Her hips stirred, brushing against the tip of his erection through his trousers, but this time, she didn’t shy away. Wanting to see her face again, he lifted his head as his palm slid over her body, from her breast, down over her ribs and her stomach and even further down, until his fingertips grazed the soft triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs. He eased his hand between her legs, and she gave a shocked gasp, making it clear that while she may have loved that boy from Mississippi enough to let him deflower her, love play had clearly not been part of the experience. “Christian,” she whispered, a remonstration in the word and a plea in her eyes. Her hand encircled his wrist as if to push him away.
He wasn’t going to let her. “What is it, love?” he asked, pressing kisses to her face. “He never touched you here, did he?”
When she shook her head, Christian felt a fierce protectiveness rise up inside him, a hot, savage emotion every bit as primal as the lust coursing through his body.
“But I want to touch you here,” he said tenderly. “Let me do this.”
He waited, and at last, her hand released his wrist, and he resumed his task, gliding his finger back and forth along the crease of her sex. Despite her apprehension, she was already wet and deliciously hot, but it wasn’t enough. He was compelled to make her hotter, wanting to arouse her so fully and satisfy her so completely that this night would vanquish any memory of her previous experience. He stroked her, gliding his finger back and forth along the seam of her sex, watching her face as she again relaxed. Her eyes closed, her breathing quickened, and her hips began to rock in rhythm with his touch. Words, he knew, could be as erotic as a kiss or a caress, and he used those, too.
“Do you like this?” he whispered, watching her face, relishing the excitement he saw there as he toyed with her.
Annabel heard his question, but she could not reply, for she was too overwhelmed by what he was doing to say anything. This wasn’t like anything she’d ever experienced. She wished she could tell him that, but though her lips parted, she could say no words.
“Do you like this?” he repeated, and when she still didn’t answer, he started to withdraw his hand. She arched up, her body following the move.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped before she could stop herself. “Don’t stop.”
“So you do like it?” he murmured, laughing softly as she nodded. “Want more, do you?”
He was teasing her, she knew it. Carnal, unbearable teasing, and yet, she wanted it. “Yes, yes,” she told him, her hips stirring again. “More, please.”
Those were the only words she could manage, for the tip of his finger was already touching her again, sliding back and forth over her most intimate place, and each tiny move brought another throb of sensation.
She could feel her body moving in response, movement over which she had no control. He was the one in control, and as he caressed her over and over, her pace quickened until she was moving in frantic, helpless little jerks and she had to press her hand over her mouth to stop the moans of pleasure that hovered on her lips. The tension of it was almost unbearable as the glorious sensations built, one on top of the other, growing more intense with each stroke of his fingers. She felt as if she were striving toward something, needing something he could give her, but she didn’t know what it was.
He knew, though. “That’s it, love, that’s it,” he murmured. “You’re almost there.”
And the only thought she had time for was to wonder where “there” was, and then, suddenly, she knew. She felt it, a burst of sensation. Her hips arched up, and this time, she couldn’t stop the startled cry that tore from her lips at the pure, melting ecstasy of it. He caught the sound in his mouth even as she made it, and he continued to caress her even as her thighs clenched convulsively around his hand again and again and the ecstasy washed over her in wave after wave. His fingers continued to pleasure her even as the waves subsided, and she collapsed, panting, against the mattress beneath her.
“Annabel, it’s time.” His voice was harsher than before, and she noticed that his breathing had quickened. “I can’t wait much longer, and you are so wet and soft, so ready.” His finger eased inside her. “You are ready for me, aren’t you?”
Ready? Lord have mercy, she was on fire, that’s what she was. This wasn’t like anything she’d ever felt in her life. But she knew what he meant. She knew about this part. “Yes,” she managed, nodding. “Yes.”
He slowly withdrew his hand and stood up to unbutton his trousers. His eyes met hers, but she couldn’t hold his gaze. Instead, she looked down his body, from his wide, muscular chest, along his flat abdomen and his narrow hips, to his shaft. She felt a jolt of panic at the sight of it, jutting and erect, and she couldn’t help remembering the last time she’d done this and with whom.
“Christian?” she whispered, seized by sudden doubt even as she said his name.
He stepped out of the trousers, tossed them aside, and moved back down beside her. “It’s all right,” he murmured, kissing her, his hand caressing her stomach, moving lower, over her hip, across her thigh. “Part your legs, love. Open for me. It’ll be all right.”
She complied, but her panic increased as he moved on top of her, as his weight settled onto her and she felt that hard, relentless part of him pushing between her thighs. The pain and disillusionment of the first and only other time she’d done this came rushing back, and she could almost feel her heart breaking all over again. She caught back a sob of panic, but still, he heard it.
“Annabel, Annabel. Look at me.” When she opened her eyes, he was poised above her, his weight on his arms, his face grave, a lock of his black hair falling over his forehead. His gaze riveted her in place. “I’m not him. It’s all right. I promise. I’m not him.”
As he spoke, she caught the unsteadiness in his voice, heard the labored pace of his breathing, and she realized it was the strain of holding back for her. “Do it, then,” she whispered, spreading her legs apart, wanting him to have what he’d already given her.
He moved his hips, and she felt his hardness brushing her opening, but not entering her. “Take me in your hand,” he told her, and when she did, wrapping her hand around his thick shaft, she was startled by the scorching heat of it. “Bring me inside you.”
She did, feeling terribly awkward, using both hands to guide the tip of his shaft inside herself, and she couldn’t look at him as she did it. And when she felt him pushing further into her, she moved her hands out of the way and kept her gaze on the ceiling, bracing for the pain. But there was no pain, only a stretching sensation as he slid fully into her. She inhaled deeply, a gasp of pure surprise.
He stilled. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded, all her panic of a moment ago ebbing away. “Yes, Christian, yes. I . . .” She paused, stirring her hips, considering. “I like this.”
That made him laugh, a low, pleased, breathy laugh that felt warm on her face. “Do you, now?” Still poised above her, he flexed his hips, rocking against her, a controlled motion, despite the strain of holding back. “What about this?” he asked, and did it again. “Do you like this?”
“Cryin’ all night, Christian,” she wailed softly, wriggling impatiently beneath him, wanting to quicken the pace. “Are you tryin’ to torture me?”
“This sort of torture . . .” He paused, his breathing labored. “Has rewards.”
She grabbed a handful of his hair. “You talk too much,” she said, and pulled his head down to kiss his mouth. “We don’t have all night here.”
That reminder must’ve done the trick, for he began to move within her again, his shaft caressing her from the inside, a deep, luscious caress over and over. He quickened each time, thrusting harder, deeper. She relished it now, matching the pace willingly, and as she did, she felt again that rising, thickening pleasure. When the waves came over her, even more intense than before, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
Her muscles contracted, instinctively tightening around
his shaft again and again, increasing her pleasure as she felt him follow her to the peak. His body sank down onto hers, his arms sliding beneath her to hold her tight. His moves became rough, frantic, until finally, he reached the same climactic moment she had already experienced. Shudders rocked his body, and his hoarse groans of release were buried in the softness of the pillow, until at last, he stilled on top of her.
After a few moments, he stirred, and she felt her legs tightening around him, foolishly reluctant to let him go, suddenly afraid of what was sure to happen now. But as he lifted his hips to slip free of her where they were joined, he took her mouth in a soft and tender kiss, and Annabel pushed that pang of fear away.
This night would not happen again, she knew that. This time, she wasn’t expecting marriage or even declarations of love. And she certainly wasn’t expecting him to want her to stay, to linger here with him.
But Christian, in regard to the last, at least, surprised her. He rolled onto his side and his lashes drifted down in that sleepy look as he gazed at her naked body. She would have been embarrassed by such thorough scrutiny, but as he looked at her body, his hand glided over her in long, slow caresses of her face, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, and back again. He kissed her—pressing his lips to her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, and her hair.
He whispered how beautiful she was, and when he pulled the covers over her and cradled her in his arms, she suddenly, stupidly wanted to cry, because she’d never thought a man could be tender. Maybe a little, before the act, but certainly not afterward. Not like this.
And as she lay there in Christian’s arms, she knew she was starting to fall in love with him. This was what she’d feared all along, and she worked to stop it, to harden her heart and protect herself before it was too late. Christian had shown her what tenderness was, and if she fell in love with him and he didn’t love her back, she didn’t think she’d be able to bear the heartbreak.
Chapter Sixteen
She was asleep. The lamp on the dressing table had gone out and the room was pitch dark, but though he could see nothing, he could discern that she slept by the deep, even cadence of her breathing.
She felt lusciously warm and soft lying naked in his arms like this, and he would have liked nothing better than to kiss her awake and repeat their experience of an hour ago, but they could not afford to take that risk. He had no idea of the time, but it had to be coming on for dawn, and he had to get her back to her room before anyone woke up.
Christian carefully eased out from under the covers. He dressed in the dark, deciding he could better trust the more honorable side of his nature if he were dressed. Then he found her nightgown and robe, and tried not to think about how he’d stripped her out of them.
Instead, he moved to stand by the side of the bed and leaned down to wake her. “Annabel,” he whispered in her ear, and he couldn’t resist kissing her there.
She stirred, making a sleepy, unbelievably erotic sound, and Christian took a deep breath, then slipped his hand beneath the covers to grasp her shoulder. Her silken skin was warm, but he valiantly resisted temptation. He shook her shoulder to rouse her. “Annabel, wake up.”
“Christian?”
The instant he heard her voice, he let go of her. Touching her was far too tempting. “You have to go back to your room before you’re found here.”
“Of course.” She sat up, pushing aside the covers, and he stepped back as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness—or perhaps because he had such a fine memory—he fancied he could see the faint outline of her exquisite body, and he took another deep breath. “Here,” he said, thrusting her nightgown into her hands.
He heard the swish of fabric as she donned the garment, but he allowed himself the luxurious torture of assisting her with her robe. “Turn around,” he said, and when she did, he held the robe as she slid her arms into the sleeves. But before she could wrap it fully around her, he couldn’t deny himself the opportunity to slip his hands inside the still-unbuttoned placket and cup her full, luscious breasts in his hands. She made a faint sound of surprise, then leaned back against him with a little sigh, and he took the pleasure of toying with her for a bit longer, even as he told himself he was flirting with disaster.
He gave himself five—and only five—seconds of this agony, then, reluctantly, he withdrew his hands, pressed a kiss to her hair, and turned her around, drawing her robe around her and tying the sash firmly into place.
“C’mon.” He led her to the door, where he fumbled in the dark for the oil lamp she’d left on the dressing table, and handed it to her. “We can’t light it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’ve no idea of the time, and if any of the servants are already up, they might see the light moving about when you pass the stairs. Can you find your way back in the dark?”
“Of course. You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of thing,” she added, a wry note in her whispered words. “People sneaking in and out of other people’s rooms and all.”
“Of course,” he replied at once, striving for the flippancy that would mask what was nothing but the rather sordid truth. He didn’t want to think of all the women who’d padded down the Bachelor’s Corridor at country house parties to visit him over the past dozen years. Resting his forehead against hers, he went on, “Gorgeous young women come sneaking into my rooms, flinging themselves at me all the time, don’t you know? Happens every night of the week. I’ve simply got to start locking my door.”
She made a choked sound—a laugh, and though only he knew it wasn’t really something to laugh about, he didn’t say so. Pressing one last kiss to her mouth, he opened the door.
She slipped out into the corridor, and he closed the door behind her. He undressed again and got back into bed, and this time, he had no trouble falling asleep. In fact, he did it with a smile on his face.
“Christian, wake up.”
He was in such a heavy slumber that his sister’s insistent voice barely penetrated his consciousness—just enough to make him determined to stay asleep. But then, she started shaking his shoulder, and though it woke him, he tried to pretend otherwise, his usual practice in this particular situation.
“Christian, you must wake up. Right now.”
He didn’t want to. He felt as if he’d just fallen asleep. “Leave off, Sylvia, for God’s sake.”
“I can’t. I have to talk to you immediately.”
He rolled away, onto his stomach. “This is why I secure my own rooms when I’m in town,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Your habit of barging in on me at an ungodly hour of the morning to hold a conversation is so damned annoying.”
“It’s not an ungodly hour. It’s half past nine, and besides, this is important.” She shook his shoulder again, this time with considerable force. “Damn it all, brother, wake up!”
There was a sharp edge to her voice, an urgency well beyond her customary morning cheer. It sounded almost like . . . panic. It penetrated his sleep-dazed, very reluctant senses and told him something serious actually was afoot. Instantly awake, he rolled onto his back.
“What’s happened?” he asked, but his question was answered the moment he looked into his sister’s eyes. She knew. Dread settled into him at once, like a stone in his guts, and it must have shown in his face.
“Oh my God, it’s true.” She sank down on the side of the bed, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. “I actually thought at first that it was just gossip. That even you . . . could not . . . would never . . . even after that ghastly debacle at the wedding . . .”
Futile to pretend, but he tried anyway. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Christian.” It was a sigh of disappointment that cut him to the heart.
Reminding himself that lying to Sylvia was always a tricky business, he gave up any further attempts at deception. “How did you know? Did Annabel tell you?”
“Of course not! Annabel is s
till in her room, and I haven’t seen her.”
“But then, how—”
She arrested him in midsentence with a gesture to the dressing table and the china shepherdess lamp that stood there, a hurricane lamp that was similar to his, but not the same. His mistake hit him with the force of a lightning bolt. In the dark this morning, he’d handed Annabel the wrong lamp. Of all the stupid, careless, idiotic mistakes a man could make.
“You took up the wrong lamp in the dark when you left her room, I assume? What were you thinking to take a lamp at all? Didn’t you realize—never mind,” she added acidly. “Thinking obviously played no part in this.”
Sylvia had it the wrong way about, but he didn’t correct her. Better for Annabel that way, and more blame for him. He didn’t look at his sister. Instead, he stared at that lamp on his dressing table as the inevitable consequences of its presence there sank into his brain, and it occurred to him that he would probably remember every detail of that lamp, its exact proportions, its undulated glass shade, its delicately painted pastoral scene, for the rest of his life.
After a moment, he schooled his features into the most unreadable expression he could muster and forced himself to look at his sister again. “So now you know,” he said with a touch of defiance.
“I’m not the only one who knows, Christian. The servants knew before I was even out of bed.”
“What?” He sat up. “How?”
“Givens told me the gossip raging belowstairs when she came to help me dress.”
“But how the devil did the servants find out? They are trained never to come until we ring.”
“Yes, but that’s our wish, Christian. Our guests often have other preferences. Annabel’s preference is to be awakened with coffee at half past eight, so Mrs. Wells sent the coffee up with Hannah, as usual. Hannah saw the lamp—your lamp—on Annabel’s dressing table when she put the tray there. Being a sweet but not particularly bright child,” his sister went on, “she mentioned the lamp to Mrs. Wells, who knew exactly what it meant and discussed it with the head housemaid at length—and I’m sure with considerable relish. That conversation was overheard by the footman, and so . . .”
Trouble at the Wedding Page 23