“Fabulously decent.” His gaze followed the stream of water as it slid between her breasts and down her belly to nestle in the golden nest of curls between her legs. “Marvelously decent. So decent I can think of nothing else, day and night.” He laughed, a great, deep, hearty laugh of masculine satisfaction, a laugh that expanded his marvelous chest.
Heaven have mercy, because he wouldn’t.
He paced toward her.
She swallowed and lunged for the towel.
He lunged, too, and reached the towel a moment before she did. “Let me assist you,” he said.
“You can’t. It’s not right. You shouldn’t. I shouldn’t…” She backed up, sliding first one foot, then the other, in a slow shuffle toward the window. Away from sin.
But sin, oh God, sin closed in on her, towel in his strong hands…and she wanted to embrace him.
Embrace sin. What kind of woman was she?
“I didn’t want this,” he said as he followed after her. “Every day, I’ve tried to avoid this exact thing. But I am at the breaking point. Did you know I’m at the breaking point?”
“Nay.” The sheen of water that covered her made her shiver and brought a rash of goosebumps to her flesh.
“They did.” The jerk of his head indicated the devious Winetta and her cohort Sir Lathrop. “They knew. That’s why they locked us in, those scheming matchmakers. Because I want you so badly, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can barely speak. All my thoughts are consumed with taking you in my arms and pleasuring you until you scream with delight.”
“Oh, dear.” She bumped her hip on the table.
“Would you like that?”
Far too much. “Never.”
“Liar.” Reaching out, he caught her in the towel. “Let me show you. Let me…” His hands, wrapped in the folds of the towel, caressed her chin. She stared at him, her breath coming in small pants as he stared down at her, observing her mingled fright and excitement. “You’ve never done this before.” He caressed her lips with the linen’s rough texture. “You’re untouched.”
“Of course I am,” she said indignantly. “I’m unmarried!”
He smiled as if she’d said something funny, his lips a tender curve of amusement. The towel slipped over her shoulders, down her arms. The material dragged over her nipples, already erect with the chill, and she shuddered with yearning.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against him.
As their bodies touched, she gasped to discover his heat, so close and overwhelming.
He held her as if she were a jewel he treasured—securely, yet tenderly. His fingers glided across her back and lingered to massage her bare buttocks. He smelled like soap and rosemary—so he’d had a bath, too, and briefly she wondered how Winetta and Sir Lathrop had tricked him. Then, as the towel rubbed up and down her spine in a long, leisurely caress, that thought slid away.
“Are you warmer, now?” he asked.
She gripped his upper arms, holding on for dear life. He backed her toward the bedside table. She leaned against it.
He said he was at his breaking point.
Well, so was she.
She had wanted his strength to protect her. She had wanted to defend him against the cruel merriment of her cousin, against the careless disregard of her uncle. And in this last week, every moment, waking and sleeping, she had been obsessive with desire for him. She knew, in some savage corner of her soul, that in bed with this man she would give and receive ecstasy until all of themselves had burned away, leaving two souls fused into one.
He dragged that towel, that wicked instrument of indulgence, over her hips, down her thighs…he nudged her knees apart and knelt between them.
Wanton. She felt wanton and daring. Fear made her want to close her legs. Longing made her want to open them further.
She wrestled with temptation.
He dried her down to her toes. Then he looked up at her.
God, he was handsome. Sunlight streamed in the window, illuminating each carved contour of his gorgeous face. His dark hair swept his shoulders, so dark it shone with blue highlights. His eyes glinted clear and green, wicked with intention, and he devoured her with his gaze, lingering on her breasts, gliding down to the indent of her navel, traveling the curve of her hip to the apex of her thighs. Deliberately, he reached for her, grazing the slight brush of golden hair with a tender touch that made her shiver and tense. His fingers wandered between her legs.
She gasped, and gasped again.
He grew bolder, more familiar.
She clutched the edge of the table, holding on as if it were the only solid reality in her changing world.
He opened her, and he stared at those parts which were usually concealed.
“Don’t.” She blushed, a heated, furious blush that slid up her belly all the way to her forehead, and she tried to cover herself with her hands.
He brushed them aside. “Beautiful. I knew you would be beautiful, and you are.” As if the sight of her made him hungry, in all the ways a man can be hungry, his mouth opened slightly…
Too late, she realized his intention. She tugged at his hair.
But inexorably, he rose to his knees and placed his mouth there, at the spot that his fingers had bared. His tongue lapped at her, found her sensitive nub and drew it forth with a gentle suction.
She threw back her head in an agony of delight. Moans fought their way up her throat and escaped in low, frantic sighs. Her knees trembled and she thought…she feared she dampened his tongue with her excitement.
All the while he suckled her, his hand cupped her bottom, pressing her in a slow, firm rhythm that made her want to move her hips in his direction.
Dimly, she knew what he was doing. He was teaching her how to respond to him — primally, savagely, without thought or logic. Because this response between the two of them had nothing to do with sense and everything to do with instinct.
The roughness of his tongue continued its torture, and her moans grew louder, breaking from her in a constant, unthinking tide. Her body surged in his direction, gathering power from him, until her wavering discipline failed. Pleasure shuddered through her, convulsing her against his mouth.
Climax. Climax, over and over and over, until she was blind and deaf to the world.
He kept control of her, thrusting his tongue inside her until she thought she would die of bliss. Her legs trembled, her fingers dug into the table behind her. She tried to escape—it was too much.
But he held her and fed on her until sheer exhaustion brought her climax to a shivering halt.
He stood, and stood too close. Facing her, he stripped out of his clothing. He discarded his loose linen shirt, and his chest was everything she imagined. Rippling with muscle, with sparse black hair that grew in an inverted triangle and pointed to his canions, those trousers whose contents she had admired so surreptitiously.
He discarded those.
She closed her eyes.
“No, don’t. Look.” He took her chin in his fingers and shook it slightly. “Look what you do to me. I’ve spent the whole damned week pointing at everyone and bumping into furniture—”
She couldn’t help it. She giggled.
“I can’t bear to wear my garments because the mere touch of material makes me ache for you more.” He stared at her broodingly. “Laugh if you like, my lady Hellion. I’ll have my revenge.”
She sobered. And she looked.
He had narrow hips made to separate a woman’s legs, and thighs muscled and bold for riding. Yet it was that which pointed and bumped that made her eyes widen and her breath catch. Pale, except for the purple veins just beneath the silky smooth skin. His cock…her fingers touched the cap, skimming around and around in fascinated discovery. Large, more than she had ever imagined—and she had imagined far too often.
Where she got the nerve, she could never afterward tell, but she spread her arms wide. “Take your revenge.”
Chapter Eleven
; Rion didn’t need another invitation. He picked Helwin up. He wrapped her legs around his waist. He placed her sideways on the bed, so her feet dangled off the edge of the mattress, and he stood on the floor between her legs.
The sheets were cool beneath her back. The mattress crackled with the sound of straw as it sank beneath her weight. The crushed rose petals gave up their sweet scent, and she wanted to hold this moment to remember forever. Surely such perfection only came once in a lifetime.
Holding her thighs hooked over his elbows, he ran his fingertips up and down her flesh. “So delicate,” he whispered. “So dainty and yet so strong. You’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of…and I’ve done nothing but dream this whole week. By God, you’re going to pay.”
He climbed up, one knee on the mattress under her buttock, one foot on the floor. As he touched between her open legs, he stared into her eyes, and if she imagined his gruff speech meant he had lost patience, she was wrong. He stroked her as he might pleasure himself, with measured sweeps of his fingers along her feminine nub, milking her of pleasure in the most erotic manner possible.
Pleasure crashed on her like a wave, taking her under to drown in euphoria. His every movement brought her closer to climax once more. She closed her eyes, flung her head back, moaning, feeling too much.
His finger slipped inside her, and massaged her inner passage. Her body responded, dampening his hand, and still she wanted more.
She got more.
She got it.
Wait…no longer Rion’s finger.
No. The size… This was discomfort. This burned. This was his cock.
Her eyes sprang open.
He hovered over her, one hand braced near her head, watching her hungrily. “Take me,” he commanded. “All of me.”
She wanted to say something sarcastic. But that would be foolish, for he wanted her to freely accept him. He wanted that as much as he wanted her body.
So she turned her head and pressed a kiss on his arm, and tried to relax…anything to make his entry easier.
It wasn’t easy. He was too big. Unwilling tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes. She breathed carefully, trying to adjust to the tension of his entry.
He knew. Oh, he knew. He observed her as he thrust forward, steadily taking possession of virgin territory. When he had seated himself to the hilt and his hips shuddered under the need to thrust, he stopped and held himself carefully above her. “Take me,” he said again.
He needed the words.
“Please,” she whispered, “I want you,” and she lifted her legs to embrace his hips.
He smiled, a wicked slash of experience. “Oh, sweetheart. I vow you will want me until the day we die.” He lowered himself on her and kissed her. His lips caressed hers with love’s lightest touch, and when she parted them, his tongue slid between and possessed her mouth as he had possessed her body.
She wrapped her arms around his neck.
Everything began to feel…better. Each breath no longer hitched with anguish, but grew long and soft as she absorbed his passion.
He took deep breaths, like a man afraid of drowning in passion. His green eyes glittered. His cock twitched within her. Yet for all his desperation, he was indulging her, moving slowly, gently. He reached between them, opening her, adjusting her so that he pressed against her, rubbing her inside and out. Leisurely, gently, he withdrew almost all the way.
Her body gave him up reluctantly.
His eyes closed with an expression of exquisite and flattering gratification. Then he pushed back in, just as slowly.
The silence between them was rich and warm with desire.
She wanted to cry with the sweetness of the moment. Then he covered her body with his, and she forgot pain and remembered only … pleasure.
He withdrew and thrust again.
She lifted her hips toward him.
He moaned.
Her toes curled. As he sank into her body, he heated her, melted her around him. She felt swollen, damp, and overflowing with sensation. Gradually the sensation of tightness, of wanting too much, of needing…something…again grew within her.
He still moved deliberately, each lunge timed for her delight. But more quickly now. “I adore you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re perfect.”
Her hips rolled beneath him. Heat climbed from her belly to her head, driving out thought and reason. That marvelous, breathtaking release was overtaking her. “Rion,” she cried. “Dear God, Rion!” She hovered on the edge of oblivion, far from the ache, from the here and the now and into some netherworld where only she and Rion existed. Existed as one.
He plunged at her, powerful and insistent.
The sheets beneath her bunched and wrinkled. One pillow fell from the bed. The steamy scent of rosemary and mint filled the room, and the rose petals whispered of their bliss.
Orgasm overtook her, sweeping her along to dark pleasure…
Or was it Rion who swept her along? She didn’t know. They were no longer two people, but one, united in fever of passion. Convulsions shook her, her womb contracted over and over, massaging him, taking him, all of him, just as he had demanded. Deep inside her, she felt warmth and fullness as he spilled his seed inside her.
Spilled? Nay, he plunged to the hilt, thrusting deep within, demanding she accept this proof of his dedication, and give it back as progeny.
A baby. His baby. His child.
They were one.
Chapter Twelve
“You did what?” Nostrils flared, Lord Smythwick stared first at the note in his hand, then at his daughter.
Bertilda, his only offspring, his darling daughter…this stupid child, released the affected giggle she cultivated for her suitors. “I told Lord Masterson to meet me on the beach and he could have me for the night. I knew full well he would send to you demanding my hand in marriage. Then I insisted Helwin wear my cloak.” Bertilda giggled again. “I watched from the top of the cliff, and the dolt picked her up and carried her away to his castle.”
Smythwick’s hand snaked out and slapped the girl right across the cheek. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Eyes wide, Bertilda staggered back, hand to her burning face.
“Nay, of course you don’t, you silly cow. My God, we’re ruined.”
“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy. You hate Helwin.”
“I don’t hate Helwin. She isn’t worth my spit.” He tapped the paper against his knee. “How long did you say she’d been gone?”
“Almost a week.”
“Are they married yet?”
“Nay, there’s been no word of that.”
“You had better hope they’re not.” There had to be a way out of this. Surely somehow he could turn this to his advantage.
If only Queen Elizabeth didn’t constantly ask about her dear departed Edwin’s daughter, Lord Smythwick would have solved the problem years ago. But his hands had been tied by her concern … a deliberate, horrid smile curved his narrow lips.
“My lord father?” Bertilda’s voice quavered unbecomingly, and she trembled with that repulsive shuddering that had affected her dear, departed mother when he came to her bed.
“Have you told anyone what you’ve foolishly done?”
“Nay, I saved that for you.”
“Good. For I would hate to have to rid us of anyone you confided in.”
Bertilda shook her head as if she couldn’t stop. “What may I do to correct my mistake?”
“Nothing.” He turned his cold blue eyes on her, and she shrank back. “You are to do nothing, do you understand me? Don’t tell anyone what you have done. Don’t tell anyone about this letter. I will handle everything.”
Chapter Thirteen
Helwin woke to early morning sunshine, and Rion eating a cherry off of her stomach. She watched him roll the rich, red fruit around with his lips, grazing her skin at every opportunity, and she giggled softly.
He looked up.
She caught her breath.
“Good morning.” Her voice was husky. They had made love so many times yesterday afternoon and last night, her voice was husky from moaning and occasionally screaming, and her skin was sensitive to even the slightest breeze through the open window. “Couldn’t you find a platter?”
He lifted a bowl from the bedside table and spilled another two cherries into the indent of her navel. “Why use a plate when the container can be as tasty as the meal?”
“A just question, my lord.” She tapped her chin. “Yet I find myself wondering why you don’t use your fingers.”
“A setting as fine as this delicate skin deserves to be kissed”—he did so—”at every opportunity.” He returned to his task.
“That is an admirable sentiment. But also, I wonder…”
Again he looked up, this time in inquiry.
“When a man is as gifted with his mouth as you have proved to be, it seems you could be more efficient in your task.”
“Have I scraped you, my lady Helwin?” He rubbed he morning stubble that decorated his chin.
“Only once, and in sooth, I wish I could wake to such a treat every morning.”
This man, this dread warrior, looked boyishly appealing with his dark hair falling over his forehead and a frown of concentration on his features. “Then let us live this morning to the fullest.” Biting into a cherry, he lifted it toward her mouth, dribbling crimson juice all the way. He placed the ripe, tender fruit between her open lips, then propped his head on his hand and watched her.
With her eyes fixed on his, she used her tongue and lips to unhurriedly, deliberately suck the fragrant, flavorful flesh from the cherry.
His chest stilled. His concentration on her sharpened.
When she had finished, she stuck out her tongue, pit on the end, and smiled.
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