The chain slipped through his fingers and dangled, swaying from side to side. He hadn’t had a woman poke at his soul in a long, long time. It felt good. She made him feel good. Something he could hardly even do on his own. “Thank you,” he murmured.
She nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She stepped back and glanced toward the low-burning hearth. “Are there more coals?”
Realizing the damp clothing had probably chilled her beyond what he should have allowed, he set aside the watch and scrambled to his feet. “I will add more coals at once, but we need to get you out of those clothes first.”
She trembled.
“Turn around.” He grabbed her waist and spun her around, unhooking the wet, heavy fabric down the curve of her back.
She stilled.
“I promise not to look at anything I should not.” He unhooked the last of her gown down toward her back and tried to even his breathing realizing he was undressing her. He dragged her gown off her cool shoulders and arms, exposing an expensive looking satin corset, a sheer wet chemise and pale skin.
It took every ounce of respect he had for her to keep himself from gaping.
He tugged the sleeves off her arms and yanked the gown down the length of her body, letting it drop to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Determined to stay focused, he unlaced her corset and tossed it onto the floor as well.
Quickly turning away, so he wasn’t imposing on her state of undress, he pulled the linen off the bed. Wrapping her tightly in it, he rubbed its warmth into her and smoothed away her damp hair from the sides of her face. “Remove your chemise.”
She turned away, slipping out of it beneath the linen he wrapped around her.
Konstantin gathered her clothing and corset and dragged the chair over to the hearth. Adding more coals into the hearth from the dented tin bucket, he laid her clothing out as close to the heat of the glowing coals as safety would allow. “Put your chemise and stockings here by the fire, as well. It should all be dry before we leave for Saint Petersburg the day after tomorrow.”
She plodded over and towed another chair over to the fire, draped her chemise and stockings against it. She softened her voice. “Thank you.”
He nodded and strode toward his clothing he had yet to gather off the floor. He leaned over, picked up one of his linen shirts and tossed it toward her. “That can be your nightdress.”
She caught the shirt with one hand and fumbled to pull it on without losing the linen.
Konstantin swung away to give her privacy. He grabbed his pocket watch off the bed, walked over and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket that was slung over the chair. Pacing back and crouching, he started gathering his belongings and shoving them into his wool sack, realizing his hands were trembling. He continued shoving the rest of his clothes into the sack knowing he was already smitten by a woman bold enough to confess that a man who used to protect criminals was worthy of even having a friend.
God save his stupid soul. Why did she have to be an aristocrat?
Nothing would ever come of it.
Cecilia hesitantly touched the side of her head, her cold fingers grazing long, wet hair which had cascaded from its pins in spiraling, unraveled sections around her shoulders. She gathered her hair, bundled it up, and tightly pinned each section into place using whatever pins she could find lodged in her locks. When everything was secured into a chignon, she let out a breath.
What a night.
Smoothing the front of Mr. Levin’s shirt with a hand that was hidden deep within the sleeve, she glanced down, making certain not too much of her legs were showing. The shirt smelled like him. Like charred wood. Rolling the sleeves several times, she finally caught sight of her hands.
“Are you dressed?”
She jumped at the sound of his deep, accented voice. She crossed her arms over her chest knowing her breasts and the outline of her entire body was very visible through the material. “Barely, but yes.”
He turned and paused, his eyes trailing the length of her. He snapped his gaze away. Toward the hearth. “We should sleep.”
Her heart fluttered, sensing sleep was the last thing he wanted. She eyed him.
His wet, black hair was casually raked back, accentuating those husky features and bright green eyes in a way that made her want to keep looking at him. His linen shirt was wide open to his abdomen, showcasing a muscle-defined chest and a well-chiseled stomach.
Gad was he ever beautiful. And that didn’t include what she had seen in the bathhouse.
He thumbed toward the chair, still not looking at her. “I will take the chair.”
She doubted he would get any sleep that way.
He settled into the chair and slid down, resting his neck on the curve of the wood. He stretched out long, trouser-clad legs, keeping his eyes on his boots. “Good night, Lady Stone.”
She crossed her arms tighter against her breasts. She couldn’t let him sleep in that chair whilst she took the bed. It wasn’t a large bed, she knew, but it also wasn’t the smallest, either. They could fit. “Would you rather sleep with me, Mr. Levin?”
“No.”
“You would sleep better,” she softly pressed.
“I doubt it. You are half naked and I can see everything through the linen of that shirt.”
Her cheeks warmed knowing he actually looked.
He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting against the chair. “I ask that you get into bed, Lady Stone. I am trying to do the right thing.”
She couldn’t believe this man had ever been involved in criminal endeavors. He was far too honest. And too nice. “Mr. Levin.”
His eyes remain closed. “What?”
“You paid for the room. You deserve good rest.”
“If you cease talking, dorogaya moya, I will get rest,” he gruffly said, eyes still closed.
“I am not about to desist.”
His eyes snapped open. “You want me to sleep with you in that excuse of a bed? Knowing that our bodies will be touching?”
She pressed her tongue hard against the inside of her teeth. “We will manage.” To demonstrate that she meant it, she crawled onto the bed and yanked the linens she carried over with her onto it. She could feel his eyes probing her as she pushed her bare legs beneath the cool linens and coverlet. Yanking his linen shirt down as far as it would go, lest it show off more than it already did, she scooted as far over to the edge as possible. And waited.
He sat up in the chair and said something in Russian.
“Pardon?” she asked.
He fell back against the chair, setting both hands against the sides of his head. “I am a former criminal who has not lain with a woman in almost a year.”
“You could have taken advantage of me many times. But you didn’t. Did you?”
His hands dropped.
She yanked the linens up to her chin and sank against the pillow. “Are you coming?”
He huffed out a breath. His chair creaked as he rose from it.
As conversationally as she could, she offered, “With our backs to each other, we will fit.”
The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he made his way toward her. He paused beside the bed and lingered. “Lady Stone.”
She tugged the linen down from her chin and glanced up at him. “Yes?”
Dragging a hand through his still-damp hair, he dropped a heavy hand back to his side. “Why do you continue to trust me?”
It was endearing that he actually sought to protect her from himself. “You have more than proven yourself, Mr. Levin.”
“Have I?” His voice came low. “I should probably tell you I wanted to take advantage of you back in the bathhouse. And even worse, I am still thinking about it.”
She captured his intent gaze, a dizzying current overtaking her. Flashes of their naked bodies pressing and gripping and grinding caused her heart to skid. “I can assure you,” she warned half-seriously, “you are not the only one thinking about it. So d
on’t consider yourself to be a rebel.”
His green eyes darkened. “Knowing that neither of us can be trusted, you are still going to insist I get into bed with you?” he asked, spacing his words evenly.
A pulsing knot rose within her throat. Being ravaged by him wouldn’t be the worst thing to have happened to her in seven years. “I trust you.”
He pushed out an uneven breath as if buying time. “Did you latch the door?”
He knew she did. She tightened her hold on the linen. “Yes.”
He removed each boot from his feet, letting each thud heavily as it landed on the floor. “Do you mind if I undress before I get into bed?”
Her heart felt as if it were going to burst into pieces. “No.”
He peeled off his linen shirt, all of his smooth, well-defined muscles rippling from the movement. His dark, damp hair fell into his eyes as he bundled the shirt. He tossed it, causing the bulk in his arms to flex, emphasizing a fresh, angry scar on his bare left shoulder and now stood only in trousers slung overly low on narrow hips.
Her knees locked together and the room almost swayed. It was the bathhouse all over again. Not that she was complaining. Trying desperately to focus, she asked, “What happened to your shoulder?”
He glanced at it. “I was shot a few months ago for protecting a man who did not deserve to die. It is what made me walk away from the life I was leading. It made me realize I was promoting the violence.”
There was something remarkable about a man willing to get shot for another man. She held his gaze. “Does it still hurt?”
His rugged features softened. “No.” Edging in, he bent down near her, his bare chest and the bulk of his arms obstructing all view. He leaned in close. And then closer, still. So close, the heated scent of his soaped skin penetrated the air between them. “If you were not a lady, would I have a chance?”
She inhaled sharply at the unexpected question. Something told her he was about to kiss away everything she had ever known. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“No. It is best you do not answer.” He straightened, leaned over to the side table beside the bed and extended his muscled arm toward the lamp. There was a click of metal from the oil lamp wick being turned down to extinguish the flame.
Darkness blanketed the room.
“You are very brave for allowing this,” he rumbled out.
A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “You haven’t gotten into bed yet.”
“Allow me to change that.” The straw tick shifted.
She scooted over, gripping the edge of the tick so she wouldn’t fall off.
He stretched out beside her and moved closer, causing her body to tilt toward him.
Her nails dug deeper into the tick beneath her.
He shifted closer and using a large hand, took hold of her hip in the darkness and yanked her backside against him, pressing her body against his own.
Cecilia’s eyes widened, drowning in the heat of his soap-scented body. His front was against her backside.
He was quiet for a moment, then stated what they already knew. “This bed was not made for two.”
That was an understatement.
He dragged up the linens against their bodies a bit more, tucking it against the curves of her body. “Are you warmer?”
Why did he have to be so divine? “Yes.”
“Good.” He shifted against her, his hand gently grazing her hair in the darkness. “You are a very stubborn woman.”
Her entire body pulsed. “I am told it is one of my best qualities.”
“Something tells me you have far better qualities.” His touch drifted down from her hair. He smoothed the curve of her hip with an open palm, his fingers dragging against the linen that separated his hand from her skin.
Her heart thudded and melted all at once. In that moment she knew without any doubt that if he initiated anything, she would kneel.
He kept smoothing the curve of her hip, the tips of his fingers slowly digging into her and the linen more and more.
She wanted to faint from want.
His hand left her hip and skimmed down her arm. “Do you have a lover back in London?”
This conversation had officially turned wild. “No. I have never taken a lover.”
He hesitated, then leaned in and brushed her hair away from her neck. “Something tells me you are about to.”
Those husky words and those fingers made her entire world sway.
His hand drifted down toward her breast. He slipped his hand beneath the linen, his calloused fingers grazing and roughing her hardening nipple. “Are you going to stop me?” His voice was ragged. Uneven.
She gripped the edge of the tick harder. “No,” she choked out. There was no denying she wanted this. She wanted him.
He pressed his trouser clad hips into her backside hard, his stiff cock now digging into the lower curve of her back. He slowly ground into her.
She couldn’t breathe. The heat of his erection penetrated the linen of the shirt she was wearing. She could feel wetness in between her own thighs.
His fingers dug into her waist as the heat of his mouth lingered closer against her ear. “Remove everything,” he rasped. “And if you say no to me, I am getting out of this damn bed and sleeping in that chair for two days.”
She was too overwhelmed by her own desire to think anymore. She sat up and scrambled to yank off the linen shirt from her body to ensure there was no going back. Whipping it aside, she turned toward him and blindly grabbed his unshaven face, prickling her fingers. She pressed her nakedness against his warmth.
His chest unevenly rose and fell against hers in the darkness. His hot, wet tongue traced her lips. “Admit it. You wanted me all along.”
Her eyes closed in disbelief and slipped into his world. “I did. God, yes, I did.”
“I knew it.” His tongue parted her lips as his entire mouth grazed hers slowly and masterfully, before moving more urgently against hers. He angled his mouth against hers and pressed down harder until her lips stung and were forced to open wider against the demand of that rolling tongue that probed even deeper into her mouth.
Her fingers dug into him and his fingers dug into her as they feverishly kissed.
The savage need to climax was mutual. It pulsed from their skin.
She frantically smoothed her hands against his velvet, hard-muscled heat.
He shifted on top of her, pushing her down onto the narrow mattress. The quick movement of his fingers between them announced he had released the last button on his trousers. He captured her mouth again, tonguing her heatedly and positioned himself above her, shoving her legs wide open. He guided his cock toward her opening, the muscles in his arms and in his broad back tense against her roaming hands.
His length penetrated her in a single, violent thrust that slammed her into the mattress.
She gasped in complete disbelief of what she was doing.
Holding his rigid heat deep inside her, he released her mouth. “Do you need me to refrain and go slow? Or can I…how do I say…get to it?”
She knew the answer to that one. “Get to it.”
He kissed her lips for a lingering moment, slowly trailing his mouth down to her chin, then knelt and yanked her legs up onto his broad shoulders.
Her heart skipped.
Dragging both hands tightly up her legs, he heatedly pounded into her, banging them and the bed hard into the wall.
It wasn’t the sort of sex she’d ever had with her husband.
Each thrust caused her body to tense and ache in a way she desperately needed. Each hard thrust caused the bed to shift.
He growled something in Russian, penetrating her again and again with raw intensity.
Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as her core tightened against each rhythmic push. She welcomed every moment of it between uneven, ragged breaths, unable to believe any of this was real.
He slowed and lowered her legs back down onto the mattress.
; She wrapped her arms around him, waiting for more. Needing more.
His fingers dug into her wet hair. “I cannot believe you are allowing this.” He jerked his thick cock in and out of her.
She frantically fingered the expanse of his muscled back in between uneven breaths she could barely manage and dragged her hands down toward his waist. She wanted to touch and feel everything she had seen in the bathhouse. Hard. Sculpted. Tense. And it was hers. All hers. To touch. To feel. To revel in.
His smooth, heated skin now felt moist against her fingertips as he worked their bodies into a more frenzied state.
He said something in Russian.
She didn’t need to understand to know he wanted more.
She pushed up into him, desperately wanting to bring herself closer to what she had wanted all along: release. Release from her entire life. In that moment, she wasn’t Lady Stone anymore. She wasn’t what society expected her to be. She was Cecilia. A woman who had always secretly and ardently yearned to touch real passion. The sort of passion a titled lady could never give into without destroying her name.
She feverishly ran her hands up and down the length of Konstantin’s firm, muscled back, and grabbed for his buttocks, squeezing them.
A muffled groan escaped both their mouths.
He stilled. In between ragged breaths, he rasped against her cheek, “What is your birth name? You never told me.”
“Cecilia,” she barely managed.
He rolled his hips, forcing his cock deeper. “Cecilia,” he breathed in between steady strokes. “By allowing this, you are damning me to needing you. You do realize that, yes?”
His hand slid down between them, making her gasp. He fingered her in between thrusts, his hand never stopping as he rubbed and rubbed her nub faster.
Her throat tightened as her body reached a heart-pounding peak that unexpectedly handed itself over to climax.
Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella) Page 7