A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  Until he shoved it from her shoulders and it slid down over her hips to land in a froth of cambric and lace about her ankles, leaving her clad in nothing but her chemise.

  Her heart jolted and she made a restive movement, her sudden vulnerability cutting through the euphoria of Tristan's touch. But before she could do more than of­fer a token protest, he took her lips again in a devastat­ing exchange that swept aside any thoughts she might have had of possibly calling a halt to his lovemaking.

  Palming the rounded sphere of her bottom, he pressed his hips against hers, making it impossible for her to ignore the hard ridge of his manhood. It nestled snugly against her feminine portal, setting off a rush of dampness between her legs and an unexpected throb­bing at her very core.

  "Do you feel that, Deirdre?" he murmured between kisses, outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue. "That's where I want to be. Deep, so deep inside you that I'll never find my way out."

  She whimpered as he slid his hands up her rib cage until his thumbs just brushed the undersides of her breasts. At the same time, he lowered his head to feast on their high, ripe curves where they mounded just above the low neckline of her chemise. Her nipples peaked in response, stabbing against the filmy mate­rial, and when he reached up to peel the straps of the undergarment down her arms, baring her to the waist, she didn't try to stop him.

  Through half-shut eyes, she watched him as he raised his head and studied her with an intense gaze. He was quiet for so long that she started to grow anx­ious. Was something wrong? Did she not please him?

  Just when she was ready to tug free from his hold and cover herself in mortification, he spoke in a voice that was less than steady. "Lord, I knew you would be beautiful, but I never dreamed just how beautiful."

  Bending over her, he drew the pink tip of one breast into the scorching heat of his mouth.

  "Ahhh." Pure ecstasy shot through her veins, and she arched her back, gripping the back of his head with fingers twined in the inky black strands of his hair. Moving from one pale globe to the other, he used his lips and tongue to suckle and lave each until they were swollen and aching.

  Then, in one smooth motion, he stripped her che­mise the rest of the way off and swept her up into his arms to lay her on the bed. He followed her down, bracing himself with his elbows on either side of her.

  She'd never felt so exposed in her life.

  Lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating the room for a minute, making it almost as bright as day. As Tristan stared down at the woman beneath him, he saw the hesitation in those green eyes, and it made his heart catch.

  Reaching up, he brushed a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear before tracing his finger over the sprin­kling of freckles on the bridge of her nose. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her, but he had to ad­mit he couldn't understand her show of uncertainty. She was a knowledgeable widow, after all. What did she have to be frightened of?

  "Are you all right, darling?" he asked. "Do you want me to stop?"

  In answer, the tension vanished from her expression and she reached up to splay her open palm against his chest. "No. Please. I'm fine."

  Thank God.

  Grazing his hand up the inside of her silken thigh, he let his eyes take a visual survey of the bounty before him. With her pale skin gleaming in the firelight and her red hair spread out on the pillow around her, she truly was lovely. Slender and delicate, she possessed the supple grace of a willow, her curves well rounded without being overly ample. Her full breasts were just enough to fill his hands, topped with succulent pink crests that made his mouth water.

  Still rosy and damp from his earlier ministrations, they tempted him now, and he couldn't keep himself from leaning down and delicately tonguing one dis­tended peak, wringing a mewling cry from her lips.

  The triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs drew his attention next. Sliding down her body, he combed his hand through the auburn curls and felt her go still at his touch. It was almost as if she were holding her breath, waiting for his next move.

  She didn't have long to wait. With his thumb, he separated her dewy feminine folds and pressed a fin­ger just inside the opening to her slick canal, testing her readiness. Moisture immediately drenched his fin­ger, and she tossed her head on the pillow, her hips bucking against him.

  She was most definitely ready, but there was some­thing he had to know before things went any further. As hard as he'd tried, he couldn't seem to completely banish the images of Deirdre lying underneath the late viscount like this, letting him love her the way Tristan was loving her now. The image seemed wrong some­how, and though he knew he had no right to his jeal­ousy, there it was, larger than life and undeniable.

  Continuing to stroke her slippery flesh with know­ing finesse, he levered himself up far enough to look down at her once again, willing her to meet his gaze so he would be able to see the truth in her eyes.

  "Tell me your husband never made you feel like this," he growled, the words an order, a command. "Tell me."

  She sucked in a quavering breath as his finger pen­etrated even deeper, and her lashes fluttered as she seemed to struggle to focus on his face. "No, Tristan. No one else has ever made me feel this way. Only you."

  It was enough. Feeling a burst of primal male satis­faction, he moved to center himself at the entrance to her velvety passage. With a flex of his hips, he thrust home.

  And instantly felt himself break through an unex­pected barrier that shouldn't have been there.

  Shocked and confused, her cry of pain ringing in his ears, he froze and reared up, barely able to compre­hend the importance of what he had just discovered through the haze of his desire.

  The widow had been a virgin!

  Her body still absorbing the shock of Tristan's inti­mate invasion, Deirdre lay unmoving, allowing herself time to get used to the feeling of his rigid length sheathed to the hilt inside her. As the initial burning sensation gradually started to fade, however, she no­ticed the startled look on his face and began to panic.

  He couldn't pull back! Not now! Afraid he was pre­pared to do just that, she gripped his shoulders and locked her legs around his tautly muscled flanks, tilt­ing her pelvis upward in a way that caused him to slide even further into her tight channel.

  "Don't stop," she pleaded, her nails digging into the skin of his back. "Please don't stop."

  As she moved sinuously beneath him, he squeezed his eyes shut, a harsh, guttural groan escaping from be­tween clenched teeth. For a second she was certain he was going to disregard her plea. Then, gripping her hips in a firm, yet gentle, hold, he began to rock against her, sliding in and out, setting up a steady rhythm that soon had her forgetting any discomfort she'd previ­ously felt. She rose to meet him.

  It was a perfect melding, unlike anything she had ever imagined. The feel of him moving within her, a part of her, was wonderful in itself. But as the wild, thrilling friction continued, she became aware of a slowly building pleasure, a quickening in her womb that carried her higher and higher to some unknown destination.

  Reaching the pinnacle, she cried out at the same time as Tristan stiffened above her, giving a hoarse shout, her name sounding like a benediction on his lips. His seed erupted within her and he slumped over, his chest heaving as his powerful frame was wracked with shudders.

  And Deirdre knew she would never be the same again. There could no longer be any denying it.

  She was in love with him.

  Chapter 20

  In the quiet aftermath of their loving, the two of them lay entwined, their bodies cooling and their hearts slowing to normal as the storm raged outside.

  Tristan was the first to recover. Carefully disengag­ing himself, he collapsed onto his back next to her, looping an arm around her shoulders to snuggle her against his side. "Why?"

  His question, spoken so close to her ear, caused her to start, and she craned her neck to look up at him. "What?"

  "Why didn't you tell me?"
/>   He didn't sound angry, and his expression gave nothing away, but she felt her mouth go dry with ap­prehension just the same. "You mean, why didn't I tell you I'd never done this before?"

  He nodded.

  She attempted a casual shrug that didn't quite suc­ceed. "I don't know. I suppose at first I thought you wouldn't believe me. And then . . ."

  "Then?"

  "I was afraid if you knew you wouldn't want me."

  "That was a bloody ridiculous notion."

  "Was it?" Jerking away from him, she sat up, level­ing him with an accusing glare. "For a moment, when you first realized, you almost pulled away. Didn't you?"

  "That wasn't because I didn't want you. I wanted you more than my next breath." He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "For God's sake, Deirdre, you were married. Of course I was startled to find out you were untouched. I think my hesitation was only natural in the circumstances."

  Deirdre glanced away, bowing her head and pulling the sheet further up over her breasts. "Perhaps."

  There was a rustling sound behind her, then a gentle hand touched her shoulder. "Not that I'm unhappy about it, but how could Rotherby be married to you and not make love to you? Was he impotent?"

  She turned back to find that he had propped himself up against the headboard and was watching her expec­tantly, waiting for an explanation. The drape of the blanket had fallen below his lean hips, barely covering that part of him that had given her such ecstasy, and she felt her cheeks heat before she yanked her gaze back to his face.

  "No. At least, I don't think so. I suppose at his age it was possible, but he never mentioned it. Of course, it's not precisely a subject a gentleman discusses—"

  "Deirdre, you're rambling."

  She knew it, but the entire topic made her uncomfort­able. The very thought of being with Nigel in the same way she'd been with Tristan was unthinkable to her.

  Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before con­tinuing. "Nigel and I didn't have that sort of relation­ship. He was like a father to me and I was like a daughter to him."

  "Then why wed? Was it because of the rumors?"

  "In part. Nigel knew of the ton's speculations, of course, and they were bad enough when I was a child. But as I grew older, the whispers got worse. They be­came vicious, tawdry. He wanted to protect me and de­cided that marriage was the best option. I was very young, only seventeen, but at least as his wife I was af­forded some measure of respect, even if it was just for show."

  Her fingers tightened on the covers. "And then there was the question of inheritance. Nigel's first wife and his daughter were killed in a boating accident sev­eral years before I came along. He was the last of his line, and there were no distant male relatives to take over the title. An adopted child has few rights in the courts of England, and with his death everything would have been lost."

  "So, he married you to make sure you were pro­vided for."

  "Yes."

  Tristan was silent for a long moment, his brow fur­rowed as he contemplated all she'd told him. When he finally spoke again, his words carried a note of grudg­ing respect. "He must have been quite a man."

  "He was." She smiled reminiscently as her memo­ries of her late husband flooded over her. "I didn't make things easy for him the first few years I lived here. I was sullen and difficult, but he never gave up. For the first time in my life, I knew what unconditional love felt like. I'll be forever grateful to him for that."

  Her eyes misted with tears. Becoming a widow at nineteen had not been something she'd been prepared to deal with, and the past year of her life had been dif­ficult without Nigel. Sometimes it had seemed the only thing that had kept her going had been her work with the people of Tothill.

  And then she'd met Tristan, and everything had changed. In just two short days, he'd managed to touch her in a way no one else ever had. Not even the viscount.

  He'd made her fall in love with him.

  She wasn't certain exactly when it had happened. Perhaps it had been when she'd witnessed his kind­ness to Lilah, or when she'd seen the way he'd been with both Benji and Gracie, so gentle and patient. Or it might have been when he'd come to her rescue in Dan's club, or even last night, when he'd held her in his arms while she'd cried.

  But regardless of when or how it had occurred, the results were the same. She'd given her heart to the ten­der, caring man he tried to hide beneath that gruff facade, and she was very much afraid he would take it with him when he left.

  That he would leave, she had no doubt. It was only a question of how soon they found Emily. She wasn't naive enough to believe that what had happened be­tween them tonight meant as much to him as it did to her. He was quite obviously an expert and experienced lover who had more than likely been with numerous women over the years. While her whole world had shifted on its axis, she had to remember that for him their lovemaking had been nothing more than an en­joyable interlude, a way to distract himself from the demons that tormented him.

  And that was probably for the best, she decided, bit­ing her lip. Even if by some miracle Tristan happened to return her feelings, any sort of life together would be next to impossible. She would spend every second of every day worrying about whether or not he would discover the secrets she kept and hate her for them.

  "You still should have told me."

  His statement brought her out of her ruminations, and she looked up to meet his serious gaze. "Excuse me?"

  "I had a right to know you were a virgin, Deirdre. I could have— Damn!" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I could have taken my time, been more gentle, made it better for you."

  "It could have been better?" Deirdre was shocked. "I don't think I would have survived it!"

  When he gave her a doubtful look, she leaned over and laid a hand along his cheek, feeling the stubble of his evening's growth of beard beneath her palm. It was hard to believe this man could be uncertain about anything, especially his ability to please a woman, but it was there to see in the depths of his troubled vi­olet eyes.

  "Tristan, I swear to you, I wouldn't have changed a thing about it," she reassured him earnestly. "It was perfect, even more wonderful than I ever imagined."

  Relief suffused his features, and a slow smile spread over his face. Reaching out, he twined his fingers with hers and tugged her toward him. "In that case, I don't suppose I could persuade you to give me a chance to improve my performance?"

  A chill raced through her as his thumb caressed the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. Take advantage of every last second you have with him, her mind whispered, for tomorrow he might be gone.

  "What a marvelous idea." She dropped a kiss on his chin, then slid her free hand under the covers to boldly stroke him, delighting in the feel of his hard, hot length under her fingertips. It was like steel encased in velvet. "I was just going to suggest that very thing."

  He emitted a choked cry and bucked against her touch, even as he seemed to grow larger and longer un­der her ministrations. Gripping her hips, he pulled her atop him so that she straddled his thighs, the very tip of his manhood poised at the entry to her silken sheath.

  "Always your servant, my lady," he growled, then buried himself inside her, once again carrying her off to paradise.

  Long after Deirdre had fallen asleep within the cir­cle of his arms, Tristan lay staring up at the ceiling, try­ing to make sense of the tangle his life had become.

  Everything was so confusing, and it seemed the harder he tried to sort it all out, the more the answers evaded him. Between his fear for Emily and his jum­bled feelings for Deirdre, it was a wonder he wasn't a stammering idiot by now.

  Glancing down at the head of red curls nestled so trustingly on his shoulder, he couldn't ignore the sharp pang he felt in the vicinity of his heart. Though what had happened between them hadn't been planned, he couldn't be sorry for it. It had been the most intense ex­perience of his life. There'd been women in his past, of course, but not a one of them had ever come close t
o touching him the way Deirdre had.

  And then to discover that she'd been a virgin. . . well, it was mind-boggling, to say the least. Not that he was complaining. Just knowing that he was the first to ever give her that sort of pleasure filled him with a sense of satisfaction—not to mention a primitive pos-sessiveness that was vaguely disconcerting. Never be­fore had he been possessive of a female, but she was proving to be the exception to the rule.

  In more ways than one.

  If only she'd been the hard, harsh gold digger he'd believed her to be in the beginning. That would have been so much easier for him to deal with. He could have paid her to help him find his sister, eliminating her as a threat to his long-held defenses.

  Instead, she'd managed to knock down those de­fenses little by little with her stubborn determination, her kind soul, and her caring nature. Watching her with the people of Tothill Fields had been a true reve­lation. Through her, he was learning he could not judge all of them by the men who had murdered his mother. It was something he'd known deep down all along, but meeting Lilah, the McLeans, and even the Rag-Tag Bunch had opened his eyes, and Deirdre's generosity had shown him the feeling of accomplishment that could come from helping those less fortunate.

  In many ways, she was almost too unselfish.

  He tightened his arms around her and buried his nose in her strawberry-scented hair. In all honesty, she needed a keeper, otherwise she would continue to give unstintingly until she burned out like a candle and there was nothing left. It had to take quite a toll on her, both physically and emotionally, especially as she had such a personal connection to all of her charges. Each and every one of them was important to her. Why, she'd even taken Emily into her heart. Finding his sis­ter had become just as necessary to her as it was to him.

  Which led him back to his other dilemma.

  Emily.

  His jaw clenched as he recalled his conversation with Deirdre earlier. She was right. Ever since he'd re­turned, he'd spent his time avoiding his sister, subcon­sciously ignoring her pleas for attention because dealing with her had brought back too many memories of all he'd lost. Looking back now, he realized that Emily had tried to voice her frustration and unhappiness to him on more than one occasion, but he'd just patted her on the head and sent her on her way as if her feelings had been inconsequential. No wonder she'd run away. For all intents and purposes, he'd treated her no differently than their father had.