in self-defense. ‘‘I was merely checking on them, Zachy. A mother worries for her daughter. Especially when it comes to mysteries she knows nothing of.’’

  ‘‘Good grief, Mama.’’

  In scowling silence Papa took in all of them—Nora, her mother, and the top of Grayson’s head. Slowly both his features and his grip relaxed. He offered Grayson a hand up.

  ‘‘Sorry, lad. I heard my daughter’s shouts and instinct overcame reason.’’

  ‘‘No harm done.’’ Grayson straightened his shirt-front and tugged his cuffs into place. His mouth was tight, bracketed, grim.

  What must he be thinking? Of her parents, of her. Disappointment spread like the roots of an old oak. At his touch she had alternated between frenzied nerves, paralyzing doubt and pure fear. Oh, it had all been pleasurable, but she’d been entirely ignorant of what to do, how to react. Hadn’t an inkling of what he expected of her.

  She certainly did not want him leaving now, as he almost surely would. They had been on the verge of . . . something extraordinary. And she had been on the verge of answering some of those startling questions raised by her mother’s earlier ramblings.

  She longed to learn more of the singular things Grayson had been teaching her prior to Mama’s bumbling interruption. The very notion tingled through her and sent fresh heat to her face, doubtlessly accompanied by a scarlet stain certain to betray her thoughts to the others.

  Her father’s midnight blue eyes settled on her until her discomfiture bordered on unendurable. Why didn’t they leave?

  As if reading her mind, Papa turned to her mother. ‘‘Come along Milly. These children don’t need us here. It’s their wedding night, after all.’’

  At the reference her blush burned hotter—and no doubt brighter—as if she and Grayson had embarked upon something illicit.

  Yet as husband and wife they were free of restrictions, free of the burdening disgrace others had heaped upon her when, in fact, she’d done nothing wrong at all.

  Free to indulge and explore . . . there was something wholly liberating in that, something she very much wished to ponder, but without her present audience.

  Her mother was uttering apologies and last minute bits of advice. Nora impatiently waved her off. She’d had enough of Mama’s counsel for one night, and to be sure she’d discerned no resemblance between what she and Grayson had been doing and the priming of a water pump.

  She pecked Mama’s cheek and all but propelled her into the hall. She turned back into the room just in time to catch her father’s all too audible whisper to Grayson.

&nbs
p; ‘‘You gentle her proper or your arm won’t be the only part of you I’ll be twisting. Clear?’’

  Grayson’s hands fisted at his sides. ‘‘Perfectly. Sir.’’

  The door closed, and they were alone. Nora worried her bottom lip. Would he open that door once more and seek sanity elsewhere? She waited, certain she’d seen the last of him, at least for tonight. But he made no move. They stood staring at each other, the moments preceding the interruption crisp in the air between them, or so it felt to Nora. Then . . .

  He burst out laughing. Loudly. Head thrown back, mouth wide. The sound of it rang through the room; the shock of it reverberated inside her. For what seemed an eternity she stood frozen and mortified. Was he laughing at her?

  An instant later she was hugging her sides, doubled over as the tensions and worries and even the trials of her parents’ farcical meddling tumbled free like pearls from a broken strand. Yes, it was funny. All of it—her parents, their snooping, their meddlesome ways—everything about this situation. It had to be funny, or it would be too, too tragic.

  Still laughing, she clutched the edge of the dressing table for balance and struggled to catch her breath. ‘‘Did you see her face?’’

  ‘‘Did you see his face?’’

  ‘‘Heavens, yes. Did Papa hurt you?’’

  ‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’’ He flexed his wrist. ‘‘Is he always like that?’’

  Her laughter ceased as she looked doubtfully into his handsome countenance. Then a fresh round of guffaws rolled from her lips. ‘‘Yes. As a matter of fact, he is.’’

  To her relief, Grayson’s laughter engulfed her own. She raised the back of her hand to wipe away mirthful tears. In the aftermath of chaos and laughter she felt a sudden glow, an entirely new, somewhat startling but at the same time comforting impression that Grayson Lowell had somehow transformed into more than the man she’d been forced to marry.

  That he was her . . . friend.

  He held out a hand, large and broad, a tempting place to rest her own. ‘‘Come,’’ he said, his smile equally broad and tempting.

  She placed her hand in his, experiencing a surge of heat when his fingers closed and claimed her. Her breath hitched as he gave a sudden tug that yanked her against his chest. His lips plunged, hard and wet, leaving her breathless, drowning, just the tiniest bit frightened again.

  His mouth came away with a rueful twist. ‘‘So you can handle me, eh?’’

  ‘‘I’d hoped that comment had escaped your notice.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps I enjoy the idea of being handled.’’ A devilish slant tipped his brows. ‘‘Perhaps I’ve finally determined how to handle you.’’

  His baritone dipped on a note that ran under her flesh, raking her nerve endings and stealing her new-found ease. Comfortable? A mere friend?

  No, Grayson Lowell was anything but. Right now he was a sensual rival, a seductive foe. Looking down at her with that rapacious gleam in his eye, he seemed predatory, bent on satiating an appetite she was only beginning to comprehend.

  A shivering current hovered between them. She tried to widen the gaps between their bodies. His arms locked around her, giving no quarter.

  ‘‘My mother misspoke. You must not think—’’

  ‘‘Don’t be indignant.’’ His fingers stroked up and down her bare arm, raising telltale goose bumps that revealed her confusion. He grinned. The strokes became longer, deeper, a lusty rhythm that swept through her, seizing control of her heart and pulse, her breathing, her thoughts.

  ‘‘I’d say my methods of handling you were well under way to reaping some rather interesting rewards— for both of us. Until a little mouse put a halt to things, that is.’’

  She felt the same paralyzing fear as before. He was moving too fast, exceeding her understanding, her ability to make sense of the sensations threatening to overwhelm her. And while part of her longed to be overwhelmed, another part needed time. Needed gentling, as her father had said.

  Why must he push, rush so? Yes, they were married, but couldn’t he court her? Even just a little? Could he not understand her inability to simply leap into this new sphere of pleasure?

  His hand rose to trace the curve of her cheek. ‘‘Shall we carry on where we left off?’’

  He felt a quiver beneath his fingers just before she broke away, showing him a smooth, bare shoulder.

  ‘‘Carry on? You make it sound tawdry.’’

  Teasing again. The aloofness emanating from the elegant line of her neck, the arch of her back, had him pining for her again. Painfully. Ah, the woman truly was an artist, an expert at the arts of seduction.

  He slid a hand beneath her hair onto her warm nape and drew her toward him. ‘‘Don’t turn away from me, and yes, we’ll be tawdry if it pleases us to be so.’’

  The look she cast him scorched. Ah, this woman played a far different game than any he was accustomed to, but he was more than willing to follow her lead.

  He didn’t remove his hand from her nape, but eased as close as he dared. ‘‘I meant no offense. I merely thought we were enjoying ourselves rather much. If I am mistaken, tell me and I’ll bid you good night.’’

  A little ridge formed above her nose. Her lips parted, the bottom a pouty morsel he wished more than anything to suck between his own. He resisted the temptation, but brushed his nose against a silky lock of hair. ‘‘I’d prefer to stay if you’ll permit me.’’

  He waited, and was rewarded when she ever so slowly listed toward him, arching her neck and turning her face until her lips hovered an inch or two from his. He chanced a sweeping caress along her bare arm, ending at the satin curve of her shoulder. There his fingers lingered in a seductive dance against her skin.

  ‘‘Stay,’’ she whispered, and closed the space between their lips.

  His hand slid into her hair, sifting the heavy gloss through his fingers as their limbs entwined, their mouths merged. She wilted against him. His blood caught fire. As he’d done earlier, he scooped her into his arms and brought her back to the bed.

  Once there he distracted her with kisses while he set about undoing the buttons down the front of her nightgown. He went slowly, careful not to raise her ire, as he seemed more than adept at doing.

  ‘‘My neckcloth . . . untie it.’’ He remembered to add a ‘‘please,’’ and she tugged at the knot, making surprisingly short work of it. Soon his collar sprang open. She raised a poignantly uncertain gaze. He grinned, warming once more to the charade, thoroughly enjoying it now. He nodded and whispered, ‘‘The buttons too.’’

  Meanwhile her neckline dropped a fraction more with each button he released, exposing the valley between her breasts. When she didn’t flinch or send him a severe look, he dipped his head and nuzzled. ‘‘Tell me what you like, Honora,’’ he murmured against her.

  ‘‘I’d . . . like you to call me Nora.’’

  He nodded, rubbing his nose up and down her supple flesh. ‘‘You may call me Gray if you wish. All my very closest friends do.’’

  ‘‘Gray,’’ she obeyed breathlessly.

  ‘‘There, that brings my list of closest friends to two. You and Chad.’’

  She gave a dubious chuckle, as if disbelieving his little confession. He let it drop and whispered, ‘‘Tell me what you want, Nora. Tell me what you wish me to do and I’ll do it.’’

  He risked allowing his tongue to graze the cleft of her bosom. She shuddered, her breasts quivering against his face, cutting off breath for one delicious instant.

  Desire thundered inside him. He released another two buttons. Her nightgown slithered over her shoulders, as exquisite as fine bisque. He kissed his way from one to the other.

  ‘‘Do you like this, Nora?’’

  The word yes rode a tremulous breath.

  ‘‘I’d like it if you touched me too.’’

  Her hands found their way beneath his shirt and inch by inch she raised the hem. He helped her bare his stomach and chest, grasping her hands and raising them un
til together they stripped the garment over his head.

  With a trembling sigh she grazed the muscles of his torso, making them quiver. Her eyes were wide, darkly dilated. He tossed the shirt away, then peeled the remaining scrap of nightgown from her breasts and pressed her to his naked chest.

  ‘‘By Christ . . .’’ His oath tore from deep inside. He gripped her waist, fingers of both hands splayed across her hips, and rocked her against his arousal. Only this demure game they were playing prevented him from tossing her down and plunging into her.

  He set his open mouth to her neck, sucking gently but deeply, sure to leave a mark. Against the thrashing pulse in her throat he murmured, ‘‘Command me, my darling.’’

  Her words were garbled, thick with passion. Her lips, hot and swollen, worked silently, and then he quite distinctly heard, ‘‘. . . the first time.’’

  Ah yes, he understood. ‘‘You wish it to be as your first time.’’

  She went still in his arms and stared back at him, her eyes fever bright. Her cheeks were burnished, her breasts flushed and ruby-tipped with passion.

  He smiled. ‘‘And so it shall be, my lady.’’

  Slowly, meticulously, he lowered her to the bed. He eased the nightgown over her hips until it slid down her legs and floated to join his shirt on the floor.

  ‘‘Ah, Nora, such legs.’’ His pulse gave a lurch. As petite as she was, those legs seemed endless in proportion. Smooth and long, pleasingly round in the knee, enticingly plump at the thighs. Her skin glowed coppery in the lamplight. He raised his gaze. . . .

  And swallowed a gasp of admiration. He could have lost himself in the silhouette of her hip, the contour of her stomach, the dusky silk at the junction of her legs. He ran a fingertip through the curling hairs, then drew it back. His desire for her throbbed, but it was too soon to venture there.

  Her eyes became huge and filled with questions, with the uncertainty she mimicked so well. That look bore the power to undo a man—if only it had been real.

  She wished to pretend, and he was more than happy to accommodate those wishes. Sliding his feet to the floor, he stood above her and ran his hands the length of those generous legs. With the utmost care he stroked her ankles, circled her calves, caressed behind her knees. He raised her foot and set his lips to the delicate instep, smiling when he felt a ticklish current run through her.