by Trisha Telep
Alec dropped his head and then his mouth was on her breast, his weight a little heavier on her now. She twined her legs around his, arching into the pressure of his mouth. Her body felt too full, the sensations too intense to bear. His fingers pulled at her garter and, after fumbling a bit, released one to slide her stocking down her leg. When he’d done that, he shifted his weight to his other arm and his mouth to her other breast. Her other garter was soon gone, her slipper and stocking tossed off the bed. She heard the sound of her shoe hitting the floor.
She moaned when he pulled away. “No,” she said. “Stay.”
“I want to look at you.” His voice sounded thick and, when she managed to open her eyes, he was doing exactly that – kneeling between her legs, pushing her bent knees apart. “Does this make you feel alive? Tell me.”
“Oh, yes,” she said on a breath.
He kissed his way down her stomach, to her belly and then his mouth was between her legs and she simply hadn’t expected he would be willing to do such a thing. He wrung her out. Completely and utterly.
Philippa let her body vanish into her arousal, the cresting pleasure and the damnable way he would bring her to the edge of climax and then stop.
She lost her mind.
“Alec.” Her body bowed off the bed. His name was a groan, a long low note of all the pleasure that wound her body tighter and tighter. The silvery tremble of her approaching climax filled her. “Now.”
She shouted, and she didn’t care at all what he’d think of that. The spiral of pleasure peaked and she fell and fell and fell. When she came back to her body, he’d pulled himself over her and was grinning at her.
“Good?” His mouth twitched.
She touched his back with her fingertips, drawing them down the sides of his spine as far as she could reach. Until she touched his trousers. “You are still dressed,” she said when she could trust herself to speak. “Why is that?”
“An excellent question.” He pushed away to sit on the edge of the mattress. She turned on to her side, watching him. Her marriage had been a passionate one, but William had never displayed himself in this unselfconscious, uninhibited way. Her husband had come to her room at night, and never without letting her know that he would. In the dark, he slid between the covers with her, and they made love with tender quietness.
Alec’s skin fitted close to his body. When he moved, his muscles flexed and bulged. He wasn’t slender like William had been. She touched the top of his spine.
“Look at you,” she whispered.
He turned his head towards her while he was pulling off one shoe. He smiled. “I’d rather look at you.”
“What is it you do that keeps you in such health?” She moved behind him, knelt and slipped her hands around his waist.
“Boxing.” He dropped his other shoe and reached for the sagging waist of his trousers. As he pushed them off along with his small clothes, his erection was free to the air and her sight.
He was naked at last. Gloriously, splendidly naked. She reached around and touched his hardness. Alec tensed. He reached to curl his palms around the backs of her arms. With a moan, he let his head fall against her shoulder. He put one heel on the mattress, letting his thigh fall open. “Philippa, yes. More of that, too.”
His skin was warm, and she held him like this, stroking him, touching him until, all in one motion, he slid an arm around her and then covered her with his body.
Five
Dane was aroused beyond anything, but there was something more he was feeling, and he wasn’t sure what it was, other than it had to do with Philippa. Obviously. And then, perhaps not so obviously.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he said. “How perfect? Exquisite?”
He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder. At this exact moment he elected to think more about the curves of her body, the shape of her breasts, the texture of her skin, than his emotional state. He’d made love often enough without his heart being involved at all. This was different. She was Philippa, and she took his breath.
Philippa set her hands on his shoulders, her palms curving over on to his back. Her eyes were closed, her mouth parted. He shifted himself into place, and she knew exactly what it meant that he nudged aside her thighs. He knew what it meant that her hips shifted underneath him, that inviting tilt of her pelvis, the slight bend of her knees.
“Now?” he whispered. He was grateful to sound both calm and amorous when in fact he was hardly anything of the first and the second was a trite description of the emotion that made his chest tight. He hadn’t ever needed a woman the way he needed to possess Philippa, and that frightened him.
She slid her hands along his sides to his hips. Her fingers dipped in and out of the small of his back and then around to cup his backside. Every caress of her hands made him harder yet. “Yes, Alec,” she said. “Please. Now.”
Her hands urged him forwards, and he slid inside her. He almost lost his mind. This moment, this moment was purely about sensation, but there was also the sound of her slow intake of breath, which shook him to his core. It enchanted him that she would make a sound like that.
He wanted – no, needed – her to find pleasure in his arms. He needed to see to her every satisfaction. He needed everything to be perfect. And then he just wanted to keep doing this, because this felt so good. She felt so good. His Philippa.
Dane groaned as the warmth of her body enveloped him. This was Philippa who was sending him crashing over the edge. She wasn’t passively accepting him, something he’d worried might happen. She raised her knees so that her thighs slid up to his hips, and she rocked her pelvis into his. They were naked, both of them, and what they were doing was more than fucking. The quiver of incipient orgasm pooled at the base of his spine.
Since the moment this evening when he’d realized there was more than an intellectual spark between them, something physical that hadn’t existed before, he’d been anticipating this moment. He sank down, pressing his forearms to the mattress above her shoulders. Her breasts were warm against his chest, her hips matched the rolling, rocking motion of his, her body utterly feminine, soft where he was hard, curved exactly so.
“Alec.” Her voice was low and smooth, and she made him feel like he was the only man ever to satisfy her.
He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize the carnal element of this encounter, but he understood for the first time in his life the difference between taking a woman to bed for the physical pleasure alone and what he was doing at that moment. To be honest, he was worried about what that meant; knowing he was making love to Philippa and that she might not be making love to him.
He said, “Look at me, Philippa.”
She did and he could see the faraway look in her eyes. He panicked at what that signified. She might not feel as he did. For Christ’s sake, she was going to marry bloody Captain Bancroft. He fell into her eyes, into those green depths, and he knew himself and her well enough to understand he wasn’t going to come away from this intact.
He thrust again and again, and she held him and matched him. He kept remembering all the times he’d seen her, talked to her, laughed with her or simply sat at her side without needing to say anything. Or sat alone in his London apartments reading or rereading one of her letters or writing one to her. Never once had he thought she was someone he could have. Not once had he thought she was the woman he was destined to love. All this time, he hadn’t known. He’d never guessed.
Why hadn’t he?
He pulled out and turned her over, and she understood right away what he wanted because she went to her hands and knees. God, yes.
Dane cupped her hips, and he shouted when he was inside her again, because it was even better this time than the first. They were close to the head of the bed, and he shifted them again until she had her hands on the wall above the bed frame. He was on his knees behind her, one hand holding her breast, the other around her hips with his fingers between her legs, making sure she came to climax
.
Her response was, quite soon, a long, low moan. He kissed the back of her neck, moving inside her, and felt the tremor of her impending orgasm around him. He stopped.
“Alec.” His name was a sob of frustration.
He held her tight, not moving. “What?” he whispered. “What do you want?”
“Finish me.”
“Finish you. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You do,” she said. She turned her head to him as far as she could.
“Like this?” He slid out of her almost all the way and pushed back in slowly.
“Harder.”
“This?” A little harder, this time.
“More.” She pushed her hips back.
“Like this, then?” Again. When he was inside her this time she came and, Jesus, he’d never felt anything like it. She called his name and what he heard was Philippa’s voice. Philippa. The woman who knew him best. Who was kind and generous and thoughtful and who had always been able to make him laugh, to whom he had confessed some of his most intimate thoughts and concerns. What if she didn’t feel the same?
Something inside him broke. He felt the strings of his heart vibrating with the power of what he felt for her. He wasn’t the same man as when this had started.
He put her on her back again. He was trying to just fuck her but he couldn’t. He was rough, but she met that without reservation. She gave him back even more until he was the one rushing to orgasm.
Moments before his crisis, with his body quivering on the edge of release, he gritted his teeth and, his heart pounding at his chest as if it would break through his ribs, it occurred to him that Philippa was not a courtesan whom he could expect to have taken precautions or who had the resources to act if there were consequences.
He stopped moving in her. When he was certain the danger had passed, he grabbed her face between his hands. Philippa pressed the back of her head into the mattress. “Alec.” She wrapped her arms around him and groaned. “This is unfair of you. What are you doing to me?”
“Look at me,” he said.
Her eyes flickered open and slowly focused on him.
He swept his thumbs along her temples. “Philippa.” He kissed her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself, he pressed further into her. Then he dropped a kiss on both her cheeks.
“What is it?” she asked. She reached to brush his hair off his forehead. “What’s made you look like your heart is breaking?”
“Only you would know that.”
“What is it, my darling Alec?”
Panic constricted his chest when he saw her eyes widen. He had himself in better control now. “You’ll think I’m mad, but I’m not. And you know me. You know I’m not the kind of man who would put a lover at risk. I will not put you at risk of a child out of wedlock.” He kissed the edge of her mouth. “Never.”
Her eyes went wide. “Hush, my darling. It’s all right. You can withdraw, isn’t that so?”
He started moving in her again. “I could, Philippa.” Very quickly, he was near the edge again, and she sucked in a hard, fast breath when he was as far inside her as he could get. “I will if that’s what you want.” Her eyes never left his face, which gave him hope. “You know I wouldn’t ask that of you if I didn’t mean every word. We’re here, Philippa. Like this.” He stared into her face. “You wouldn’t be if you didn’t love me.”
He pushed up on his hands again, still inside her. Her fingers curled around his arms, and she matched him, moved with him, wrapped her legs around him. But he did not see any answer in her face, and he did not intend to take silence for consent.
“You can’t marry Bancroft when we feel like this together. Not when I’ve made you scream my name, and I’m about to scream yours.”
She put her arms around his shoulders and held him tight. Her eyes glittered with tears. But she was looking at him. “Alec.”
“Say yes, Philippa.” He thrust a little faster now and, when he spoke again, his words were breathless. “I’m very close. Answer me now, before we have to stop this.” He felt his orgasm coming on, but he kept his eyes on her face. His heart twisted in his chest. He bent his head to kiss away a tear that escaped when she blinked.
She brought him closer yet. “Come, Alec.”
“Is that yes?” He stared into her eyes, wet with tears, and didn’t know the cause.
“It’s madness. The moonlight made us mad.”
He stilled. “Answer me, Philippa.” His gaze locked with hers. “Don’t make me live without you. Don’t make me spend the rest of my life bereft of you.”
She closed her eyes and opened them slowly, and then she smiled. “Yes.”
“Jesus.” He surged forwards.
Neither of them said anything more. Philippa made a tiny sound in the back of her throat as he gave in to all the physical sensations coming at him. He gave in to the emotions, too. He knew, dimly, that he was unlikely to get a child on her this time, but he still thought of how he would feel when he held his first child in his arms, by the woman he loved beyond all others.
Her sweat-slick body moved with his, her arms tightened around him and she kissed his cheek, his mouth. She let her head fall back while he drank in her face, her parted lips, until he had no choice but to give in to a climax that shook him hard and rolled him through a wave he wasn’t sure he was going to survive.
He did, of course. As did Philippa.
They were married by special licence a week later by the vicar in a small ceremony in the rose garden of Frieth House. If anyone in attendance wondered why the bride and groom vanished through a blue door at the rear of the house at the end of the ceremony, no one said a word.
An Invitation To Scandal
Lorraine Heath
London – 1820
Your presence is requested for a private dinner at midnight at the home of Miss Arianna Vernon. A carriage will be sent at half past ten.
Sitting in his library, which had once housed hundreds of books and now sported only empty shelves, Nicholas Wynter, the Earl of Harteley, squinted at the words inscribed on the invitation that had been delivered by a dark-haired lad barely out of short pants. He had hammered at the door until Harteley had been given no choice except to answer in order to stop the sound from echoing through the hollow hallways. He had few possessions left to absorb the impact of noise. Even his own footsteps had begun to grate on his nerves and slice into the dull ache in his head that constantly accompanied him as he sought to finish off what remained of his father’s fine spirits.
The cheeky little bugger, dressed in purple livery that looked as though it had been newly stitched, had curled up his lip in disgust, obviously mistaking Harteley for a maggot rather than a recently anointed lord. Harteley’s black hair had grown unfashionably long and he’d not shaved in three days. With no servants to tend to his needs, he saw little point in maintaining appearances while in residence. He’d discarded his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
“Give this to yer master immediately,” the lad had ordered, extending the invitation.
Harteley had merely laughed and begun closing the door. The boy had blocked his actions by placing his foot, protected by a well-made boot, in the doorway. It irked that this urchin appeared more aristocratic than Harteley, that he possessed confidence and didn’t cower from his task.
“It’s me mistress’ business. It’s important.” He’d shoved the invitation and a crown into Harteley’s hand. “Fer yer trouble.”
That had stopped Harteley’s laughter with such force that he’d nearly choked, stopped it because his fingers had closed around the coin as a drowning man might latch on to a rope tossed his way. He’d watched the lad scamper to a waiting coach and leap up to take his position at its rear, thought he’d seen a curtain at the window billow slightly before the driver had urged on the matching greys.
Now Harteley slowly savoured his whisky and wondered who the deuce was Miss Arianna Vernon. Such an unusual name. Not one he’d easily forg
et. But forget it he had – if he’d ever known it. He tapped the gilded invitation against his tan-clad thigh. It wasn’t uncommon for women to seek his company, but never was it handled so formally.
A woman who began a dalliance with an invitation would no doubt be cold in bed. Probably the reason she sought him out. He had a reputation for melting the most solid of ice. He actually enjoyed it, took pride in his prowess. He had little enough to offer the world.
But of late, he’d grown bored. Women were too easy. Everything had become too easy – except survival and maintaining the last shreds of his dignity. It had been almost a year since he’d inherited the title and the crumbling estate that came with it. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could retain the London residence. The debt collectors were knocking on his door with as much determination as had the lad with the invitation.
Through the blur of too much liquor, he again read the words. When the true state of his affairs became known – and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them hidden – women would no doubt scorn and avoid him. He might as well take advantage while he still had the opportunity.
The coach arrived promptly at half past ten. Harteley had bathed, shaved and donned his most flattering clothes: blue tailcoat, white shirt, white cravat, white silk waistcoat, black trousers. Oddly he felt more himself than he had in days.
The lad had once again accompanied the coach. He didn’t seem surprised to discover that Harteley was the master of the house, although he did smirk.
“Have you a name?” Harteley asked, as he followed the boy to the coach where a taller and older footman opened the door.
“Jimmy,” the lad responded, just before his dark eyes widened as Harteley flipped him the crown.
“For your trouble.”
The lad tipped his hat. “Thanks, milord.” And he scrambled on to the back of the coach.
Harteley settled on the plush bench. He recognized good craftsmanship when he saw it. Miss Vernon was exceedingly well off. The horses lurched forwards, and he had to admit it was perhaps the smoothest riding coach in which he’d ever had the pleasure to travel. He was becoming more intrigued with the mysterious Arianna Vernon. Tonight promised to be anything but dull.