The lights from the exquisite crystal chandelier bounced off the golden crown of his head. He had foregone the tied-back hairstyle he had sported for several years and had cropped it shorter, but the natural waves in them gave him a sexy, tousled look. The kind that women wanted to run their hands through. Just as she had been itching to do all through dinner.
In her peripheral vision, she caught two women eyeing him appreciatively. She flashed them a no-poaching look and they averted their gazes.
“That would be lovely. I can’t stay long, though. Tomorrow is a work day.” Sheesh. She sounded as if she was the one doing Julian a favor by going to his place.
He nodded briskly. “Shall we?”
Inside his chauffeured car, she and Julian chatted about art exhibits they had gone to, his polo team called the Black Cavaliers, and current events. He was easy to talk to now that the champagne had given her a bit of a protective cloak against the dazzle of his glamour. She surprised herself by sharing with him her dream of publishing her own illustrated children’s stories.
Blakely Tower was a high-end residential building along Wilshire Boulevard. Julian keyed a number on his mobile. The electronically secure door beeped, and he ushered them inside the penthouse.
Motion sensor pin lights flicked open automatically, tracking them as they passed the foyer. Julian led her to the stark white living room. She removed her shoes hastily, afraid of dirtying the white rug.
Julian merely lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. He then pivoted and gestured to one side of the room.
Imogen gasped.
Displayed on the large expanse of white wall were several portraits, some so tall it almost reached the soaring ceiling of the penthouse. She walked barefoot to gape at them closely. She recognized the grand style of Reynolds, the hauteur of the subjects of Van Dyck, and the pastoral style of Gainsborough.
“Oh my God,” she cried out in disbelief, turning to Julian. “This is incredible!”
He smiled, duly pleased by her reaction.
“You had them shipped all the way to Los Angeles?” She recognized some of the paintings. One in particular because it was of a young boy with blond hair astride a pony. She remembered telling Julian it was easy to imagine he looked like the portrait when he was a boy, and he had told her it was the 3rd Duke of Blackmoore.
“In a manner of speaking.”
She shot him a puzzled look, but he refused to elaborate and instead strode to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. She wrenched her eyes away from him and instead studied the six-foot portrait.
“This is a Reynolds, right?” She cited one of the most prominent British portraitists of the 18th century. His nod was affirmative. “His use of colors are so bold and yet they look,” she searched for the right word, “clean.” She cringed at how gauche she must sound to someone like Julian. Her graphic design course was no match for his minor degree in Art History. She flashed him a sheepish smile, but it died when her eyes locked with his. Gone was the perpetually amused, languid expression lurking in those green depths. In them was a watchful intensity that made Imogen’s breath stall, afraid to break the tableau.
“It’s all in the technique,” he spoke, his voice low and liquid, and Imogen felt its effect like a living thing, heating her blood as it coursed through her body, plumping her breasts and making her moist between her legs. “Reynolds used brushstrokes that were long, firm, and broad.”
“I− I see,” she stammered.
His eyes had gone darker. “He didn’t like mixing paints, so he layered the colors while they were still fresh,” an infinitesimal pause, “and wet…”
His voice rasped on all her nerve endings. They could only stare at each other, transfixed. Imogen felt her skin simmering with little curls of desire. There was no street sound to slice through the pregnant atmosphere way above the pedestrian life below.
It was the spaghetti strap that broke the impasse. She must have made a small movement because it fell down her shoulder. Julian’s darkened gaze flicked to it, then moved lower. She resisted the urge to throw her arms across her chest to hide her peaked nipples. And then because she couldn’t bear the torment any longer, she shattered the charged silence.
“Are you as delicious as they say, Your Grace?” Shit. Did she actually say that out loud?
Julian’s bark of laughter made her cheeks flame. She wanted to jump off the penthouse’s glass viewing deck from sheer embarrassment. She could still salvage the situation by attributing her outrageous question to the effects of alcohol. She was about to open her big mouth again when he grasped her cold hands and tugged her closer.
“Why don’t you have a taste and find out?”
Her breath whooshed out of her in one huge exhalation. He was serious, right? The challenge was tossed out lightly but the air crackled with invisible electrical currents, supercharging Imogen’s senses. She didn’t need to be told twice. When you were given a free pass to lock lips with His Deliciousness, you ran with it, no questions asked.
She raised herself on her toes, clutched his nape, and tried to draw his head down. He jerked back, as if startled that she actually made the first move. His body was unyielding. Imogen’s hands dropped to her sides in abrupt withdrawal. She tilted her head back and gazed at him in confusion. His jaw was clenched and his eyes had lost the friendly crinkles at the corner.
Oh, God. Was he just actually teasing her? Did she misread him, she thought frantically, taking a step back. A succinct curse sliced through the tense atmosphere. Suddenly Julian’s arms snaked around her waist and pulled her tight against him. She stumbled slightly and her cheek bumped against the smooth fabric of his shirt. He steadied her. Pressed against his chest, she could make out his heartbeat. It seemed to be thumping as fast as her own. She felt his hands drifting up to the back of her head, cradling it gently. He tilted her head up and there was nowhere to hide.
He just stared at her for several seconds. His jaw was still taut and his eyes torn.
Imogen held her breath, afraid he might change his mind. And then the world became dark as his head swooped down and their lips met for the first time. It felt surreal at first. A part of her had detached, not quite believing it was happening. But then he pressed deeper and Imogen’s mouth parted on a gentle sigh. Julian licked and then sucked patches of her lips. He’d stay still momentarily so Imogen could reciprocate, then he’d take over again. It was like a dance, only their lips, and not their feet, were engaged in a sensual surge and retreat pattern.
“Hmmm,” she moaned, drawing back to surface for air.
“How was it?” he murmured huskily. He ran the pad of his thumb over her swollen lower lip back and forth.
“I can’t tell yet.” He was too tall. She was going to have a crick in the neck if she didn’t think of a better position. She dragged him to the nearest couch, his expression puzzled but bemused. She blocked her queasiness at the whiteness of the three-seater and climbed on top of it so she could be lip level with him.
He chuckled softly. “By all means, please feel free to take another sample.”
So she did.
She leaned into him, grasping his well-defined upper arms for support. His hands found her bottom again. He pulled her close so that his hardness pressed against her belly. She gasped into his mouth at the evidence of his arousal and her tongue darted out tentatively like a child trying out a new flavor of ice cream. He met it boldly. He did his own tasting too, tangling then sucking on her tongue, grazing her teeth. He cupped her nape, angling her head so that he could plunge deeper. Imogen was weak-kneed when they pulled apart.
“The verdict?” he murmured.
“Just as yummy as I thought.” He tasted of champagne and caviar and a whole lot of things she could gorge herself on until she became sick.
“You’ve thought about kissing me?”
Imogen was distracted by the butterfly kisses he was trailing on the line of her jaw. “Hell yeah. Every single day.”
He fro
ze for a second, his eyes flaring with molten heat, then his lips found her mouth again. The strokes of his tongue were more explicit, aggressive. He wasn’t holding anything back now. Imogen felt him sliding down the other strap of her little black dress. He groaned into her mouth when his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs gliding across the aching crests. She leaned backward a bit, creating space as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, her mouth still fused with his. She ran the tips of her fingernails across his nipples and his breathing grew labored. Tit for tat.
His right hand went under her dress and slid inside the garter of her knickers. Imogen whimpered when his fingers brushed over her springy curls and then touched her slick folds. He traced her dewy slit back to front in a coaxing manner several times. He chuckled raggedly when she spread her legs wider to give him better access. Before she could brace herself, Imogen felt a finger slide in her depths, then another. She winced and grabbed his wrist in reflex, dislodging him.
He searched her face, a frown beginning to gather force. Before he could say anything, she pre-empted him. “It’s just been a long time…” she trailed off, hoping he would make his own conclusion.
She held his gaze and tried not to squirm at his penetrating glance.
After endless seconds, he seemed to have reached a decision. “Then we’ll just take it slow.”
Her knees threatened to give way in relief. She had been afraid he would back off.
She kissed him again. Keeping her lips locked to his, she made quick work of his belt buckle, popped the metal button of his pants open, and slid down his zipper with a quick flick of her wrist. She grasped the edges of his trousers and briefs. Julian was forced to bend as she pushed it down past his hips, their mouths still melded together. She rose again to her full height and encircled his rigid shaft with her hands. It jutted high against his belly. Imogen felt it was like holding steel and silk at once.
She started stroking him tentatively. The next thing she knew, she was on her back, lying lengthwise on the white couch and he was looming above her.
“Don’t you like it when I touch you?”
“I like it too much, that’s the problem,” he rasped. “I told you we’d take it slow. Now open up, Imogen. My turn to taste.”
She stared at him blankly, then she opened her mouth.
Julian grinned and placed his index finger on top of her upper lip, his thumb under her lower one and snapped her mouth shut. “Not this.” He grabbed her right ankle and hooked it over the back rest of the couch, exposing her to his hungry gaze. “This one.”
Before she could even blink, his head was already between her legs.
“Oh my God!” she mewled, clutching the cushions for dear life as Julian’s wicked tongue slid between her folds and did wicked, wicked things. He circled and flicked her swollen nub and her hips arched off the couch. All sensation narrowed to that aching point. Her breathing grew shallow and labored. She was close. “Julian!” she cried urgently, as the rush of her approaching orgasm surged low in her belly, rippled through her limbs, and slammed into her like a tidal wave.
She was still floating, boneless as a starfish from her massive release, when she felt his fingers sliding into her slick depths with no resistance.
“Julian.” She raised her head weakly.
“Sshh,” he murmured, his gaze heavy-lidded. “I’m not done with you yet.” His fingers rasped on a spot on her inner walls that had her biting her lip. Just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, his tongue slipped inside her once again. She closed her eyes and scattered like a spray of sea foam hitting a rock.
There was the crinkling sound of foil. The couch dipped and when she opened her eyes, Julian was hovering above her, his eyes boring into hers. This is it. He’s going to make me his. She gripped his arms, quelling her nervousness. She had discarded whatever misgivings she had about this quantum leap from best friend’s brother’s status to one night hookup the moment she stepped inside the penthouse. He’s never going to be yours, her inner voice said. Then I’ll take what I can get tonight.
He settled himself between her legs, her hips cradling his. He pulled back on his haunches and before Imogen could brace herself, he plunged inside her with one deep thrust.
The pain was sharp. A small cry tore from her throat just as he cursed violently.
The silence that came after was oppressive.
Imogen risked a peek at Julian’s face and blanched.
His brows were drawn tight in an angry slash and he was white around the mouth. “You lied to me,” he gritted out in a low, cutting tone. His eyes flashed with burning anger and something else she couldn’t identify.
Imogen averted her gaze, her guilt at her omission and the overwhelming feel of Julian inside her making her mute.
“Don’t turn away from me, Imogen.” She obeyed him, afraid of angering him further. “You said it had been a long time.” Each word was drawn out, accusing.
“Never is a long time,” she whispered unwisely, trying to make light of the situation, “right?”
He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he visibly held his emotions in check.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter,” she said in a small voice, wishing the couch would open up and swallow her. She wrapped her arms around her chest, suddenly feeling raw and exposed.
His eyes darkened at her action. “It does to me,” he ground out ferociously. His body tensed up with his words, driving him deeper into her. Imogen flinched. He swore violently. “What in hell were you trying to accomplish?”
“I-I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything,” she said in a stricken voice. “I just-I just didn’t want you to stop.”
“Of course I would have bloody well stopped,” he bit out acidly. “Your virginity is the last thing I need on top of the guilt I already have with this-” he floundered, then spat out “-thing between us. Christ! I should’ve never touched you in the first place.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and averted her face to hide the hurt his words inflicted, but he was quick. He must have glimpsed something on her face because his tone suddenly became contrite. “Imogen, bloody hell, I’m sorry-”
Imogen refused to hear any more. She didn’t want his apology. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. She tried to dislodge him by bucking her hips, but the action only drove him in deeper.
A low sound escaped his throat.
Oh, God. Julian was now completely and deeply lodged inside her. Her body had accommodated him. The sharp pain was gone, replaced by a slight burning sensation and the novel sensation of fullness. She tentatively thrust her hips upward, even if she doubted there was any place left inside her for him to go deeper.
His breath came out on a hiss. “Imogen, stop moving.”
She felt him twitch inside her. Amazed, she moved, bolder this time now that the pain of his possession had subsided into a slight discomfort.
“I told you not to move!” She could see little beads of perspiration on his forehead, the muscles of his arms coiling with tension. “Christ, you’re so tight.”
Imogen was suddenly seized by the heady power of making Julian lose control. She braced her feet on the cushion and bucked her hips off the couch, sharply this time.
His body jerked violently.
With a small growl, he grabbed her thighs, splayed it over his haunches, and palmed her breasts. “Tell me, Imogen.”
“Tell you what?” she moaned as his fingers rolled her nipples.
“Tell me you want this as badly as I do.” He began thrusting, sliding in and out in a slow rhythm. “Tell me fucking you will be worth my bad judgment.”
She cupped his clenched jaw and gazed at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “It will be worth it. Please, Julian.”
“Please what?” he said roughly, watching her face intently as he kept moving in a slow, maddening rhythm inside her.
“Please,” she said, her voice catching as he retreated, almost pulling out of her. “Please fuck
me.”
A guttural sound escaped him. He started ramming into her faster, harder, and deeper. She clutched the armrest while a litany of “oh shit” rained from her lips. Imogen couldn’t believe she had said those brazen words. Julian provoked this fearless, shameless side of her. She let out a small whimper when he grazed a very sensitive spot.
“Am I hurting you?” He stilled abruptly, leaned down, and flanked her head with his forearms. He scanned her face, breathing heavily. “Am I hurting you?” he repeated when she temporarily lost her ability to respond.
Imogen could only shake her head weakly. His mouth descended and claimed hers for an open-mouthed kiss. His tongue plunged and retreated, mimicking the action that began between her legs again.
“You feel so good.” His tongue licked a fiery trail down her throat, to her chest and to her nipple, swirling on the rigid crest.
“Julian,” she keened as she wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back.
His thrusts grew fiercer, more desperate. He closed his eyes. The muscles in his neck grew taut. She felt everything inside her contract to a tiny point and then explode, scattering fragments of herself all around.
She heard Julian mutter a low oath, felt him pounding into her savagely, then felt him shudder as his release gripped him violently. He collapsed on top of her, panting for breath.
“Julian,” she whispered achingly. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, indelibly imprinting the best part of this whole night in her heart – that precious few minutes she had the right to hold him.
But all illusions had to end.
He levered himself up on his forearms and pulled away and out of her, his chest still heaving. She winced, her body betraying her. She cursed silently as she saw Julian flinch and edge away from her a few more inches.
She saw the instant regret reared its mocking head.
“I was too rough. I hurt you.” His green eyes were shuttered, his voice clear of any emotion. He turned away from her, his back a rigid column, and started pulling on his trousers.
The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) Page 3