Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against the hot length of his body, nuzzling her neck. “Can you feel how much you excite me, Drusilla?” He pressed against her, and she felt the truth of his words. He turned her and held up her chin to look in her eyes.

  She couldn’t stop swallowing—her mouth seemed to be producing an unprecedented amount of saliva. And looking at him made her eyeballs hot—actually made her vision blur and waver—as if she were staring through steam from a boiling pot. His body was big—far bigger than he looked in his clothing. She’d seen him nude once before, of course, but he had been a mere boy—seventeen or eighteen. He was a man, now, and there seemed to be muscles on top of muscles, surrounded by more muscles.

  His skin was a velvety bronze and heat was coming off him in waves.

  “Will you touch me? Put your hands on my shoulders?”

  Drusilla jumped at the sound of his voice, forgetting this broad expanse of chest belonged to an actual man. She reached out shaking fingers, the silk of his robe smooth and hot. Her heart pounded—so madly and loudly she just knew it must be obvious by looking at her. He made a low humming sound and leaned closer, just like a dog pushing closer for a pet.

  That was it: she would just think of him as a big dog. She’d never had a big dog, but there were loads of them at Exham Castle. They were always lolling all over the place, underfoot, on furniture. The marquess and his family apparently enjoyed them.

  He stepped even closer, and her arms slid around his neck, her body pressed tight against his. The soap he used was unusual—a blend of spicy smells she could not identify. It evoked images of amber and exotic music and perfumed smoke.

  “Are you sniffing me, Drusilla?”

  She hadn’t thought her face could become any hotter. “II’m sorry.”

  His hand came beneath her chin and tilted her face up again.

  “Don’t apologize for your curious nature.” His mouth was stern. “You needn’t be ashamed of anything you wish to do—anywhere you wish to touch, or have me touch. It is only we two together, and we should feel comfortable to explore each other’s bodies.” His mouth flexed into a smile. “That is part of the joy of becoming one.”

  This close to him, Drusilla could see the red-gold hairs that broke through the skin.

  His eyebrows jumped up, and his teeth flashed. “What is it, my wife?”

  She gaped as if only now realizing what the brief blur of a ceremony had meant: He was her husband. He was hers. A shock went through her body at the wonderful, frightening, amazing thought.

  His lips, full and shapely, curved into an oddly gentle smile. “I want you, Drusilla—I want to bed you.”

  She knew she should say something—anything—but she was empty of words and thoughts. Besides, her throat had constricted. It was a miracle any air was getting through; words would not have a chance.

  She nodded jerkily, and he kissed her again.

  “If I do anything you do not like, you have only to ask me to stop. Is that understood?”

  Again she nodded.

  He laughed softly into her hair. “Where is Miss Clare—what have you done with her? Why isn’t she here to scold me—to hector me?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she answered foolishly, staring at his feet.

  “Look at me, Drusilla.”

  She realized, as the seconds ticked past, that he was not going to speak or move until she obeyed.

  “That’s better.” He slid his hands around her throat, his thumbs resting on her jaws while his fingers massaged the taut cords of her neck.

  “I’m going to remove your gown. I want to look at you—at all of you.”

  “But—”

  His fingers paused at the fastenings that ran from her neck to her waist. “Yes? Remember, you may ask questions or tell me to stop at any time.”

  “Is that, er, well, necessary? My aunt said—”

  “I can guess what your aunt said. No, nudity is not necessary, but I would like to see your body.”

  Drusilla felt positively woozy and closed her eyes. “Oh.” She gulped. “Why?”

  “Because it would give me pleasure to look at you—to touch your skin, all of it.”

  “Uh.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded.

  His fingers resumed their journey, his featherlight touch almost imperceptible on first her dressing gown and then her nightgown.

  “Do you want a child, Drusilla?”

  Her eyes snapped open.

  He was smiling, and his gaze flickered from her eyes to her chest.When she looked down, she saw the soft fabric was gaping open. Her breasts were still concealed, but she saw, with horror, that her nipples had hardened, as if she were cold. But she wasn’t cold . . .

  “Drusilla?”

  Oh, yes. He’d asked her a question. “Wh-why do you ask if I want a child?”

  “Because I know you did not wish to marry. I’m in no need of an heir and there are ways to lower the likelihood of conception.”

  She wanted to ask—with all her person—if this was what he did with his mistresses. And did he have any children already? But luckily she could not force out the words.

  Instead she stared up at him, his gaze mesmerizing her.

  He smiled when she didn’t answer. “We can utilize a sheath, if that is what you would prefer.” Her face heated at his intent look—and she knew he was recalling the last time they’d discussed the subject, and how that had ended. When she said nothing, he continued. “It is no guarantee that I will not put a child inside you, of course, but it will reduce the chances.”

  He continued his distracting stroking, his high, sharp cheekbones tinted with pink; Drusilla realized he was excited. By her. Never in her life had a man looked at her like this. She knew, deep in her bones, it was an expression she would do almost anything to see again, and again.

  “I love children.” She swallowed, finding thought difficult with his proximity, her near nudity, with . . . everything. “It is true I never expected to have them.”

  “Oh? Why is that? I think Mary Wollstonecraft had children, did she not?”

  Drusilla’s lips parted. “Yes, she did. But how did you—”

  “I am not so savage or ignorant as you might think, Mrs. Marlington. I might have glanced at the good woman’s writings once or twice, if for no other reason than to have artillery when next we met.”

  Drusilla could only gape. He had thought about when they would see each other and imagined what he might say? But that was what she had always done with him. Why would he do such a thing?

  He caught a spiral of hair and wrapped it slowly around his finger, his eyes tracking the motion.

  “You never answered my question.” He kept his gaze on his hand, which allowed her to force out the words that boiled and bubbled inside her.

  “I very much want children.” Her voice shook and she sounded hoarse, rough . . . desperate.

  The muscles seemed to shift subtly beneath the skin of his face, and his expression became almost . . . austere. He released the curl and pulled her close, lowering his mouth over hers.

  He stroked her tightly pressed lips with the tip of his tongue. “Open for me, ya helo. I want to taste you, Drusilla.”

  She parted her lips, as she had earlier, in the garden, and he made a low humming sound, all the while stroking, kissing, nibbling.

  The feel of his tongue on her teeth, her gums—it should have been revolting. It was not.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against the hot length of his body. “I’m going to undress you now.” It did not sound like a question, but he paused, and she knew it was.

  She nodded, her face hot and no doubt as red as a boiled lobster. His questions, as kindly meant as they were, required her to speak, or at least respond. And the things he wanted her to say . . . oh, they were improper and embarrassing and, ultimately, frightening. Frightening because her body was pulling her toward him—toward t
he edge—without any approval from her mind.

  He began to lift both the robe and nightgown from her shoulders, his eyes on hers as he released the garments and they fell to her feet like a silent waterfall. And then she stood before him, naked.

  His gaze dropped, and he sucked in a harsh breath, his eyelids heavy. “You are a goddess.”

  She reeled from his words, one hand going to her mound, the other arm across her breasts.

  His expression was fierce and filled with want; he reached out and traced the underside of one breast, and she could not contain her groan.

  He took her face in both hands, his expression gentling. “Go, lie down on the bed, and I will extinguish the lights.” She hesitated, and he kissed her again, his lips and tongue sliding over hers in a way that was becoming, if not familiar, at least no longer shocking.

  She opened without being asked this time, even kissing him in return, the tip of her tongue darting into his mouth just as he pulled away.

  He released her and went to snuff the candles.

  “Do you always extinguish the candles when you do . . . this?” Drusilla asked.

  He paused. “No. But I do not wish to mortify you on—”

  “No, I want—”

  They both waited to hear what she wanted. But she had no words, and her tongue seemed to have gone to sleep.

  “I shall leave them.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded.

  “But I am going to disrobe and am not wearing a nightshirt. Do you wish to see me?”

  Oh, she did, she did. Her memory of that brief glance all those years ago was like a favorite blanket, worn and handled again and again until it was frayed around the edges from overuse.

  “Yes.”

  He led her to the bed and lifted the bedding. Drusilla crawled beneath, grateful beyond words to be covered.

  “Have you seen a man before?”

  “I saw you,” she blurted.

  His hands froze on the sash of his robe and he frowned. Drusilla realized he’d forgotten the incident—an incident that had been so very life changing to her had meant nothing to him. But then he’d been seen by women dozens if not hundreds of times, hadn’t he?

  She swallowed the thought, as unpleasant as one of the draughts her old nurse used to mix up at the sign of the first sniffle.

  He laughed and nodded, his grin releasing a mad fluttering in her chest. “Ah yes, the time Eva stole our clothing.” His eyes narrowed but his smile did not dim. “You recall that, do you, my peeping wife?” His hand moved low over his abdomen, to where the silk bulged, and his palm rubbed over the hard ridge.

  Drusilla’s body clenched in response.

  “I don’t believe I was displaying at my finest that day.” His fingers wrapped around the ridged silk, his hand stroking absently as he gazed at his memory.

  She had no idea what he meant and didn’t care. She couldn’t take her eyes from the sight of his hand, the veins prominent and the muscles of his wrists and forearms defined, clutching something that looked monstrously big.

  “Look at me, Drusilla.” Whatever he saw on her face made him chuckle again and take a step closer to the bed. “Give me your hand . . . please.”

  She extended the hand that was not holding her propped up.

  His fingers were long, nimble, and dark against the pale skin of her wrist. He was openly amused, but when he placed her hand over the silk-covered ridge, his smile dropped away and he hissed.

  Drusilla’s fingers tightened, and he shuddered. She pushed herself up, not caring when the blankets slipped away. She dragged her fingers lightly up his length, transfixed when he shivered.

  His chin tilted down, and it was Drusilla’s turn to suck in a noisy breath; the expression on his face was one of fierce hunger. She closed her shaking fingers around his girth, and his eyelids fluttered but did not close.

  “God, yes . . . just like that.”

  Drusilla looked at her hand and blinked: yes, he really was as big as he felt.

  His hand covered hers and tightened. “Like so.” He squeezed far harder than she would have believed comfortable, and stroked, from root to tip. He groaned, repeating the motion several times before removing both their hands.

  Drusilla frowned. Why had he taken her hand away? She’d just begun to—

  “Will you remove my robe?”

  She looked from the intriguing bulge to his taut, expectant face and swallowed yet again as she reached for the sash with fingers that trembled with anticipation, rather than fear. A quick tug and the fine fabric slid open. Skin like silk stretched over muscles that were impossibly sculpted and defined. Auburn hair lighter than that on his head dusted his chest, with darker curls at the base of his . . .

  “Oh.”

  He made a sound of amusement. “Oh, indeed.” His fingers threaded into her hair, and he tilted her face upward. His lips had thinned and were curved in a tight smile, his green eyes black. “Do you like what you see?” His gaze dropped to her throat as she swallowed. And then swallowed again.

  “Yes.” The word was a dried husk and his pupils flared.

  “Let me in beside you.”

  She scooted away from the edge of the bed, and the mattress moved as he lowered himself.

  “Ahhh, that feels so good,” he said, stretching out on his side, facing her. Lines of strain radiated from the corners of his brilliant eyes, and the grooves that ran from the side of his nose to his mouth seemed to be deeper. She recalled he’d not slept for at least a full day, and an unexpected wave of tenderness washed over her.

  She pulled the covers up over them both, and he smiled. “Thank you for protecting my modesty.”

  Her face heated at his gentle teasing. “You are so tired. Are you sure—”

  He stroked her hair, shaking his head. “I’m not too tired for this. I am never too tired for this.” His hand slid lower, over her jaw, resting at the pulse point on her throat. “I want to be inside your body.”

  She stared.

  His hand caressed her side, his thumb lightly grazing her breast, making her shudder. He leaned forward, pushing aside the blankets and exposing her, his lips finding one of her painfully hard nipples. He rolled her onto her back while he knelt over her, straddling her on his hands and knees, his mouth never stopping its teasing, licking, kissing.

  One hand lowered over her belly and circled softly, the way she had often rubbed one of the many kitchen cats over the years. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, trying to bite back the sounds spilling out of her as he stroked and petted; no wonder cats made that purring sound.

  And then his fingers slid lower.

  He lightly grazed the swell of her midriff, not stopping until he reached her mound. Drusilla’s hips quivered, making her realize she’d lifted them off the bed and was thrusting toward him. He parted her curls with a finger, and her body shook as he stroked between her lips.

  He continued his caressing, applying a bit more pressure with each pass, her hips straining more and more.

  He groaned, the sound one of near pain. “So hot and wet.”

  His words caused the ache that was growing between her thighs to throb.

  His finger circled her entrance, lightly probing, but not breaching her. She spread her thighs as she pushed toward him, willing him to touch her . . . there.

  But he chuckled and teased.

  “Please. ”

  He paused, making her realize she’d spoken her thought aloud.

  “What was that, Drusilla? I did not hear you.”

  She could see by his wicked, wicked smile that he was lying.

  She didn’t care.

  “Please,” she begged, frustration and want overwhelming shame.

  “Please what?”

  But she couldn’t form the words.

  His finger slid to the apex of her thighs, lightly brushing a spot so sensitive her hips bucked. “This?”

  A guttural cry slipped from between her lips when he stopped.

  S
he screwed her eyes shut. “Please, Gabriel.” The words were almost a sob.

  “Shhhh, ya helo. I want to make you suffer, but you beg me so prettily.” He chuckled evilly. “I’ll give you what you need.” His fingers began to move in languid but rhythmic circles.

  Drusilla almost wept with gratitude, her hips pulsing and pushing against his hand so hard the blankets began to slide back. She didn’t care. Her body was shaking and quivering as it had when she’d once been in the grip of a violent fever.

  “Look at me, Drusilla.” He stared down at her, his jaw tight. His finger stroked gently against her entrance and he gave a grunt of what sounded like frustration. “You are tight.” He pushed harder, and her entire body clenched against the slight invasion. His pupils flared until his eyes went black. “So very tight.” This time he pushed and did not stop. Her hips tilted to accept him, and he slid into her until his knuckles rested against her swollen flesh, his thumb stroking between her lips, touching her there.

  He began to move in and out, his thumb occasionally, maddeningly flicking her core. His smile grew fierce and demanding as he pumped her deeper, harder, the sounds of her wetness unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room.

  Drusilla shook her head from side to side; it was too much, too much.

  “Too much,” she breathed out.

  He leaned low and tongued one of her aching nipples. “Should I stop?”

  “No!”

  He laughed and then sucked her hard as his hand resumed its rhythm.

  Drusilla’s thoughts fractured and broke into a thousand insubstantial pieces. Every muscle in her body clenched, as if to hold back the mad, pounding surge that originated from his hand. The sensation was elusive and engulfing—but trapped behind some barrier within her. Her body strained toward . . . something. Something just beyond her reach . . .

  And then the dam broke.

  Somebody yelled—her?—and she clutched at him, as if to hold on, but nothing could stop it and she went over the edge of awareness.

  She was shuddering in the aftermath of her climax when he knelt over her, lowering his mouth over hers.They kissed as she floated, their tongues tangling—almost dancing—until he began to thrust into her, his suggestive motions causing her to tighten with anticipation.