by Shana Galen
“Do you want me to remove my chemise?” she asked.
Yes. “No. Do you…” He swallowed. “Do you have anything underneath?”
“No. I’ve never stood naked before a man Dominic. But I trust you.” There it was again. That word. Trust. She freed one of her hands and reached for a white ribbon he hadn’t noticed just above her breasts. “It scares me to stand naked and vulnerable before you. And that is how I know I must do it.” With a tug, she pulled the ribbon, and the chemise opened then slid down her body.
Dominic realized too late what she intended. Too late, he decided he would not look. He would turn away and tell her to dress. He was not going to tie her naked to a bed. He swallowed. No matter how much the idea appealed.
But his eyes and his brain were not in agreement. His body had sided with his eyes, and he could not look away. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen—all porcelain and pink and gold. She was round and soft and everything a woman should be. He had seen the female form before, but always in paintings or statues or in tantalizing glimpses during a stolen rendezvous. He had never gazed at a woman like this, a woman who looked at him with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. A woman who wanted him, despite what she must have deduced had happened to him.
He had never wanted any of those women the way he wanted this one. Need burned in him. It terrified him too. But, as she’d said, perhaps the fear was something to confront rather than turn away from.
She backed toward the bed, settling herself so her back was against the pillow. She held out the cravat and wound her hands into the iron headboard. “I’m ready.”
He shook his head. Everything in him wanted to go to her, but he resisted. “I can’t tie you. I can’t make you powerless.”
“Will you stop if I ask?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am not powerless. I cannot do it myself. Tie me.”
As though he were walking in his sleep, he went to her, took the cravat and wound it around the iron frame and then her wrist. He tied it, but she looked up at him and shook her head. “Tightly.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She smiled. “I’m not so fragile.”
Dominic tightened the fastening until he knew she could not free herself. Then he repeated it with the other wrist. And then he stepped back and gazed at her. He could have looked at her forever. She was that beautiful. She sat as demurely as could be expected, naked and tied to the headboard. She watched him watch her, and finally, she said, “You can touch me. I can’t touch you back, not with my hands.”
He moved forward, knelt on the bed. Raising his hand, he pressed it to her cheek. He leaned forward and kissed her gently. She moved her lips against his and sighed softly. His hand slipped down to her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, and then slid down her long, silky arm.
He repeated the gesture with her other arm, still kissing her. “Is that all you want to touch?” she asked. “Only my arms?”
“No.”
“Where else do you want to touch me? Show me.”
She was giving him permission, but he did not have to comply. He could move away. He could stop. His hand shook slightly as he moved it over her breast. He hovered several inches above her flesh, and she drew in a breath of anticipation. Her nipple hardened and peaked, and she whispered, “Please.” He couldn’t resist her. He filled his hand with her breast, her warm, ripe flesh pushing eagerly against his palm.
He bent to kiss her again, kneading her flesh and listening to the soft mewling sounds of pleasure she could not contain. His mouth dipped to take her nipple and rub it along his tongue. And then he took the other one, suckling until her hips rose and pressed against his hard flesh. His hands skated down her body, worshipping the curves and the indentions, careful of the wound on her belly, until he slid to the juncture of her thighs. He had never taken his pleasure in this moist place. He knew what to do. He knew the mechanics of the act that caused bastards to be born. But Jane was his betrothed. A child of theirs would not be a bastard.
He cupped her sex then slipped a finger so it lay against that warm wetness. She moaned and arched her hips, and he slipped inside her. His cock ached, but his entire being rebelled against taking her when she was bound. He did not have to complete the act, though. He could give her pleasure. He stroked her, in and out, and she moved against him. He knew she liked this. He knew what to do to please a woman in this way.
“The way you touch me,” she gasped. “I didn’t think…didn’t know.”
He felt his control waning at the sound of arousal in her husky voice. He used a knee to nudge her thighs apart and gazed down. She was pink and gold, and his hand was dark against her flesh. He touched a small nub at the apex of her folds, and she cried out. He glanced up at her, amazed at her responsiveness.
“Oh, yes. Touch me there,” she said, pushing against him.
He slid a finger over her, and she cried out again. Her face was flushed now, her eyes closed, her wrists straining against her bindings. Could he have done this without binding her? He was in control. She could not touch him, and yet she had so much more control than she could ever realize. He was having difficulty restraining himself. He flicked a finger over her again, and she stilled. Her whole body stiffened, and she gasped out his name.
He had never heard his name said in such a way. There was desire and pleasure and…love in every syllable. He watched her climax slide through her, and could not help but fall in love with her. Had any woman ever been as beautiful as this one? In the throes of ecstasy she took his breath away. He forgot, for the moment, his own needs and desires, and knew only that he wanted to give her more pleasure. He wanted to feel her stiffen, see her face when she found pleasure.
She opened her eyes, and they were impossibly dark and blue. She gave him a lazy smile. “You have done that before,” she said.
“Have I? I don’t remember anyone but you.”
She smiled, and he watched her. The color in her cheeks was high, and her lips were red and slightly swollen from his kisses.
“Oh, yes. I feel extremely wanton now. You are far too handsome. One look at you and I begin to imagine your hands on me.”
This was intriguing. He did not think he was particularly attractive. Not when one considered his blond, fair-skinned half brothers. Not when one considered her perfect blue-eyed beauty. He was dark and Gypsy in appearance. He looked at his dark hand against her thigh and felt as though his touch sullied her. But she wanted his hands on her. “Where have you imagined me touching you?” he asked.
“All over. But it’s not just your hands I imagine. Your mouth and your body feature quite prominently in my daydreams. I want to feel your body pressed against mine.”
Her invitation was tempting. She was ready for him. He could loosen the fall on his trousers and plunge into her. He thought if he could last and he could move the right way, he might be able to please her again.
And perhaps if he concentrated on the feel of her body beneath him, the scent of violets, he would not think of the past. The nightmares would keep at bay. He took a deep breath. “Are you certain you want this? It is not something either of us can undo once it is done.”
“I want you, Dominic,” she said, her voice caressing him because her hands could not. “Make me yours.”
He reached for his trousers and then paused. He could not do this with her restrained. He wanted her to be a willing participant. He wanted to trust her, wanted to give himself to her as she’d given herself to him. He reached for her bindings and tugged at first one and then the other. She watched him, brows arched. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
She lowered her hands. “May I touch you?”
He nodded, wanting her touch and fearing the nightmares lurking in the shadows. She wrapped her arms around him, bringing his mouth to hers. She kissed h
im slowly but with building urgency as her hands tangled in his hair and cupped his jaw. He’d never been touched like this, with gentleness and love and passion all combined. He felt his emotions churning and tamped them down. He would not allow himself to think too much. He would only feel.
Her hands slid down his body, which was still fully clothed, and cupped his erection. She slid her hand up and down it, then loosened the fall on his trousers so he sprang into the warmth of her palm. He’d never allowed himself to be touched like this, but he gave her freedom. Jane kissed him, stroked him, loved him. He had not known one could be touched this way.
And then she raised her hips, and he felt her warmth, knew he was poised to enter her. He hesitated just a moment and slid partly inside. She stiffened, and he looked into her eyes. “They say there is pain the first time.” He did not know how to bed a virgin. He did not know how to bed any woman. He pulled away, but she clutched at his shoulders.
“It has passed. Don’t stop. If you go slowly, I think I shall be well.”
How the devil was he supposed to proceed slowly, when every single one of his instincts told him to drive into her with hard, fast thrusts? He clenched his jaw and moved inside her again. She was so tight and so small. He could not catch his breath for the fierce desire he felt. He paused again until he felt her body relax, and then slid farther into her until he was embedded to the hilt. She stiffened, and he waited. He was in agony of waiting. Finally, after a bloody eternity, she murmured in his ear. “Yes. Now.”
He needed no further prodding, no instruction. He allowed his body to move as it would, to follow instinct and desire. She stiffened again, and he waited until she relaxed and sighed. He moved again, and this time when she stiffened, he could not stop.
“I can’t…” He clenched his jaw, but his body had taken over. He thrust one last time and felt his seed spill into her. He had not intended to allow that. He had thought to spill his seed on her belly or the blanket. But now it was done. Now he lay panting, his head on her shoulder, her arms around him.
She held him tenderly, stroked his back, whispered his name. He wanted to tell her he did not deserve this sweetness, this gentleness, but he was afraid if he spoke, his voice would break. And so he held on and concentrated on the steady, rapid pounding of his heart.
***
The act had not hurt as much as Jane had anticipated. It had been uncomfortable, but there had also been moments when she sensed she might have felt pleasure if it had not all been so new. If she had not been so concerned for him. His breathing had slowed now, and he pulled back to look at her. His dark eyes were even darker. The candle lighting the room had burned down, and the dormitory was darker than it had been.
She wanted to say something. She was afraid she wanted to tell him that she loved him. She did not even know when she had fallen. Perhaps in the stable, when she’d realized how vulnerable he was. Perhaps when he’d kissed her as Farrar stitched her. Perhaps the first time she saw him. She could not tell him, even if she wanted to. What would he say to that revelation? He would probably leap off her and run screaming for Piccadilly and the first coach he could take out of London. She was going to marry this man. She would have the rest of her life to tell him how she felt.
If she could keep him safe until Foncé was captured. If she could avoid becoming Foncé’s next victim.
“I apologize for any pain—”
She put a finger over his lips, half-expecting him to protest that she was touching him. But he allowed it. “I am not so fragile. And I did not feel pain. I felt a little discomfort. I am certain, given time and practice, that will fade.”
“I…did not take precautions.”
She furrowed her brow, uncertain what he meant. At times she thought the most difficult aspect of being a lady was having to talk around every taboo subject.
“We may have to marry now.” He pulled away, and she felt the loss of him keenly. But he did not leave her side. He lay beside her, facing her, his head propped on an elbow.
“I told you, I already intended to marry you. Even before…” She gestured to the bed, noticing she was still nude and still uncovered. She had never been overly modest, but she still found it strange that she should not be uncomfortable to be so exposed before him. Especially when he was still dressed and she had seen almost nothing of his body.
He closed his eyes. “You do not want to marry me, Jane. If you only knew…”
When he did not go on, she said, “If I only knew what? Tell me, and then I shall know. We can put your fears to rest.” She met his dark gaze, and for a long moment she thought he might actually tell her. She saw the conflict, saw the war within him. And then he closed his eyes.
“I cannot. It is not a fit subject for a lady.”
“I assure you,” she said, “I have discussed many subjects not suitable for ladies. We have just done something many might consider not acceptable for ladies. I am no saint. Just a woman. You can tell me. Anything.” She yawned, her sudden fatigue surprising her.
He touched her stitches, and she realized he had been careful of them earlier. How could she not fall in love with him when he was so careful with her? “You must be exhausted,” he said, moving to sit.
But she cupped his neck and brought him back down beside her. “I am. Stay with me. Sleep with me.”
He gave her an indulgent look, and she knew he was humoring her. Well, so be it. If she but fell asleep with him beside her, it was enough. She wrapped her arms around him and burrowed into his chest, resting her head against his heart. She could hear the steady thump of it, smell the scent of leather on his clothing and skin. She knew his scent now. She knew his taste, and yet she did not know him at all at times.
But they would have a lifetime to learn everything there was to know about each other. Her eyes drifted closed, and she was vaguely aware that he pulled the blanket over her and moved away. He was not ready to hold her, to allow that much intimacy. Jane fell into a light sleep and was almost as instantly awake and reaching for her dagger.
“What is going on here?”
Bollocks! She was naked, and her dagger was God knew where. But then she remembered she was in the Barbican headquarters. She was safe.
She knew that voice. It was familiar to her. She had heard it—
Her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, and she spotted her uncle hulking in the doorway. She snatched the blanket over her breasts.
His face was red, his eyes bulging. “I told you to go to Kenham House.” He glanced across the room, and her gaze followed. There was Dominic, standing stiffly against the wall.
“I did go to Kenham House,” she said, “but when the assassin found us, I thought I should come back and notify you.”
His gaze went to her again, and his eyes widened with interest. He took in her state of dishabille. “I see,” he said.
Jane did not like the way he was looking at her, as though his scheme had gone exactly as planned. “What do you see?” she asked.
“Griffyn took advantage of you. He has ruined you.”
“He is my betrothed.”
“Exactly,” her uncle said with a smile.
Rage burned through her. How dare he act as though what had happened between her and Dominic was some sort of stratagem? How could he reduce it to that? “This has nothing to do with you.”
“I should congratulate you, Mr. Griffyn,” M said. “You have done exactly what I hoped.”
“If you want to congratulate someone, then it should probably be me.” She wrapped the blanket around her, jumped off the bed, and stood in the line of fire. “I seduced him. I wanted him to ravage me.”
“Jane,” Dominic said, his voice low. He stepped beside her, unwilling to allow her to shield him. “Enough.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I will not allow you to play the martyr.” She looked back at her uncle. “T
he truth is I stripped nude and begged him to—”
“For the love of all that is holy, do not say another word!” her uncle yelled. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. “I do not want these images in my head.”
“I do intend to marry her, my lord. I know initially neither of us intended to honor the betrothal agreement, but we have reconsidered.”
“Oh, you will marry her,” M said. “And you’ll go back to Kenham Hall this moment and continue the wedding preparations.”
“No.” Jane shook her head. “Foncé knows we were there. He sent Tueur to kill me. There’s nowhere left to hide, my lord. We act now, or…” She didn’t continue. She didn’t know what else to say. The alternative was too awful to consider. Her aunt dead or one of Griffyn’s brothers carved open by Foncé. It was past time the man was stopped.
Her uncle seemed to consider her words for a long moment. Jane didn’t understand why he was hesitating. What was there to think about? Why did he want her away from London so badly?
“Very well,” he said. He turned his gaze and his pointing finger on Jane. “I expect you in my office in one hour.”
“Yes, my lord.” Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she was imagining his eagerness to be rid of her.
He started for the door to the dormitory then looked back one last time. “I’ve summoned all the agents in London, and most should have arrived by now, so do endeavor to look considerably less debauched.”
Fifteen
Dominic watched the door close and swallowed. The lump in his throat did not budge, nor did the weight pressing on his chest, making every breath he took labored and difficult. He was going to marry. He looked at Jane, his gaze lowering to her belly. He might have a child. Panic clawed at the edge of his thoughts. What kind of father would he be? Who was he to deserve a child?
“Do I look debauched?” Jane asked, blinking at him.