Lifting the latch, he quietly stepped into Blossom’s room. It was empty. But the connecting door was opened, and he silently crept across the carpet and leaned against the doorjamb, studying the sight before him. Blossom, dressed for bed, her hair long and unbound spilling down her back, painting.
She was humming to herself while her brush moved in slow, sweeping glides against the canvas. He was transfixed by the sight, by the sounds she was making. He imagined her in his house, painting, and him lying on the settee with a whiskey in his hand watching her. Soon, he promised himself. Very soon.
Uncrossing his arms, he made his way to her. She didn’t pause or stop her humming, but carried on painting. He now stood behind her and allowed his hand to lift her hair and watch the long black strands slide through his fingers.
“‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” he said, murmuring the opening line to Byron’s poem. “Yet she hides from me and forces me to come in search for her.”
Her hand was frozen, the brush tip poised just an inch above the canvas. Whirling around, she confronted him. “What are you doing here? Are you mad?”
“Desperately so,” he said as he took the brush from her hand and placed it in the jar of turpentine. “I’ve been waiting hours to speak to you, and here you are, hiding in your sanctuary.”
“I’m not hiding,” she snapped.
He smiled and reached for the ties of her apron. The bow came free, and the bib of the apron fell, revealing the white lace wrapper beneath. “Then what are you doing up here—avoiding me?”
“Yes, if you must know. I’m tired of your constant stares, and you’re brazen touches. They aren’t welcome.”
“Aren’t they?” He could see her pulse wildly beating at the base of her throat, saw the way her pupils had dilated with desire.
“I’m not interested in anything you have to offer. Most especially a sordid liaison.”
“I’m not offering a liaison. What I’m offering is honesty.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I want you, Blossom. You’re not naive, you know what that means. But how I want you is as my wife and lover. I want to marry you. Have a life with you. I want to have a home and children. And I want it all to be with you.”
She snorted disbelievingly. “After, what, three days? Your heart must be easily engaged, my lord.”
That angered him, and he caught her about the shoulders, stilling her, forcing her to glance up at him in shock and perhaps alarm.
“Try years, Blossom. I’ve wanted you for years, but it’s damned impossible to admit that when your brother is engaged to you.”
Her mouth opened and closed. He saw the disbelief. Followed by shock. He had blurted that out, and hadn’t meant to. It was too soon. He was too uncertain of her to make himself so vulnerable. But there it was. It was out in the open now.
“What is your hesitation, Blossom? Is it me? Do I disgust you? Tell me so I can right it. So that I can fix whatever it is and we can be together.”
“Your reputation. You’re hardly the type of man who could make a good husband.”
“Give me a chance. I promise I can be faithful and true. Give me your dreams and I’ll share them with you. I’ll make them happen. You know me, Blossom, better than anyone ever has. You know I won’t make you stop painting, you know you can do as you damn well please with me. Wear trousers, go fishing, ride astride. I don’t give a damn, just as long as I can be there beside you when you’re doing it, that’s all.”
The silence stretched on, and Blossom felt her blood rushing to her ears. For years he had desired her? Could it be true, or was this another ruse?
Her heart was beating so fast she didn’t know what to do. She only knew that Jase appeared utterly sincere, and breathtakingly beautiful. But that was now. What would it be like twenty years from now?
“Desire if fleeting. Once passion is spent, it is gone.”
“Not what we’ll have Blossom. That isn’t fleeting.”
“What do we have?”
“Let us make a bargain,” he murmured. “Give me one week to show you that I am sincere. Let me show you what sort of husband I could make you.”
“I don’t know…” Biting her lip she looked away, her cheeks crimson.
“Seven nights, Blossom, to prove that my offer has nothing to do with familial obligations or the desire for an easy, advantageous match, but a burning passion that I can no longer keep hidden. I offer you not a liaison, but a prelude of what our married life could be.”
Oh, it all sounded too decadent and tempting. But was a week long enough to know a man well enough to marry him? Anyone could be on their best behavior for a week—even her.
Reaching for her hands, he brought them to his mouth and closed his eyes as he kissed her knuckles. “You know me,” he said in a tortured whisper. “You know the man I am. I’ve always been that man with you. You can trust me, Blossom. I swear it.”
The scrape of his night beard against her fingers made her body ache in a strange way. He released her hands, but Blossom let her fingers uncurl, and skim across his lips. “My heart and mind tell me that this is a terribly great risk. To trust you with myself, my dreams. You have all my hopes for the future in your hands. But my body…it desires what you’re offering. It wants me to ignore the warnings and rush headlong into this offer.”
“Trust me,” he whispered as he pulled her close. “I’ll take care of you, Blossom. I won’t force you. I’ll let you lead in this bargain. Take what you want of me.”
What she wanted was everything. Not just his body. He would readily give that, she knew. But she wanted something more. Devotion. And, God help her, love. Passion was all well and good, but without love to support it, it wouldn’t last.
“I can see the wheels of your mind turning, Blossom. You’re thinking too much. There is a future here for us. You just have to believe it.”
She nodded, for faith was all she had. “All right, Jase. I’ll trust you. Seven nights, then.”
“You won’t regret it. I swear, you’ll never want it to end.”
His mouth came down slow, deliberate, and he kissed her with controlled passion. Opening to him, Blossom pressed her tongue against his and he moaned, clutched her firmer against him as he hungrily took her mouth in his, kissing her as though he were starved for her.
Oh, God, he was beautiful like this—his mouth, his hands caressing her back. They were sliding lower, grasping her bottom, and she held on to him tight, clutching at his shoulders, as his palms moved lower to pull up the hem of her nightclothes.
The heat of his hands on her backside made her moan, mewl against him, and he broke off the kiss on a gasp and moved his lips to her throat, then his tongue flicked out, trailing a scorching line along her skin. She was wet between her thighs, aching there. She didn’t know what to do with it, how to alleviate it, so she clutched him harder, shuddered as she said his name.
In a swoop he came up and captured her mouth in a hard kiss, just as one of his hands came free and shoved the wrapper and night rail over her shoulder. The warm air caressed her breast, and she looked down to find Jase staring at her.
“More beautiful than I have ever dreamed, and this nipple. Dark, like cherries.” His thumb circled her, and the nipple budded even more. She watched in fascinated wonder as Jase’s tongue came out and circled the tip of her breast. Her fingers flew from his shoulders to his hair, which she clutched in great handfuls. When he slipped her nipple into his mouth and sucked, Blossom was frozen, watching as he made love to her. She had no idea if it was wicked of her, but never had she imagined such a thing. Never had she thought it would feel this wonderful to have her breasts touched.
“So responsive,” he murmured as he pulled her other shoulder free. Her upper body was now bared to him, and he spent long minutes studying her, touching her with his fingertips in a teasing fashion and cupping the heavy weight of her breasts in his palms.
“Jase, the bed,” she whispered, and he smiled
, then allowed his lips to skim over her straining nipples.
“We have seven nights, Blossom. There is no need to rush. I could spent an entire night loving your breasts and still not be satisfied.”
She moaned, pulled at his hair, her body restless. “You tease me.”
“No,” he groaned. “Do you think that I don’t want to carry you to your room and lift your nightgown and sink deep inside you? I would give my soul for that, but it isn’t what you need. Not yet. Trust me to know that, Blossom.”
She didn’t know what she needed, but her body felt restless and taut. She actually ached deep in her belly and between her thighs.
A door slammed down the hall; it was followed by heavy footsteps. No other person had footsteps like that.
“My father,” she whispered, straightening from him and tugging her gown back into place. “Hurry, he might come in to check on me.”
Kissing her quick, Jase brought her up against him. “Remember, I’ll share you during the day, but the nights, they belong to me, Blossom. To us.”
Blossom watched him leave, and as she did so, she brushed her fingers against her lips. She was strangely aware of the keen sense of loss. She liked being in Jase’s arms. The feel of him. The strength. She realized then that tomorrow night could not come soon enough.
FOR SOMEONE WHO WAS NOT skilled in the art of seduction, Blossom was doing a damn good job of it. He was wound tighter than a spring-loaded clock, and this, just two nights into their bargain. Good Lord, how would he endure the next five? He was going insane, and Blossom was the reason.
For the past two nights he had lain awake reliving every moment in her arms. She was beautiful, and her body… He was right. It was made for carnal sin. That first night, in her studio, he had seen her breasts, had liked and been aroused by her dark nipples. Last night, he had felt her, the sweet, damp place between her thighs. Her folds had been thick with desire; she’d been wet, and panting, and then they had been interrupted as the guests came out to enjoy the evening air. There had been no other opportunities for them, for the duke was a constant presence by his daughter’s side.
As he prowled about the ballroom, watching Blossom dance a waltz with Thornton, Jase realized that there would be no interruptions tonight. He would give Blossom her first real taste of passion tonight, when he pleasured her to her first climax. And if he was lucky, he would get her to touch him, too.
The waltz ended and he was at her side in a flash. A light supper was set up in the next room, and he strolled with Blossom, allowing them to get lost in the guests. When he was certain no one was noticing him, he reached for her hand and dragged her away to the hall, where he tugged her inside the library, which was empty, and took her into his arms.
“My God, you torment me.”
She smiled and allowed herself to be caught up in his arms. “You’re being silly.”
He glared at her. “No, I’m not. I’m actually crazed for you. Come here, Blos. Kiss me,” he commanded, his tongue finding its way into her mouth. He gripped her tighter as one hand left her belly and cupped her chin, holding and positioning her the way he wanted.
“Put your hands on me.” Taking her fingers in his, he slid them up his chest. Her fingers swept over a muscled chest until they reached the starched cravat and folded collar that shielded his throat. A rivulet of perspiration trickled down his neck, and she followed its path with her fingertip until it disappeared beneath his collar.
His breathing was harsh. She could hear it in the quiet, could hear his beating heart over the hum of the crickets. She could smell the maleness of him despite the earthy, humid breeze.
Blossom couldn’t suppress the shiver that snaked along her skin as he twirled his fingers along her curls. He brought her closer to him and she felt his lips nuzzling her hair.
“Such beautiful skin. I want to touch every inch of you. I have to touch you.” The tip of his finger trailed down her throat, slowly, inexorably, to rest at the junction of her breasts. His lips met her skin, gently brushing the swells of her breasts. “I have lain awake at nights dreaming of you.”
“And I you.”
He grasped her waist and brought her tightly up against him. “I want to touch you and kiss you and feel your body beneath mine. You’re wet for me, aren’t you? I can feel it, your passion, your passion for me.”
Oh, yes, she was wet. And she wanted to feel him touch her.
His hand reached for her skirts and she felt him slide his fingers up along her stocking-clad thigh, teasing her. “Tonight I am going to part these sweet thighs and discover the treasure you’ve been keeping from me.”
Blossom moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him against the full mounds of her breasts. His body tightened and he brought her closer as he deepened the kiss. She allowed him that, and she even whimpered when he skimmed his fingers along her bodice to brush his thumb against her hardening nipple. Lowering one sleeve, he exposed a full breast to his hand. He cupped her, skimming his thumb along her hard nipple. She moaned into his mouth and he broke off the kiss only to slide the remaining sleeve down her shoulder, revealing her fully to his gaze.
She was perfect. Filling his hands with both breasts, he watched the expression of pleasure cross her face. Their eyes met and he very purposely skimmed both thumbs across the taut, dark nipples. Holding her gaze, he went to his knees, all the time watching her, seeing how she followed him with her tempestuous eyes. Unable to resist the temptation she offered when she filled his palms with soft flesh, he pressed forward, nuzzling the valley of scented skin with his lips. She whimpered and clasped his head to her chest, and for a second he was content to press the side of his face between her breasts and listen to the rapid rhythm of her heart. But then he realized that her nipple, erect and searching, was scant inches from his mouth and he flicked it with the tip of his tongue, first in short flicks, then in slow, languorous circles, relishing the taste, liking the way they puckered for him.
Her knees gave out and she slid to the floor in a puddle of blue watered silk. He held her tightly, stroking her nipple, feeling it firm and quiver beneath his fingers.
“Touch me, Blossom. Oh, God, yes,” He reached for her hand and brought it to the flap of his trousers. Ignoring her hushed breath, he flattened her palm against the fabric and smoothed her hand down his swollen cock. Closing his eyes he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining her small hand surrounding him, pumping him slowly until he could stand the torture no longer.
He wanted to take his time, to explore her leisurely, but pent-up desire and the fear that something would happen to interrupt them made him eager and rash.
“Will you let me?” he asked as he kissed her cheeks, then her chin. His fingers were touching her breasts, and she was slipping backward, her shoulders lying across his thighs.
“Let you what?” she whispered.
“Touch you. Between your legs.”
Her eyes closed, and her back arched as his palm made the slow descent down her belly and thighs. He thought about just tunneling his hand beneath her skirt, but instead decided to raise her gown, to reveal her fully.
When he was done, she was lying on his thighs, her white stockings tied with blue silk garters; the triangle of black hair was stark against her pale flesh and his hand. The pink silk of her flesh so wet and glistening as she parted her legs and tossed her head in his lap.
He was torn where to look. Her face as she experienced this first rush of illicit pleasure, or his hand, where he was gently parting her folds.
“Oh, God, Jase!”
His gaze tore away from his hand, to watch her. She was beautiful. Wanton. So unashamed and missish in her passion. She embraced it, and bucked up against his hand as the pad of his thumb circled her. One finger slipped inside her—hot, wet and tight—and he closed his eyes, savoring the feel, imagining the time when it would be him slipping slow and deep inside her.
“Yes,” she moaned as he slowly built her up. Another finger, w
hich she accepted with a deep moan. Her fingers were clutching at his jacket, twisting and pulling as he slowly increased his rhythm. He watched as she bucked against him, saw her tongue creep out to wet her lips, and then she was shuddering, her mouth open on a soundless cry.
“Yes,” he encouraged, “just like that, Blossom. Let it come over you.”
He watched as her climax washed over her in waves.
Oh, she had never felt anything like this before. The pleasure, the euphoria. She curled into a ball and pressed her face to his stomach, and felt Jase rub her shoulders and spine.
She was crying. Why? She had no idea. But Jase did. He lifted her up and had her kneel between his thighs. Her breasts were bare and he was cupping them as he kissed her tears away.
“Your first orgasm and you cry for me. My love, you undo me.”
“I’m shaking. I can’t stop.”
“Because you need more,” he whispered as he kissed her neck. “You need me to be inside you all night long.”
“Yes.”
He caught her lips and kissed her—slow and thoughtful. The most romantic, passionate kiss he’d ever given her. And then, suddenly, without warning, it turned hotter, carnal. It was a kiss that was consuming, all lips and tongues and hands, and the harsh rasp of impassioned breaths.
“I want to sink so deep inside you,” he rasped against her ear. “I want to pulse and empty inside you and hold you for hours after.”
“I want that, too. Tonight, Jase. Say you will find a way.”
Suddenly the handle rattled; it was followed by the sound of the door opening. Blossom was still too dazed to react, and Jase had no time to fix Blossom’s gown and get her off his lap. His first instinct was to shield her, so he wrapped his arms around her, burying her front and face in his chest.
“Just this way, Thompson,” he heard the duke’s voice. It was followed by the indigent sound of air being drawn in. “Just a moment, my lord. I’ve just recalled that I’ve left the book in the salon.”
The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories Page 29