by Sophia Nash
He stiffened.
“I should not have said make ‘love,’ Rory,” she murmured. “What I mean is that I want to lie with you. Have—”
He interrupted gently. “I know what you’re trying to say, V.” He straightened slowly, grasped her shoulders with his large hands and gazed at her.
“Well?” She hardly dared to breathe.
“May I ask why?” His eyes were a dark, still green in the light of the afternoon.
“Of course,” she replied softly. “It’s just that I will go away eventually as I said. I will never marry. No one will ever know except you and me. We have another secret between us, and I’d like to have this one too. It will hurt no one, will it? And I would like to have this as a memory. Would you?”
“Verity . . .” He raked back his dark hair with one hand. “It’s not so simple. And I would not hurt you for the world. I just don’t think—”
“I understand,” she interrupted. “Really I do.” She broke away and put distance between them.
“You don’t understand,” he replied. “Having relations can create serious attachment for many fe-ahem, I mean for people such as me.”
“You’re lying, and I’m not all you think. But I understand.” She rebuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and headed toward the door, determined for him not to see the hot swell of sadness. “Thank you for tea and for bandaging—”
The air left her lungs as he came up behind her and spun her back into his embrace, all gentleness gone.
“I want you,” he said roughly into her ear. “Don’t you dare go.”
A moment later he gathered her in his arms, and for the first time in her life she felt extremely fragile and feminine.
Her heart was beating so loudly she could almost hear it. He deposited her at the foot of the chaise and with a few, deft, fast, and furious movements had divested her of her old boots and breeches. His eyes never wavered from her face as he slowed to carefully unbutton her shirt. She was certain a blush extended to her toes. He grasped the bottom of the shirt and eased it over her head.
He sucked in a breath. “Oh, V . . . you are perfection,” he murmured in a dark, gravelly voice she had never heard.
She was too shy to glance at him as he removed his own clothes. But she felt his eyes studying her, watching her.
His shirt was still in place, but she very much feared and was equally delighted that all the other articles of his clothing were not. He took her hand and she finally gazed into his eyes.
“I have not told you what we were doing when I woke up beside you at Carleton House,” he said as he eased her onto the chaise lounge.
She could not form a word in her mouth.
He stood in front of her and grasped the ends of his shirt to pull it over his head in a supremely masculine fashion. Lord above, he was all sinew and muscle. Hard planes of flesh jutted in a beautiful picture of everything virile. She would not allow her eyes to drift lower. He kneeled onto the chaise and stretched out beside her.
“Are you certain, V?”
“Continue with your story,” she returned.
“Not until you are in my arms,” he murmured. He opened his arms and she moved into his embrace.
Something so primal and elemental happened the moment they were skin-to-skin. It was a hot, thick, pungent desire that took her breath away. She felt him swallow.
“V . . . oh, V.” He grasped her neck and pulled her closer.
“The story,” she whispered, barely able to concentrate while his flesh caressed hers.
“When I began to wake I felt the most astounding sensation. I looked down and my hand was entwined with yours.” He grasped her uninjured hand with his. “Like this,” he murmured, and then kissed her with parted lips.
She wanted him to touch her breast again. It had set her aflame. She arched her back and he immediately broke free of her lips and lowered his head to the very place she wanted.
Oh my Lord . . . his mouth hovered over her breast and then descended. His tongue swirled the tip of her and she entered paradise.
Her body surged with pleasure and she instinctively ran her injured hand up the deep indentation of his spine to where his hair dovetailed.
He exhaled roughly as she brought her other fingers to his flexed hip.
“Not yet, V,” he ground out, bowing down to minister to her other breast. His hands fanned out and grasped her ribs, forcing her to endure the torture he rained down on her with his tongue.
And then she could not wait another moment. She had to touch him. Her curiosity would not be denied; she just had to know. So much for any remnants of maidenly virtue.
Her fingers closed the distance and she grasped the hard, massive jut of him. She could never have imagined what his manhood would feel like. It was very like an iron rod covered in silk satin. She stroked his full length and he pulsed. She had not known it would grow to this size. The idea of it made her shiver. She caressed him again.
He groaned as if in pain and she released him.
“God. Please . . . please, do that again,” he groaned.
She complied, taking confidence in the pleasure pain she surely was inflicting.
And all of a sudden he became a madman. He swept her body under his. His forehead dropped down until it touched hers and he went still.
She could sense his trepidation. “Hey . . . are you all right?”
He looked at her; his eyes were glassy with guarded mystery. “I should be asking you that.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you, V,” he said with pain radiating from his eyes.
“This is my decision, not yours.”
His eyes were old, the harsh planes of his face grim as he gazed down the length of her figure. “You are so damn beautiful.”
She knew it wasn’t true. Never in her life had she felt beautiful . . . but this one instant in time she suddenly did. Here with him on this soft chaise.
Verity knew what would come next. She released the tight grip of her knees and allowed him to slip between her thighs.
A vein in his neck pulsed with tension as long moments passed without a word from him, his head slightly above her own. For a moment she feared he had changed his mind and would leave her. Instead he finally moved his strong hands to push her legs still wider and came up on his forearms to stare at her below him. She never ever wanted to forget this moment. It was the pinnacle of her every dream . . . only so much more poignant than she had ever imagined.
She was with him, and he with her. And for just this one moment out of time nothing else mattered.
The cool air in the darkened chamber made her shiver. And then he was stroking the side of her body and running his hand to the dark nest of curls between her thighs. With his strong, deft fingers, he parted her folds and it was all she could do not to shout from the wicked sensation he released from her. His touch was so shocking and sure over her soft flesh. A moment later she felt her body’s molten response. She became hotter, wetter. She raised her head, only to see his own move ever lower.
A curl of the most irresistible heat swirled over her. God. He was kissing her. There. Where his hand and fingers had been. She would have objected if not for the intense pleasure that left a silent scream in her throat.
Oh, she should not have suggested this. How could she live without it? There was a reason this was forbidden to unmarried ladies. Ecstasy like this—once tasted could never be forgotten.
And then she felt his finger enter her. A dark passion overtook her when he moved within her passage. The thrust and release was a sweet pleasure pain that was immeasurable in time and place. The intensity was almost too much to bear, and she forgot to breathe.
She closed her eyes for a moment and regretted it. She suddenly remembered another time, another very different place. She forced her eyes open. She only wanted to remember today. With Rory. It was burning away all the old, horrid, humiliating memories.
&n
bsp; He looked up from below her, his eyes burning with intensity. “It’s me, Verity . . . and I want you.”
It was as if he could read her every need. She nearly cried for the sweetness of it.
And then he entered her again gently with his finger, and took a long taste of her at the same time. It unfurled a great need deep inside of her. She pulsed with some unknown longing, which was terrifyingly intense. She wanted to speak, but she could not. Something was growing louder in her mind and in her body. And suddenly she reached some unknown zenith, and a white burning pleasure gripped her as she balanced on the edge of an invisible precipice. A massive series of pulses raced through her core so deeply she cried out, which only served to make the pulses echo throughout her again.
As reason returned to her, she felt him inch up and lay his head on her belly. He turned to kiss her navel. He seemed to caress her ribs with something very near reverence. But surely in her daze she was imagining it.
Without a word his body moved fully over her and his whole weight pressed down on her. She felt almost suffocated by the strength surrounding her. And for a moment, just the briefest moment, she had the urge to stop him.
But this was Rory. He would not hurt her. He would stop if she asked.
And yet now he would not move. He would not raise up on his arms and kiss her. He was like a statue, and she could imagine his thoughts churning wildly.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered. She parted her knees once again and raised her legs, inviting him, almost daring him not to possess her.
He finally raised his head and she saw a look of raw need in a dark expression he wore like a mask. The heavy length of him pressed against her thigh. He moved slightly and his hardness was now at the entrance to her, still radiating sensations. And once again she couldn’t breathe for the intensity of the moment . . . and the small fear growing in the pit of her stomach. His body was solid and sinewed with strength. Her apprehension grew when he did not move.
He finally rose to look at her with such an expression of worry on his face. His hand pushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “Breathe, Verity.”
She exhaled roughly.
“Shall I stop, then?”
She shook her head with force, unable to speak.
“Are you sure? I can’t bear to hurt you.”
“Oh, Rory,” she said finally. “I can’t stand this waiting. Please . . .”
And then he was testing the edges of her. She angled her hips and then he seemed to make a decision. He slid an inch inside of her and withdrew. And then again, slowly going carefully deeper. She tensed as he withdrew. She could feel how intensely he was holding himself in check. He paused and studied her for a moment and then dropped his face to gently kiss her brow. She relaxed instantly. At that moment he arched and drove deep inside her.
She closed her eyes and almost groaned with relief that there was none of the searing pain of so long ago. Instead there was his fullness pulsing deep within her when he stopped. She had never felt such intimate communion. She finally opened her eyes and found him studying her, his eyes dark and remote.
She knew what would come next. A few jerky, painful movements and then he would withdraw and get dressed, cough, and apologize.
She prepared herself, only wishing this could last far longer. She almost begged for him not to stop again. She wanted this to be more binding; everlasting.
He withdrew, breathing deeply, and then slowly plunged deeper than before, and deeper still until she felt so full, so vulnerable, that she would burst.
The edges of her burned with pleasure-pain. He slowly withdrew yet again only to begin a long tumble into a steady rhythm meant to draw from within her a maddening desire that would only build. And again she felt herself on the edge of something wild and reckless. She would not let go again. She could not.
But he would not leave her there. He alternated between looking at her, watching what he did to her, and then losing himself in the ageless rhythm. He seemed transfixed in agonized pleasure as he thrust the great root of himself into her again and again.
“Open yourself to me,” he demanded with a groan. “Yes, that’s it. Even more. Don’t be afraid. I have you, Verity. I won’t go without you.” His hands suddenly slid to grip her bottom and he pulled her ever closer to him.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. But she listened to him.
“Close your eyes.”
She shook her head. She had to look at his beautiful body covering hers. She had to know it was him.
“Let it come, then,” he ground out. “Oh God.” He closed his dark green eyes and strained his head back, giving her as much of him as she could take.
She could not have breathed if she had wanted to. The air within her swirled wildly into a vortex that spun out of control, and finally, teetering, she felt her cleft constrict and she shattered into a thousand incandescent filaments of pulsing light.
He let himself follow her, pumping and pumping, until with another groan he swiftly withdrew from her and spilled his seed on her body.
With an unsteady hand, he carefully stroked her belly clean with the discarded neckcloth he had used as a makeshift bandage. And then he slowly collapsed his great weight on her, his exhaustion finally evident. Great emotion welled inside her and she didn’t dare move for she feared it might jar the sudden tears in her eyes.
Oh dear Lord. She should not have done this. She knew she should not. She had held herself so rigidly in check. And this was the reason. She had instinctively and unconsciously known it would be like this with him. And it was hopeless. It could never happen again. It would never happen again.
And so her punishment would be knowing for the rest of her life what she had given up to keep her sanity.
She knew with all her heart and soul that she could not marry him. He could never love her as she loved him. And he had even warned her of this effect. Of the ungovernable feminine emotions that followed an event of this magnitude.
She fought valiantly to keep her emotions in check. She would not allow him to see how deeply these moments with him had affected her. She could not let him see. It would only lead to guilt on his side. And it would be unbearable to see that in his expression. She knew without one doubt that he had a great conscience. And she would not let him suffer regret again. She loved him too much to allow it.
But above all, there was one other reason she could never marry Rory. It trumped all. When someone finally figured out she was the author of the Duke Diaries—and she had no doubt her identity would eventually come to light—she had no intention of dragging the man she loved down with her.
At that moment one of Rory’s hands found hers and grasped it gently with a squeeze that promised comfort. She shivered.
Chapter 11
In the final throes of passion, Rory had fought to ignore the familiar tightening in his lower back. He had concentrated on her happiness, on her pleasure. He wanted more than anything to bring her to completion again. He would have shot himself if he hadn’t. He had focused on slowing and deepening the even rhythm of thrusts. She had been so soft and inviting. It was an exquisite torture he could not remember ever experiencing.
Rory had never been more surprised in his life. He’d expected her to show fear. And where had been the resistance, pain, blood, and all the rest that came part and parcel with a virgin?
He had lain with only one before—the widow of a gentleman too elderly to exercise his marital rights. The entire experience had been so unpleasant, had involved so many tears, and so much obvious pain, that he had sworn off virgins altogether.
But Verity had asked him to make love to her and he could not deny her. And in equal measure, he had not been able to deny himself.
And so he had not.
But she had been everything sweet. Her body was like an impossibly delicious fruit, ready to be savored and revered. He simply could not get enough of her. He was insatiable at the sight and scent of every inch of her.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the back of the chaise. He could not understand. He had heard that riding astride could damage a lady physically, but there had been something more to it.
When he entered her and discovered there was no barrier, he had studied her face for a moment and seen the unmistakable signs of fear and . . . guilt. That was the word. There was absolutely no shock or surprise in her expression.
“Rory?” she whispered.
He released her hand and raised himself up on his forearms. “I’m squashing you.”
“No,” she replied evenly.
He was certain he saw uncertainty and the remnants of sorrow in her eyes. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” she said quietly.
He could see the hesitancy in her dark eyes. It was the first time she was not saying what was on her mind.
He had left her reputation in tatters in London, and had no doubt the whispers would soon reach Derbyshire. Yet she was determined not to force him into marriage. Little did she know, he would never allow it, even if he could not yet tell her since he knew she would refuse. But he sensed he had learned the reason for her refusal. He had also finally learned that winning her hand would prove to be the most complex and important mission of his life. He would never again make the mistake of thinking that surmounting her reservations would be an easy task.
But finally, he could do something for her. He could open a path for her to confide in him.
He stroked her head and gazed into her lovely face. “You know, V, you can say or tell me anything, don’t you? You did say we are to be the best of friends.”
Her anxious eyes roamed his face.
“You showed me not two hours ago that you would not judge me,” he began. “I would hope you know that I am the last person to ever judge you.” He rolled slowly to the inside of the chaise and pulled her into his arms to cradle her and nuzzle her nose. “And everyone knows rakes make the very best confidants.”