Beckman: Lord of Sins ll-4
Page 18
“Naughty man.” Sara rested her head on his arm. “We are agreed, then, our expectations of each other are low and transitory?”
“Are you trying to wave me on my way before I’ve even shown you pleasure, Sara?”
“In a sense, yes.” Sara thought of the letter she’d received a week ago, the letter she was going to have to deal with. “Your stay at Three Springs is temporary, and I might have reason to find a different post at any time. You’ve pointed out that Allie is isolated, and her art would prosper were we a little nearer civilization. This is a… frolic, Beckman. A frolic in which you’ve already pleasured me witless.”
He shifted, putting himself between Sara and the balcony railing. “Love, I haven’t begun to pleasure you witless.”
He eased his arms around her waist, the character of his touch becoming seductive. He didn’t merely hug her; he let her feel the slow glide of his hand on the thin material of her dressing gown, starting at her midriff and working his way around her ribs, down to her waist, over her hips, then around to rest on the upper swell of her derriere. “Let yourself come closer.” Beck tugged on her. “Much closer.”
She gave him her weight, her trust, and a bit of her heart, keeping her cheek against his chest. She could hear his heart beating a slow, reassuring tattoo and feel the tempo of her own heartbeat rising. One of Beck’s hands slid up her spine and rested on her nape, where his thumb made slow, languorous circles.
“You don’t have to be certain, you know.” His voice was suited to darkness, low, sensuous, and soothing. “If you’re uncomfortable, Sara, you tell me to stop, and I’ll damned well sleep in the stables.”
“I won’t tell you to stop,” Sara assured him, though it was almost as if he were daring her to reject him, so insistent was he on reminding her of this. She offered him assurances in false coin, though, because in the past week, between fits of worry over Tremaine’s missive, Sara had tried to puzzle out her reasons for consorting with Beckman Haddonfield. The best she could do, as she’d told him, was that she was using him in some manner to recover from her marriage. Reynard had left her dreams in tatters, her body exhausted, and her spirit hurting.
She would treat herself to the attentions Beckman offered, learn something of dalliance, and see what it was like to be held in affection by a man she respected—nothing less, and nothing more.
When his fingers stilled on her nape, she put aside her musings, waiting for his next word, his next breath, his next anything.
“A lady can change her mind, Sara,” Beck whispered, cruising his lips over her closed eyes. “At any time, she can change her mind.”
Provided she had a mind left to change. Beck’s hands framed her face, his thumbs feathering over her cheeks and jaw. The care in his touch, the unhurried, savoring quality of his explorations turned Sara’s knees unreliable and her spine into a lyrical, lilting melody. When Beck settled his lips over hers, she had a sense of sinking, of going under and drowning in pleasurable sensations.
He commanded all of her attention by virtue of showering all of his on her. He was touching her, breathing her, tasting her, wrapping his body around hers in such a way Sara felt him surrounding her every sense—sight, scent, hearing, taste, touch. She became filled with Beckman Haddonfield.
How long they stood there kissing, Sara could not have said. Long enough to leave her clinging to him, desperately needing more and clueless how to find it.
Beck broke the kiss and tucked her under his arm. “I’ve been waiting lifetimes for this, Sarabande Adagio, and for what follows now, we need and deserve a bed.”
* * *
Beck had not exaggerated. For him, his extravagant statement was simple truth. Sara wasn’t his usual fare—a discreet widow or a titled lady out for an evening’s romp. She wasn’t one of Nick’s hopefuls; she wasn’t anything Beck had allowed himself before.
She was decent. Good. She was choosing him for herself, and he wanted to be worthy of the honor.
He also—God help him—hoped she was choosing him, Beck Haddonfield, not simply a randy and convenient male whose discretion could be trusted in the morning, but a person. This was greedy and foolish of him—he invariably stumbled when dealing in sentiment—but he was honest with himself out of habit, and it wasn’t such a sorry thing to want.
To be a person to one’s lover.
And for that reason, he’d changed his mind when he’d gone out on his errands. He’d retrieved Sara’s packages and bathed, as intended, but he had not stopped by the common room and procured for himself enough brandy to ensure the evening would start with a pleasurable glow.
He’d taken his courage in one hand, his self-discipline in the other, and for the second time in his life, he’d resisted the temptation to get drunk his first night in Portsmouth. The decision was paying off, in the acuity of his senses, in the clarity of his will and the sure knowledge he would recall every sigh and caress Sara graced him with the whole night through.
He searched her face in the moonlight, seeing desire, but also uncertainty in her eyes. If he’d made that stop in the taproom, would he have missed the uncertainty?
“I want to see you. All of you, Sara.”
She nodded but made no move to take off her dressing gown. Ah, well, he’d ever been one to enjoy unwrapping pretty gifts.
Slowly, his fingers went to the sash belting her dressing gown. He tugged it free then pushed the robe off her shoulders and tossed it onto the foot of the bed. Her nightgown was old, plain, and, in keeping with the warmer weather, came only to her knees. He knelt before her and slid off her slippers, one at a time. Rather than rise immediately, he nudged the hem of her nightgown up and ran his cheek over the smooth skin above her knee.
Heaven help him, even her knees smelled good—tasted good.
Sara’s fingers tugged at his hair. “That tickles.”
“What about this one?” Beck nuzzled the other knee. “Is it ticklish too?”
“Yes.” He suspected she was trying not to giggle.
He wanted to hear her giggle. Wanted her giggling, laughing, crying, and yelling in his bed. He wanted her free there to be herself in every respect.
“Are you ticklish here?” he asked, rising and running the edge of his thumb along her ribs.
She flinched away. “Are you?”
“It will be your privilege to find out. Perhaps you’d like to start by removing my dressing gown?”
The humor left Sara’s expression, replaced by wary curiosity.
“You’ve seen me before, Sara. All of me, and not just across the barnyard.”
“We’re not in the barnyard.” Sara glanced at the bed fleetingly, as if it might burst into flames—which possibility Beck dearly treasured. She took a breath then reached out her hand and tugged the belt of his dressing gown free. It fell open, but she didn’t immediately take it from him.
She studied the bed this time as if it were a map, not a common piece of furniture. “We’re going to do this, aren’t we?”
“If you allow it.” Beck’s tone was level, as if he waited on her to choose between different flavors of ice. “As you allow it.”
Because God knew, left to his own devices, he’d toss her back across the bed, fall on her, and commence rutting. He was grateful again he’d not had that brandy, though Sara might have benefited from a tot.
Slowly, so slowly he wanted to scream, Sara’s hand flattened against the bare skin of his midriff then eased around to his back. Her fingertips left a trail of heat, and when she stepped closer, her scent came with her.
“You’ll have to tell me what to do.” Sara rested against him, only her nightgown between them now.
“You have only one responsibility.” Beck settled his hands on either side of her neck. “Enjoy yourself. You wanted to use me. I want to be used. Tonight, you say what you want, Sara, and you get it.”
She slipped the blue velvet from his shoulders, tossed it across the foot of the bed, then took a step back.
“Glorious.” Beck smiled at her, a glad, spontaneous smile shamelessly laden with lustful appreciation. She was not a girl; she was a woman in her prime, lovely, abundantly curved, and willing. “But your hair is up, Sarabande, and I promised myself tonight it would come down. Sit you in the middle of the bed and indulge me.”
He patted the bed rather than toss her onto it—this time—and went into the other room. When he came back, Sara sat in the middle of the mattress with the covers drawn up under her arms.
“That won’t do. Out into the lists with you, Sarabande. I’ve brought my weapon.” He brandished her hairbrush.
“Is there a reason why you can’t unbraid my hair while we’re in our dressing gowns?”
“Yes.” Beck’s great weight dipped the mattress as he bounced into position directly behind her.
“And the reason would be?”
“You’ll see,” he murmured, reaching for her braid. Except Sara wouldn’t see his reason, she’d feel it, as would he. Arousal was already pooling in his blood, so Beck silently admonished himself to slow down.
“Where did you get off to,” Sara asked, “before dinner, while I bathed?”
“I took care of my own ablutions,” Beck answered, relieved Sara was up to conversation. “And retrieved a few things I’d sent for. God above, I adore your hair, Sarabande.” He was unraveling her loosely plaited braid.
“It feels good,” Sara admitted on a sigh. “When you brush it like that. I’ve not felt my hair down on my naked back in ages, though.”
“Like it?” Beck picked up the mass of her hair and swung it lightly across her back. He played for a few minutes, bunching the abundance of her hair in his hands, burying his face in it, and draping it over her back and shoulders then letting it brush over his groin.
“I’m engaging in perversions back here,” Beck said. “Do you know how arousing your hair is when I brush it across my cock?”
“No.” She took in an unsteady breath, while Beck caressed himself again with her hair.
“It burns, Sara.” His voice had lost some of its teasing quality. “Brands me. Makes me want to brand you. Over and over again.”
He gathered her hair and swept it over her right shoulder, then shifted, kneeling up and bending over her. He intended that she feel his erection along her spine. He did not intend the wave of possessiveness that swept him when he embraced her like this.
“You are in this state as a function of brushing my hair?” She sounded curious rather than intimidated—curious and maybe a little pleased with herself. “Beckman?”
“Hmm?” He’d curled down over her so his lips were near her ear.
“Are you done with my hair?”
“Not nearly.”
“Are you done brushing my hair for now?”
This question took some time to absorb.
“Yes.” Abruptly he dropped his arms and sat back on his heels.
“Might we get under the covers?”
“God, yes.”
Beckman shifted again, and Sara scrambled around to climb under the covers with him. Her unbound hair took some managing, but the sensation of it sweeping along his shoulder and belly nigh unmanned him.
“Now what, Beckman?” Sara aligned herself to his side, her hair cascading over his chest and stomach.
Beck angled up off his back, gathered her against him, and rolled them. “Now, we make love.”
He didn’t give her a chance to reply but lowered his head to seal his mouth over hers. Polite teasing slipped from his grasp. He was kissing to arouse, and so—thank a merciful heaven—was she.
“Don’t hold back,” Sara whispered against Beck’s neck. “Tonight I don’t want you to be careful or restrained or gentlemanly. I want more, Beckman.”
“You’ll have it,” he assured her as she closed her teeth over a pinch of his shoulder.
He insinuated a hand between their bodies, only to have Sara seize it with her own. “Yes.” She clamped his fingers over her breast. “That. Please.”
When he gently squeezed then closed his fingers more definitely around her nipple, she pushed herself up against his cock. “Beckman…”
He kept up his attentions to her breast, until Sara was undulating rhythmically against him, flaying his self-control before he’d even gotten down to business. He’d wanted to go slowly, to savor and cherish and honor her with his caresses and his self-restraint. He’d planned to pleasure her, to pleasure them both, but gently, because she was without recent experience, and this was their first complete encounter.
His plans went up in bright, reddish-orange flames.
“Come here.” Beck shifted to his side, leaving Sara on her back. He could kiss the hell out of her this way and use his hands to better advantage. She took to the shift in positions like a duck to water, hooking a leg over his hips and rolling toward him.
“Better,” Beck growled as he filled his hand with the curve of her derriere and brought her closer.
“Beck, I want…” Sara’s fingers closed around his shaft, and Beck felt a moment’s panic.
“You can have that,” he assured her, gently untangling her fingers, “but later, love. Just a little later.”
When she would have protested, Beck spiked her guns by brushing the backs of his fingers over the curls at the apex of her sex.
“Beckman?” Her undulating ceased, surprise in her voice.
“I want this to last,” he tried to explain, exploring gently. “If you have your way with me precipitously, I won’t do you justice.”
Sara blinked, looking momentarily puzzled as he shifted his grip on her so his fingers could dip lower.
“You’re ready for me.” He didn’t keep the smugness from his tone as he swiped a pair of fingers in a long, slow caress up her damp sex. Sara’s body shuddered, and he repeated the caress, studying her as he did.
“You like that. What about this?” He dabbled at the opening to her body, gently, but not too gently for a woman becoming aroused.
“Do that again,” she said, closing her eyes. Beck obliged by easing a single finger shallowly inside her.
“Better?”
“Not better enough.” She arched her hips against him as he continued the same fleeting and shallow penetrations. When he limited himself to those teasing caresses, she pushed against him as if asking him to speed up, or for the love of God, to enter her.
Cautiously, Beck brushed his thumb over a spot higher up.
“Push harder,” she muttered, grasping his hand and anchoring it against her. “Right there, Beckman, ah, God, yes, right there.”
“And there we go,” Beck whispered, pleased and relieved, because God help him, Sara was so bloody snug, he hadn’t been sure quite how to go on.
“Don’t you stop,” Sara hissed through her teeth. “Please, Beck, you can’t…”
“I won’t.” He leaned over, kept up his stroking, and took her nipple in his mouth. He pleasured himself more than her, suckling greedily and drawing firmly in a rhythm that counterpointed the movements of his hand.
“Beckman…” Her fingers clamped around his wrist, her back arched, and her hips thrust up hard against his hand. His control nearly slipped when Sara began to make low, soft noises of pleasure and need and greater pleasure still.
“Everlasting, merciful…” Sara rolled to lay panting on her back, turning only her head to gaze at him. “God above, Beckman Haddonfield. You should be banned by royal decree.” She rolled back into him, tucking herself against his chest, and hiding her face against his body.
Despite the arousal roaring through his body, Beck was pleased. Pleased for her, pleased for himself. Embracing her, he was reassured he had the patience to see this through, and the determination. He gathered her against
him and swept her hair over her shoulder.
“You’re all right?”
“Buzzing,” Sara replied. “Once more, in very short order, buzzing. You?”
“I will be,” Beck answered. God willing, he would be soon. “But I’m concerned.”
“Hnn.” Sara’s tongue found his nipple, and by the lazy way she stroked him, Beck knew he’d chosen his moment well. Sara would not know a concern now if it kissed her on the lips.
“It’s not a serious concern,” Beck went on, “but I’d like your agreement to humor me, Sara.”
Sara sighed contentedly. “Right now, you can have anything you please of me, Beckman. I am powerless to refuse you.”
Beck smiled, his imagination taking off with that offer. “I want you, Sara, more than I can recall wanting anybody or anything, but there’s only one way I will have you.”
She raised her face up to peer at him, the gravity in his voice perhaps penetrating her haze of well-being.
“What are you about, Beckman?” She reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “And you needn’t be diplomatic. Have I disappointed you?”
“Does this feel like disappointment?” He wrapped her fingers around his shaft.
Sara smiled wickedly. “No. That feels like the sweet shop is still open for business.”
“Not to you.” Beck answered as sternly as he could, but he had to close his eyes as Sara’s fingers stroked lightly over the head of his cock. He caught her hand with his, stilling it, but not making her turn loose of him.
“What do you mean, Beck?” The beginning of hurt laced her tone, and Beck was relieved to know he had her attention.
“You have to promise me, Sara, you’ll let me have the reins for the next little while.” He kissed her cheek to soften his words and to take in a gratifying whiff of her fragrance.
“Didn’t I just give you my reins? And the whip and spurs, along with a few lumps of sugar?”
“You did.” Beck smiled despite himself. “But I want to be inside you, Sara. Want it so badly my eyes are crossing, and if you get to showing your enthusiasm, I could hurt you.”