A Kiss to Remember

by Rebecca Minto

  “Harder,” he ordered harshly.

  Her heart thudding, she did as he asked, squeezing, stroking, until she felt the blood pumping through the thin, mellifluous skin. He moved his hips gradually, reveling in her touch. He shifted his attention to her swollen, tender breasts.

  Daphne shifted lifting her head so she could lave at his throat. That was all it took for him to completely loose control.

  Roaring something incomprehensible, James grasped her thighs and pushed them up high, so high they nearly eclipsed her shoulders. Frightened by this newest position, she reached out to clutch at his shirt. He buried himself inside her in one, brutal thrust.

  “Oh, God,” he cried.

  Daphne tightened around him, frightened yet exultant. She had never faced such a turbulent coupling before, yet somehow it was freeing, wonderful, forbidden. Without warning, he began to thrust into her, hard, deep, fast. She felt his strokes deep, deeper than ever before, and it evoked an even deeper response from her. She felt her first orgasm wash over her within the first few strokes, powerful and all encompassing.

  Terrified, she reached out to find something to cling…but there was nothing. She felt as though she was on the edge of a precipice and the ground beneath her was failing. She was falling… Mindless, her head thrashed back and forth.

  “James,” she pleaded, repeating his name over and over again.

  James roared his pleasure. He was frenzied, completely out of control. The smells of sex filled the air, raw and pungent. The sounds of their shouts and their skin slapping together comprised a wild symphony.

  “Oh, Daphne,” James groaned.

  She wept with a terrifying mixture of relief and regret when he pulled out of her. He wasn’t done, though, not by far. He ran his tongue over her breasts. He bit one nipple, punishing her for making him such a beast. His tongue slid down to the sodden pool between her legs.

  “No!”

  Not like this, she thought as his tongue thrust deep inside her. Daphne wept as his hands held her hips in a bruising vice. She couldn’t move at all, couldn’t pull away or arch forward. She was helpless and open to his riotous tongue.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” he growled into her, sending delicious little vibrations tingling through her. “Until you’re as crazed as I am, Daph. Until you can’t breathe for wanting me.”

  She screamed as he thrust his tongue again, deeper than before. Moist, throbbing, sensitive, it was intolerable rapture he forced on her, again and again until his tongue slid up her dripping slit to encircle the throbbing nub of flesh. She screamed anew as he suckled her into his mouth, grazing teeth over her, licking and teasing and rubbing her with his tongue until she was mindless with pleasure.

  One hand lowered, fingers thrusting deep, as he continued. She was sensitive and aching now, weeping and begging him to stop. It was too much, she could not take it, but he was deaf to her objections. His fingers gyrated her as his mouth tortured her into an orgasm that threatened to push her into oblivion.

  “That’s it,” James breathed, relieved as she clamped around his fingers.

  He slowed his caresses, tapering them off as she recovered, slowing the movement of his fingers to a lingering stroke. Just when she thought the storm was over, he shocked her, closing his lips around the nub once more with more intensity than before. She began to boil at once.

  Daphne screamed his name as she went blind. He was endless, stopping only when he sensed she was near completion again, tapering off until she gained enough control and then beginning again. She sobbed and begged, she called him names that would ordinarily have caused her blush. She begged him to do things to her that no gently bred wife would ever ask of her husband.

  She was close to it now. They both knew it. Her control was lost. She could not hold on much longer. Abandoning the abused nub of flesh, he licked his way down once more and, for good measure, thrust his tongue deep just to taste her fresh passion.

  Groaning, almost destroyed by his own need to take, he rolled her onto her belly and pushed her to her knees. Without warning, he entered her from behind, sliding deep in a merciless pace that demanded a response.

  Daphne gave it to him. She screamed out her pleasure for all to hear. Her round bottom came flying at him on each downward stroke. Even that wasn’t enough for her. She reached her hands behind her, grappling for his hips to urge him to take her deeper, harder, faster. No matter how frenzied his thrusting became, it was not enough for her. Weeping, frustrated, she curled her fingers around the hairy, taut sac between his legs. She stroked it with her forefinger, maddening circles that pushed him beyond any façade of control.

  Wrapping his arms around her waist, he rolled onto his side, holding her still as he thrust rapidly, incessantly. Unwilling to lose himself without her, he slipped his fingers between her legs and stroked her into a raging climax. Tears streamed out of his eyes and Daphne could only weep with him as the pleasure came to an intolerable peak for them both.

  “Oh, God, God!” James roared. He buried his face in her neck, bit deep and hard. “Give me a baby. Daphne. Give me a son tonight.”

  It was too much for her. Daphne gave herself to the climax, wrapping her fingers around his wrists as she exploded against him. Vibrated as wave after endless wave splashed over her, dragging her under, drowning her in a black euphoria that went on and on.

  James was right behind her. He sobbed against her shoulder, uncontrolled, agonizing, as he exploded. His own climax was fierce, ripping into him with sheathed claws that left him quaking, trembling and vulnerable into her.

  Weak, replete, even that raging storm was not enough to silence the beast within. The madness claimed him still. James was helpless to the need that drove him. With a hand that trembled almost violently, he rolled to prone figure of his very exhausted wife onto her back.

  All he could do was kiss her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  James rose an hour before dawn. Daphne knew because she was still wide awake, cuddled against his chest, when he had roused. She feigned sleep while he stood there, staring down at her. Her skin burned at the intensity of his stare. He stood there a long time, simply staring at her before he finally turned and padded into his own room.

  Daphne rolled onto her stomach and buried her face into his pillow. It still smelled of his earthy scent. She began to weep silently, aching from the inside out.

  He had spent the night with her, as usual, although neither of them had much sleep. She had thought it impossible, after that first turbulent experience, but he had proved her wrong, again and again. He had taken her repeatedly, as though it were the last time they would be together for a long time. A very long time.

  She heard the low murmur of voices in the next room. She sighed and rolled onto her side. She was exhausted. She was sore and aching and perhaps she might find a pleasure in that at any other time, but when he was leaving, when every single word she’d heard about marriage before their wedding was ringing in her ears, it only made her feel all the more miserable.

  What he’d said last night… Silent tears slid down her cheeks, staining the lace of her pillow. He wanted her to get pregnant. Was that why he had been making love to her so often? Not love, she thought furiously. Sex. James did not love her. Handsome, virile, wonderful men such as the Duke of Cheney did not love wimpy, dumpy little peahens like Daphne Davernay.

  He wanted a child. Her stomach fluttered in response and a keening longing swept through her. Children of her own, a babe to hold and cuddle and love. Perhaps it would be good, Daphne thought miserably. If she could not have the affection from her husband she so craved, at least she could love his child.

  It hurt, knowing that was the reason he had been with her so frequently. It hurt because, blast it, she had begun to hope that he was growing a fondness for her that might eclipse duty and honor. Her love for him steadi
ly grew each moment they spent together. Realizing now that it had not been tenderness on his mind, but seduction, pained her more than she would ever admit.

  “Daphne?”

  She swallowed a cry of distress as the sound of his quiet baritone. She had been so caught up in her misery she had not even heard him approach. She felt the mattress sag as he sat down. Chills slid down her spine when his warm hand stroked down her bare back.

  “Wake up, sweetheart.”

  Feigning sleep, she remained mobile. Don’t let him see, she prayed. Dear God, don’t let him see what a pitiful little crybaby she was. She wanted to scream in frustrated shame when his firm hands easily rolled her over onto her back.

  She felt his stare. It was followed by a heavy sigh. Then, with a tenderness that made her ache deep in her breast, his mouth lowered to her cheek, kissing away her tears. His mouth lowered to her lips, brushing once, twice, three times. She could have died then and there.

  “Wake up, Daphne,” he said roughly. He punctuated it with a gentle shake.

  She decided to pretend she hadn’t been awake all this time. Moaning, she opened her wet, red-rimmed eyes. He smiled softly.

  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat. His hair was wet from his bath, his jaw clean shaven. He had dressed in one of his silk shirts and riding pants. He was so handsome it made her heart ache just looking at him.

  James caught a cooling tear on his forefinger. “You don’t often cry in your sleep. Nightmares?”

  She nodded woodenly. Let him think his worst, she thought miserably.

  He kissed the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, darling. I would never have you dream of unhappy things. Would it be too much for me to ask you to dream of me while I’m gone?”

  She gulped noisily.

  His lips twisted in a grimace. “I take that as a yes. Did I hurt you last night?”

  Daphne cleared her throat. This was more talkative than he usually started his mornings. James was usually a slow riser. Affectionate, but rarely one given to conversation so early in the morning. She wondered if he was excited about leaving.

  “I am not overly sore,” she told him bluntly.

  “If I had time, I would kiss it better,” he teased.

  Still, his eyes strayed to a bruise he had left on her shoulder. There were many others beneath the coverlet, he knew. He remembered each and every single love-bite he had gifted her throughout the long night. He had been… savage.

  Which was why it was so important that he leave. A violent need had risen within him last that had been terrifying in its intensity. He knew there were moments he had terrified her. There were times he had terrified himself.

  That he was capable of losing his infamous control so easily was why he had to leave. If he stayed, he was afraid the next time he would do something neither of them would ever be able to forgive. James knew it would kill him if Daphne ever looked at him with naught but disgust and fear. If the only way to save them both was to leave, he would do so. He would stay away forever if he had to protect her from his own baser nature.

  “I have to leave, Daphne,” he told her gruffly.

  She nodded.

  “I will return soon,” he lied.

  She blinked at him with luminous, moist eyes. He closed his eyes, desperately fighting the urge to slide back into her warm arms and soothe her with his body. It was impossible.

  Impatient, he leaned down and brushed his lips over hers one, last time.

  Without another word he stood and strode out of the room. He refused to look back.

  When she was alone, Daphne allowed the tears to flow freely. She found a dressing gown and strode, barefoot, onto her balcony. She watched the lone man on his horse until he was only a speck of dust in the distant horizon.

  Only then, did she collapse to her knees and sob.

  * * * *

  One month passed into two, and still there was no word from James. Although Daphne was not overly surprised, it still hurt. She was astounded by how much it hurt.

  He had lied. A fortnight? She snorted. He had lied to her. James had actually lied to her. She knew she could never trust his word again. As Papa always said, if a man will lie once, he will lie thousands of times.

  Daphne sighed morosely, staring out into yet another rainy, miserable day. That was something, at least. This past week had been an endless barrage of stormy days that matched her unpredictable moods. Not that there was any reason for those moods, of course.

  Daphne had a very long and intimate talk with Mrs. Tibbs. Bereft of her own mother, Daphne had always lived in ignorance about certain important facts regarding a woman’s body and pregnancy. Not even Chrysanthe’s mother had approached such a delicate subject with her.

  Daphne had half-hoped and half-dreaded the possibility that she might be pregnant when her she was a week late. Mrs. Tibbs told her all about the various symptoms and explained what happened to a woman’s body as she grew with child. While Daphne certainly had the moodiness as of late, her monthly had arrived, simply late after all. Mrs. Tibbs wisely advised that sometimes emotional upheaval could influence such matters and that had been the end of that.

  “Your Grace, a carriage is approaching.”

  Daphne’s heart lurched into her stomach. Standing, she brushed at the fine folds of her dove-gray gown. She patted down her curls, always more unruly when it was rainy, and pinched her cheeks to add color. She suddenly wished she had dressed in something more appealing. Red, or pink or perhaps blue.

  An hour later, such things no longer mattered to her. She smiled wanly as Annalise, exhausted from her long ride, came inside. Daphne forced an exuberant smile and gave her a brief hug.

  “Anna, I had no idea you were coming,” she cried.

  “I am wishing I hadn’t at the moment. It is blistering cold out there.”

  Remembering her manners, Daphne led her into the green parlor where a roaring fire had been laid in the hearth. She situated Annalise comfortably and rang for hot tea and refreshment.

  “I am still growing accustomed to this hostess nonsense,” Daphne told her ruefully.

  Annalise smiled wanly. “You will do fine, Daphne. The only thing holding you back is your own lack of self-confidence.”

  “And the fact that my name is mud with everyone in London-town.”

  To Daphne’s surprise, Anna’s brows lowered into a disapproving line. “That is something you have in common with my brother.”

  The tea tray arrived. Slowly, Daphne served, taking time to prepare herself for whatever it was Anna had to say. Whatever it was, the expression on her face did not bode well.

  “That should warm you right up,” Daphne murmured. She filled a plate of food too, taking her time, preparing for the worst.

  But, as she soon learned, there was absolutely nothing that could have fully prepared her for the worst.

  “James has become quite the talk among town,” Annalise muttered scathingly. Her lips thinned unhappily.

  “I…see. Is it because of our inappropriate marriage?”

  Annalise shook her head. “You don’t know much about the gossip mongers. Actually, the scandal died almost as soon as news spread that you and James wed. Those who believed you were… you know…decided you finally did the right thing. My recalcitrant brother has done this all on his own.”

  Daphne lowered her face so her unbound hair would fall forward to hide her face. If the worst was as bad as Annalise made it sound, she knew she would need a shield of some kind. Mrs. Tibbs’s daily pitying glances told her that she was awful at hiding her emotions these days.

  “Daphne, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Annalise hedged worriedly. “I do not want to say it at all, but I would not hide such a thing from you.”

 
“Spit it out,” Daphne suggested. “Chrys always said it best to cut clean through rather than slowly hacking away.”

  “She was talking about how to spit a pig at the time,” Annalise reminded her. “But…okay, we shall try the Sinclair way of doing things, then. James has been walking out with an opera singer.”

  Like that, Daphne doubled over. She clutched her stomach as though she had suddenly been stabbed, clean through. Blinking, she staggered to her feet as all the blood fled from her face. An opera singer. A mistress?

  James, she wanted to scream. She wanted to weep and throw things and… Oh, God, no! Not this. Anything but this. She heard a low, distant cry, a keening sound that reverberated through the walls. Only as she managed to brace her hands on the windowsill did she realize that she was making that sound.

  “An opera singer,” Daphne wheezed painfully. “How droll.”

  “Oh, Daphne, I am so very, very sorry.”

  Breathe. Just breathe. She focused on inhaling deeply, then exhaling. Slow and even, again and again. If she could just manage to breathe, she could get through this.

  “It started quite innocently,” Annalise whispered.

  Whore. He had a whore. Living in his house? The prospect chilled her.

  “I mean… Well, as innocently as such things can begin.”

  Had he managed to get her pregnant?

  “What does she look like, Annalise?” Daphne demanded hoarsely.

  “Daphne—”

  “Tell me, please.”

  “She is rather tall, almost as tall as James is and… thin. She has blue eyes and blonde hair. Not like yours, hers is paler, more like silver thread than gold, and it is straight.”

  Daphne had a vision of everything she had always wanted to be, and wasn’t. Thin. Dumpy Daphne was still coming in behind the rest, she thought miserably. How James must have laughed. Forcing himself to touch her, again and again in the hope he would get her pregnant and that would be the end of his duty. She choked on an embittered laugh. Poor James, he’d have to do it again.