by Liz Carlyle
Slowly, he reached up and slid his fingers deep into the mass of her hair to turn her face into his. Briefly, he studied Jonet, her dark eyes soft and alluring now, all of the rage burnt out of them. It was over, he realized, as he lowered his mouth to capture hers. He felt Jonet tremble with need. Yes, he was going to make love to her; to take what could never be truly his, and thereby ruin his life in the process. A man could not lie with a woman like Jonet just once and ever be whole again. She would take away a part of him.
But Cole’s efforts at resistance had never stood a chance, and perhaps he had not wanted them to. She—fate—or perhaps the devil himself —had won. And now, he wanted Jonet so badly he would have fallen to his knees and begged should she have suddenly changed her mind. All —but she wouldn’t. Jonet was too bold to play games. And so he took what he had been offered. Hungrily, deeply, he kissed her, driving her head backward, one arm lashed tight about her waist He held nothing in check. What was the point? He could no longer do the right thing, and so he simply did as he pleased. He kissed her and kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth, almost into her throat, and still she did not hesitate.
As Jonet returned his kisses, matching his heat stroke for stroke, Cole let his other hand drift up to caress the nape of her neck, and then slide lower, to slowly unbutton the back of her dress. She whimpered and pressed herself against him, making Cole keenly aware of what he had vaguely suspected earlier. The black-eyed witch wore not a stitch beneath her black silk dress. No stays bound her ribs; not so much as a chemise covered her breasts.
She had set out to seduce him good and proper, had she not? Cole pushed her slightly away and stared down. A mere two inches from the curve of her neckline, Jonet’s nipples were clearly visible, hard beneath her widow’s weeds. Desperately, Cole continued to struggle with her fastenings, and when he finally lost his patience somewhere near button number six, he simply jerked the fabric down to expose the full, white mounds to his greedy lips. A little roughly, he drew her right nipple into his mouth and closed his teeth around it For a long moment he suckled, tormenting her with the tip of his tongue, then biting down until Jonet gasped. Then, reconsidering his haste, he eased her off his lap.
“You have nothing on beneath that dress, have you?” he suggested, his tone rich with accusation.
Jonet stepped back a pace, pulling up her sagging bodice in an awkward gesture of embarrassment. “M-my maid undressed me after dinner and went to bed,” she answered uncertainly. “I did not wish to disturb her.”
“Just take it off.” He rasped out the command.
Obediently, Jonet tugged the dress down. One button popped off and flew into the darkness, but one more was all that the job required. Jonet’s hips were so slender, the dress slid to the floor in a heap, and what was left of Cole’s pride soon followed.
Lamps burned low on either side of the bed, bathing her naked body in the soft light, and the sight left him completely undone once more. Jonet stepped out of the dress and lifted her gaze to Cole’s. It appeared that her momentary uncertainty was gone. Now, she seemed entirely comfortable with her nakedness. Perhaps she had undressed just this way on countless occasions for countless men. Cole told himself he didn’t care. Jonet stood before him proudly, the light of a challenge returning to her eyes, and then smoothly, she lifted her arms high and began to pull the pins from her hair. The motion served to lift her heavy breasts even higher. Cole’s mouth went dry as he watched the weight of them bounce and shift as Jonet drew out one pin after another, dropping them carelessly onto the thick Turkish carpet beneath her feet.
And suddenly, that hair—that mass of glorious, bewitchingly black hair—was cascading down her shoulders in shimmering waves of curls that covered her breasts and brushed her hips. Cole could remember how that hair smelled, how it felt brushing low against his belly. A groan slipped from his lips, and fleetingly, Cole feared he might come just looking at her. After an unsteady moment, however, he managed to dredge up a small measure of self-control, and jerked to his feet.
Quickly, he went to her, urgently loosening his cravat with both hands. His skin felt feverish, desperate to rub against Jonet’s, and when her hands came up to help pull away his neckcloth, the temperature leapt up yet another notch. In a matter of seconds, Cole’s coat and waistcoat were strewn across the floor, his shirt quickly following. The close of his breeches still hung open, and it was a simple task to shuck the rest of his clothes and boots.
And then he stood before her, completely naked. It had been a long time since Cole had been so with a woman, and never with a gently bred lady. Rachel had preferred he come to her in a nightshirt, and of course, he had obliged. And yet, he had craved the touch of skin against skin, the scent of feminine arousal, and the feint heat that rose from the human body during the act of lovemaking. But Cole was not a vain man. Under any other set of circumstances, he would doubtless have paused to worry about what Jonet thought of him, but he was well beyond caring now. Instead, he took her in his arms and dragged her high against him, completely off her feet, until her feminine mound was pressed hard and hot against his throbbing cock.
He urged it against her. “Is this what you need, Jonet?” he asked softly, one hand around her waist, the other cradling the swell of her buttocks. “Do you want this inside you? Do you want it now?”
Jonet’s head tipped back and her eyes closed, her inky black lashes fanning low across her cheeks. “Yes” she moaned, bracing her hands wide on his shoulders and arching into him. “Now!”
With a little grunt, Cole braced himself, then hefted her up and let his straining cock slide into the sweet valley between her legs. Already she was wet and slick with need. Carefully easing apart her hips, he slid her down, gritted his teeth, and impaled her ever so gently.
Cole felt her hands spasm atop his shoulders, and then Jonet’s nails sunk into his flesh. “Ah, ah . . . oh, Cole, please! . . .” she moaned, and Cole braced his legs and shoved himself in another half inch. It was all he could do not to drive himself deep on one last stroke, but her position was precarious. And for the world, he would not hurt her.
And then, over Jonet’s shoulder, his eye caught on the huge mahogany bed—its ivory hangings neatly pulled back, the clean, fresh sheets long since turned down— and then he looked at what he was doing to Jonet. Suddenly, it seemed somehow . . . wrong. Even a little crude. A man might, in an occasional moment of blind desperation, take a whore that way, particularly in some limiting circumstance. He’d done it himself once, after the horror of a particularly brutal battle, when he’d been half drunk and too dazed to be properly ashamed. But despite Charlie Donaldson’s very fine whisky, Cole was not precisely drunk—or if he had been, the look on Jonet’s face when he’d entered her sitting room had sobered him up. He had known at once what she wanted. And now that he had agreed to give it to her, he ought at least to do the job properly. Jonet did not deserve to be taken standing up, like a common whore, simply because he was angry with himself for being vulnerable. Cole was only dimly aware that he had ceased to move.
“Cole—?” Jonet’s question came out on an urgent, breathless whimper. Quickly, he kissed her and lifted her off. Jonet’s protest began before her feet touched the ground, her hands still clutching his shoulders stubbornly. “No, Cole—” she pled desperately, her voice thick with need. She gave him a hard shake. “Damn it, you cannot do this to me! Not now. Not after I begged—”
“Shush, Jonet,” he whispered gently, holding her gaze as he encircled her waist and lifted her heavy hair over her shoulder. More gently this time, Cole pulled her tight against him and pressed his damp erection against the softness of her belly. Opening his mouth against her throat, Cole allowed himself the luxury of drinking in the warm smell of her skin. In his arms, she still quivered with feminine anticipation, her hands coming up to spear eagerly through the thickness of his hair.
“Please, Cole!” she begged. “Just don’t stop.”
Cole s
lid his lips around the curve of her jaw and up to find the dampness of her temple. “I won’t,” he said softly. “I just want to take you to bed, darling. Let me love you properly. Not like this.”
Finally, Jonet pulled away to look up at him, her tongue slicking a layer of moisture across her full bottom lip, and his breath caught hard in his throat. Between them, his erection bucked hard against her belly. Sweet heaven, the woman was going to drive him insane.
“Then come with me,” she said, and pulled him toward her bed.
Jonet was perched on the edge of desperation. She rolled to one side of the bed and dragged Cole’s big body with her. He reached for her then and pulled her close, placing one warm, heavy hand over her breast in a sweetly possessive gesture.
“Oh!” she said softly, mouthing the word as her greedy fingers sought him again.
Cole’s erection was thick and smooth, and as she stroked him up and down, a pearl of moisture appeared at the tip. She watched it, mesmerized, as a fog of sensuality clouded her brain. Suddenly, Cole was halfway on top of her, tearing her hand from his shaft and bracing on one elbow to stare down at her. Eyes open wide, he kissed her again, lingering more tenderly this time. Then, very deliberately, he took her hand and pulled it to the moist curls between her legs. Guiding her fingertips into her secret place, he languidly began to rub them back and forth, guiding her with his hand until she began to arouse herself. Then his hand left hers, and Cole sat back on his haunches and watched.
Expectantly, she looked up at him. “Oh, Jesus, Jonet” he said hoarsely. “Just don’t stop. Please.”
Emboldened by his urgency, she did as he asked, becoming quickly lost in the sensation of self-arousal, and helpless to do anything save gasp for breath. Cole watched her every motion, his eyes wide in the lamplight, the muscles of his sinewy throat working up and down as his breathing became rapid and shallow. Quickly, Jonet’s own dew slicked her fingers, and then her palm, until she was arching off the bed and crying out for him.
Mercifully, Cole straddled her then, his thighs bulging, his gaze hot and focused. Shoving her thighs wider apart, he looked deep into her eyes and grasped himself with one hand. Jonet twisted restlessly atop the covers. Her skin was on fire. Was he never going to give her what she needed? “For God’s sake, Cole—!” she finally managed to gasp. “Just do it!”
Cole spread the palm of his hand flat against her mound, and with his long, elegant fingers, spread her wide to take him. With his other hand, he guided himself to her opening, and thrust partway in. A moment later, the mindless fog cleared sharply. Merciful heaven, but he was a big man! Jonet sucked in her breath on a gasp, but it was far too late. Cole braced himself high, then rocked back his hips and drove deep. One stroke. All the way.
Jonet did scream then, a little cry of pain and pleasure, but Cole seemed not to hear. His arms drew taut, their muscles bulging as his spine arched. He threw back his head to reveal the grim set of his jaw and eyes that were squeezed shut. Cole shuddered once, drew in a deep breath through nostrils flared wide, and then stroked her deep again. And again. It had been a long time, but the perfect strokes and knifing pleasure quickly overcame any discomfort. Instinct grabbed hold of Jonet, and her hips tilted up to take Cole deeper still. He settled into her, his rhythm strong and deep and infinitely comforting.
For a time, nothing broke the stillness of the room save for Cole’s harsh, rhythmic exhalations and the gentle creaking of the bed. Across the strong bones of his brow, a damp sheen appeared, and Jonet hungrily inhaled the scent of his soap and his sweat. Urgently, Jonet lifted one leg to wrap it high around his waist, moving with him as he drove into her. It wasn’t enough. She craved more, needed to curl around him, crawl inside him. Like a cat, she twisted and snaked until her belly brushed his and her fingers clutched his buttocks, the nails digging into his flesh. And still, Cole pounded himself into her in that perfect, timeless cadence, his expression tight with control, his hair framing his face in a shimmering curtain of gold. At last, Jonet gave herself over to it, reveling in the long, heated strokes of his body inside hers, her breath coming out on a sigh.
“Ah, Jonet,” Cole whispered, finally opening his eyes, his gaze piercingly clear. “I always feared that you were the stuff of which dreams are made.”
He stroked her again, a little higher this time, and the fusion of motion and words unleashed something wild inside; something she thought had long since stilled. It was more than that glistening edge of pleasure that always tantalized; it was a deep and abiding joy, a singing of her soul. Jonet arched high against him again, and again. And then one last time, her spine drawn tight as she urged herself hard against the thickness of him. When she came, it was in an explosion of rapture and light She clung to him for dear life as all about her the world splintered, leaving her only vaguely aware of Cole’s incipient climax.
In that moment, nothing, but nothing else mattered to Jonet. All that had happened, all the pain and horror that had gone before, simply ceased to exist, and there was nothing but Cole Amherst, his head again thrown back, the corded tendons of his neck straining, and his hips working feverishly as he pulsed and drove and spilled himself into her womb. Cole stroked her deeply one last time, then fell forward, taking his weight onto his elbows and staring down into her face. And then, his eyes dropped shut and he kissed her lips, gently, almost reverently, his mouth soft and pliant, his lips half parted.
“Ah, Jonet,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe. “I do love . ..” He stopped and swallowed hard. “I do love how you feel beneath me.” Gently, he rolled away, taking her with him and burrowing deep into the covers. With one arm, he encircled her and drew her snugly against him. They lay there in silence, simply staring at one another through eyes that were slumberous and sated, until the beauty of his face simply became too much to bear, and Jonet was forced to shift her gaze away from him. She stared up into the bed hangings, seeing nothing.
Oh, what a fool she was! Jonet had irrationally hoped that if Cole bedded her once, her fascination with the man would cease. He’d still been hard and throbbing inside her when she had begun to realize what a mistake that had been. The thought that a man—particularly this man— could bring her such peace and joy seemed suddenly frightening. She had wanted him with something akin to madness, yes. But surely she could not need him that much?
Most certainly, Cole did not need her. Oh, she had given him great pleasure, Jonet was not naive enough to think otherwise. But surely the intensity of what they had just shared was... almost ordinary to some people? People who felt a true passion for one another? Jonet did not know. But she knew that this was her fault; she had pushed Cole into a situation he had honorably sought to avoid, and now she would be punished for her greed in the worst sort of way. By continuing to want what she could not have.
Making love with him had assuaged nothing; it had merely taken the edge off her lust And as she stared down at the hard wall of his chest, watching as his breathing deepened into the rhythm of sleep, Jonet realized that it would be a short-lived relief. Throwing one arm across her eyes despairingly, she rolled a little away from him and onto her back, as if the distance might help. It was only then that she realized that Cole was not asleep. His hand snaked out to pull her back. “Please don’t leave me,” he murmured, his drowsy voice edged with desperation. Jonet wanted suddenly to cry.
Cole immediately sensed the sudden tension in Jonet’s body; it was a blade of bittersweet pain slashing through his languorous warmth and masculine satisfaction. Perhaps his request had been too familiar, too demanding? Perhaps he was the one who was expected to leave? He had given her what she had begged for—and left her well pleasured in the bargain, he proudly acknowledged. But perhaps Jonet was now done with him. Slowly, he levered up onto one elbow to stare down into her face.
She did not look as if she was done. She looked... lost. Lightly, Cole smoothed one hand across the silken skin of her belly. Inside, she had been as tight as a virgin, and t
hough she had carried two children, her figure showed no sign of it. His breath catching at the thought, Cole wondered what it would be like to feel his child stir inside her. He knew he should not think such things, but tonight he’d had a taste of her, and his emotions still ran too wild and feverish to control.
But Jonet was too thin, really, to bear a child. Just now, it would not be good for her. The stress of the last several months had taken a toll on her body as well as her mind. Yes, it would be far better to wait until Jonet was well, and then to hope for... Merciful God—what was he thinking?
It was as if she could read his thoughts. Languidly, she lolled her head to one side and stared at him through eyes that seemed deceptively heavy and sated. “What would you do, Cole, if I were to become with child?” she asked softly, her lush lips forming the words he could not bear to hear. “Would you, I wonder, do what you always do? Would you do the right thing?”
Still stroking her belly, Cole’s hand froze. “Jonet, I thought you said—”
“I did. I won’t.” Her gaze left his as, lazily, she let her fingertips trail through the dusting of hair that ran from his chest to his belly, and then lower, until his traitorous manhood stirred to her touch. “But you are ever the gentleman, Cole,” she continued. “Would you be a gentleman for me, Cole?”
Cole had the strangest impression that her languor was feigned; that somehow, Jonet cared more about his answer than she wished to admit. Nonetheless, it could not— would not—alter his response. He reached down to snare her hand in midstroke, drawing it to his mouth to lightly kiss her knuckles. He could not bear to look at her.
“Jonet,” he said quietly. “I cannot believe we are having this discussion. You are speaking of marriage. I could not possibly marry you, and you would never be so foolish as to marry someone like me.” Gently, he dropped her hand and slid his fingers into the dark mass of her hair, to push it away from her high, aristocratic forehead. He wanted to bend his head and slide his lips across the curve of her jaw, down her throat, and lower still. He wanted to make love to her again—but this time with his mouth and with his hands, openly giving her what little he did have to offer.