The Debutante Is Mine

by Vivienne Lorret

  She halted the moment her declaration passed her lips. His gaze never faltered, though his breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling beneath her hands.

  “At least, I believe that’s what to call it. How do you know, beyond any doubt, when you are in love?”

  He lifted his hand to her face, softly tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertips. “It will consume you. Terrify you. Rob you of rational thought. And make you dream of the impossible.”

  “I thought so.” Lilah swayed toward him.

  His gaze returned to her body in a blatant statement, like the one he’d made in the Serenity Room. You are mine. She felt like his, every part of her humming just for him.

  She waited for him to decide. The kitchen fell silent. Only the sound of their breathing and the occasional crackle from the wood pieces beneath the curfew stirred the air.

  Then, he lifted her against him. She thought he was going to set her back down on the edge of the worktable, but instead, he turned, heading up the narrow servants’ stairs, two at a time. Without a break in stride, he made his way to her open doorway and kicked it shut behind him.

  He seemed to know exactly where her bedroom was. “How did you . . . ” and then she remembered their conversation in the garden. “Ah, yes. My window.”

  Holding her with one hand, he reached behind him and turned the key in the lock. “In case someone returns early.”

  “To protect my honor?” she teased, remembering her decision to close the door to the Serenity Room.

  “There’s that and”—he lowered her feet to the floor, his hands flexing on her hips—“I don’t want us to be interrupted.”

  Us. Whenever he said that word, it made her warm, and weak in the knees.

  She took a step apart from him and lifted up her night rail—over her body, her arms, her head—until she was stripped bare before him. He growled as he looked at her, shrugging out of his greatcoat. And then, those ready hands hauled her against him.

  His mouth descended on hers. There was no moment of hesitation for either of them. He kissed her as he had that first time, devouring her lips, her tongue, as if this kiss was the only thing worth living for. She whimpered, knowing the same was true for her.

  Reaching for her hands, he settled them at his waistcoat buttons without breaking contact. She took the hint and began slipping the cloth-covered discs free while he yanked at his cravat and whipped it to the floor. When his waistcoat parted, he removed it, along with his shirt, casting them both to the floor. She only had a glimpse of his body—hard, sculpted perfection—before he pulled her against him again, flesh-to-flesh, the swells of her breasts yielding to the firmness of his broad chest.

  He lifted her, kissing her, and crossed the room to the hearth. Yet he didn’t stop in front the low fire burning in the grate. Instead, he took her to her window seat and lowered her down. Her plait had come loose, her damp hair falling against her back and causing another shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he asked against her lips, his hands gliding over her back, fingers splayed to touch every inch.

  She shook her head, arching against his body. “You’re very warm.”

  “Just wait.” He grinned, his eyes a gleaming dark gold in the hazy light filtering in through the lattice window. His mouth skimmed down her throat, pausing at the pulse he’d tasted the other night. Then he nudged her back, where he had arranged the pillows behind her.

  Gripping her hips, he pulled her to the edge of the seat, her knees on either side of him. Trusting him, she reclined, leaving herself exposed to him.

  His gaze simmered over her breasts, her stomach, her sex. He grunted, a primitive sound, one of both possession and approval. She held her breath. His hands followed the same path, beginning at her shoulders, covering her breasts, trailing down her ribs, to her stomach, her hips, her sex, her legs, and all the way to the tips of her toes.

  A rush of air left her lungs. She felt claimed. Everything he saw, everything he touched, was his.

  Then he ran the same path back up again. After the shock of the first pass, her body was already eager for his touch, responding with quivers and tremors over her flesh and deep inside.

  He repeated the sweep, only this time much slower, pausing to linger, kneading her breasts, grazing the taut peaks with the pads of his thumbs. Her nipples responded more and more to each slide until she gasped, her head falling back against the pillows. He leaned over her, closing his hot mouth over the crest. She cried out from the shock and pleasure of it. Clinging to him, her fingers pushed through the thick, damp tendrils of his hair, holding him to her, arching into his mouth.

  If she was his, then he was hers as well.

  Releasing her, he murmured something that she could not decipher, but the deep, carnal sound flooded her with a warm honey sensation that pooled low inside. He took her other breast, tutoring her flesh in the ways of ecstasy.

  His hand coasted down her ribs, her stomach, her hips, and found her sex once more. This time, he did not tease her with a mere touch but cupped her fully, the heat of his hand radiating into her, the rhythmic press of his palm spreading the slick wetness coating her. Then he turned his wrist and caressed her with his fingertips.

  He released her breast with a gasp of his own, his head tilting back, his eyes closing. “You’re drenched for me.”

  If it wasn’t for the blatant satisfaction on his face, she might have blushed with embarrassment. Instead, she flushed with understanding. This was how he wanted her, wet and writhing beneath his touch.

  Boldly, she rose up and kissed him, crushing her mouth to his, tilting her hips against his hand. He pressed against her, stroking the swollen seam of her flesh and then gliding into its warmth, his finger traversing a slow path from beginning to end and back again, over and over until she could hear the wet slide and anticipate the sensation of each touch.

  Mouths never separating, his other hand reached for hers, drawing it down to the fall of his breeches. Instinctively, she knew what he wanted. Both of her hands deftly plucked at the fastenings until the flap fell free and a thick column of flesh jutted forth, falling heavily into her palm. That velvety flesh was so hot that she pulled her hand away automatically.

  Jack issued a gruff sound, somewhat amused and somewhat pained. “Do you want to stop?”

  Yet he chose that moment to slide his finger into her depths, teasing her with slow, languid thrusts.

  “Oh, Jack” was all she could say for a moment. She could tell by his knowing grin and the challenging lift of his brows that he already knew the answer anyway. Even so, she needed certainty and honesty between them. “I want to know what you feel like inside me.”

  The heat in his gaze flared. He growled again, slanting his mouth over hers. He shifted between her thighs. Taking her hand, he curled it over his hard length and guided him to her sex. With his hand over hers, he mimicked the slow up and down slide from a moment ago, slipping in between her wet seam, gliding over her flesh, building a sense of urgency that made her back arch and her hips tilt in invitation.

  Then he paused at her opening, hesitating in a way that he hadn’t with his finger. She wondered if he was waiting for her anticipation to build, and it was. She could feel her body swell and contract in a need she’d never known before. When he released her hand, she settled it over his heart. Their gazes locked. He broke their kiss, his breath against her lips.

  “I love you,” he said and then plunged inside, stretching her, driving into her body with one hard thrust.

  The shock left her stunned. Too stunned to cry out. Her mouth opened but no sound came forth. She gripped his shoulders, pushing him away, then pulling him closer, nails biting into his flesh. Tears stung her eyes, filling them and making his face a blur before she blinked, and they forged a path down her cheeks. She didn’t know it would hurt so bad. That she would feel as if her hips were being separated from her body. And yet, he told he loved her . . .

  “Your love is painful,” s
he scolded, blinking away her tears.

  He kissed the dampness from her cheeks tenderly. “Yours is as well. Achingly—exquisitely—snug. Your body issues these tiny tremors, gripping me tighter, pulling me deeper. I don’t know if I can bear it.”

  On a groan, he withdrew from her body. She frowned, worried. “But there is more, is there not? It is not just pain. That would be rather unfair.” Sort of like her life.

  He chuckled and nipped at her lips, traversing down a familiar path to her breasts, suckling and rousing them to ecstasy, making her forget her question as his hand cupped her sex once more. He teased her flesh until she fell back against the pillows, her hips arching wantonly. His kisses trailed down over her stomach and lower still, brushing against the dark curls that shrouded her. Curious, she lifted her head.

  He grinned at her. “Do not tell me you love me, Lilah. I forbid you.”

  She smiled. But the laugh rising from her throat suddenly turned into a moan when his mouth opened over her. His tongue slid between her swollen flesh, devouring her with long, greedy licks. A whisper of decorum filled her head, asking if this was appropriate. Surely not. And she most certainly should not be so eager for every flick of his tongue. She shouldn’t be writhing, pushing herself against his mouth.

  Jack stilled her frantic movements. Gripping her hips, he murmured those low carnal words to her sex, forcing her to endure the wickedness of his talented mouth. Then his finger slid deeper, thrusting faster, matching the fevered flicks of his tongue. Ten thousand sensations flooded the surface of her skin, tingling, tightening. She wanted to buck her hips, to move with him, but he held her still as his onslaught continued. She gasped for breath, her exhale coming out as a whimper. A plea. He growled, harsh and commanding. The vibration spiraled through her, pulsing deep, fast, consuming her, until . . .

  She fractured, crying out in sharp surprise and then in a low moan of ecstasy.

  Pleasure surged through her. His thick flesh was there between her thighs, nudging inside as the wave rippled, following it deep, filling her. This time there was no sudden, searing pain, only fullness, along with that reverberation of rapture still spiraling through her. He matched each wave with languorous thrusts, prolonging her pleasure.

  “Yes,” he hissed, approving. His thrusts quickened, deepened. With his body grinding against hers, he refused to let her pleasure dissipate but urged her onward as her back arched and her entire universe became the place where their bodies fused.

  She cried out again, the sound choked, her tongue repeating his name again and again until she heard him shout. Suddenly, he withdrew and hauled her against him, clutching her, as hot, thick fluid slicked the space between them.

  Breathing hard and boneless, she collapsed against him, pressing her face into his neck. “I love you, Jack.”

  She could hear him grin. Arrogant man.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jack sat in the tufted chair near the hearth, with Lilah curled on his lap and one of her shawls draped over their naked bodies. They drank tepid tea from the same cup and nibbled on cold, stale toast, brushing the crumbs away with kisses.

  It was the best meal of his life.

  Lilah blinked slowly, a grin on her lush mouth as she twirled her fingertips into the hair at his nape. “Making my own choice has been a revelation. Had I known about all of . . . this, I would have made demands upon you much sooner.”

  “Hmm . . . that first day in the garden? Or later, in Mrs. Harwick’s parlor?”

  She giggled, sloshing tea over the rim and dripping it on his shoulder. She bent her head, chasing the droplet down the length of his collarbone and licking him clean for good measure.

  He groaned. Her wriggling and attentive ministrations roused his desire, engorging his flesh, making him ready to take her once more. Then again, he hadn’t lost his desire for her at all. How could a man feel sated and yet yearn for more at the same time? For that matter, how could a man feel so content and yet restless?

  Likely the latter was because he knew he couldn’t force her to leave with him. But that was all he wanted. She was his, after all. The sooner she accepted it, the better.

  “No, indeed,” she said, an impish light in her gaze. “I was thinking of that first moment, right outside of Hyde Park, with you on your Destrier.”

  The image filled his mind, and it took all of his control not to lift her up and settle her down onto his eager flesh. He knew she was tender, her flesh pink and swollen, and he would not allow himself to indulge again until she was healed. “I imagine we would have caused quite the scandal.”

  “I wonder if such a position would be possible . . . ” She pursed her lips in thought.

  His heart, brain, and erection fought for blood. Her curiosity might kill him, but he was willing to make the sacrifice. “We will have a picnic at my country estate when the weather is fine and discover the answer.”

  She lowered her gaze down to their teacup and sighed. “That would be lovely, Jack, but I am not altogether certain what the future holds.”

  Their futures were now fused, bonded forever. She should already know that. “Where is the young woman who is determined to make her own choices?” he asked.

  “She’s here, within this skin, but you have to understand this is all new to me. For years, I cringed when I even thought of disobeying or stepping outside the rules of propriety. My parents demanded perfection—my father, in particular. Whenever Jasper or I caused an embarrassment, even in front of the servants, he would punish us.”

  Jack’s hands tightened to fists, a terrible violence clawing at his heart.

  Lilah covered his hand with hers and lifted it for a kiss. “Not by raising a hand,” she continued, “but with shouts and belittling words that struck a deeper blow. I buried mine so deeply that even after my father’s death, I strove to be perfect. I never spoke out against my mother, I never fought against the rules of decorum, and I never railed against the codicil in my father’s will. I accepted it all out of a longstanding fear that if I was not perfect, then I did not deserve love.”

  “You are perfect,” he said fiercely, taking her face in his hands and kissing her brow, her lashes, her nose, cheeks, and lips. “You could yell obscenities in public, spill your tea on the king, break every rule, don a nest for your hat, wear a burlap sack as your dress, and you would still be perfect to me.”

  She beamed at him, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “That is the secret I never knew until now—that love is the only thing that can conquer fear. Love is the only thing that makes me feel powerful and willing to take a risk.”

  “What risk?” he asked, hoping she was about to tell him that she would leave here with him this very moment.

  She reached over and set their teacup down on the small side table before facing him. Tilting her head down, she looked up at him beneath her lashes. “Will you promise me one thing, Jack?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”

  Yet in the next moment, he wished he would have.

  “Do not do anything to save me. I need to fight this next battle alone.”

  “What?” He shook his head, not sure if he’d heard her correctly. But when he saw her look at him with tender expectation, he knew he had. “Lilah, you don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

  She kissed him softly, his mouth firm and unyielding. “Oh, my dear warrior, I know very well, and I know this will be difficult for you. However, I cannot go from never speaking up, out of fear, to hiding behind your shield. I have to try this on my own.”

  “Whatever your plan is, we both know there is no guarantee that the outcome will be favorable. How can you expect me not to interfere? You are mine. You have just proven it.”

  She drew back, a frown on her lips. “No. What I have proven is that I am my own person. I thought you, more than anyone else, understood this.”

  Damn it all! Why wasn’t she asking for his help? “Any other woman would be using her wiles to tempt me into marria
ge. Instead, you seem determined to make it clear that what we shared was little more than an assertion of your independence.”

  She winced and scrambled off of his lap, leaving him cold and bare. Then she jerked her shawl around her. “Do you really take me for a manipulative sort of woman, even after what we shared?”

  “Of course not—”

  “I thought you valued honesty.”

  “I do.” He stood and reached for her, ever glad when she didn’t resist. But she didn’t uncross her arms either. He folded her into his embrace nonetheless and was rewarded by the feel of her relaxing against him. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead to hers. “You are strong, brave, and determined. I love this about you. But I will hate keeping this promise.”

  The worst part was that he knew she could survive without him. Yet he wanted her to need him, to want him, so much that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of a life without him. Because that’s how he felt about her.

  “What do you expect of me?” she asked softly, her warm breath fanning out over his lips. “There are things I must do myself, not the least of which is speaking to my mother about Father’s will. And I would feel much better if I knew we shared this understanding.”

  “And I would feel much better if I could tuck you into my pocket and take you away with me.”

  She smiled and unfolded her arms, slipping them around him. The supple pillows of her breasts pressed against him, the heat of her sex nestling against his. “If I were in your pocket, then I could not give you a farewell kiss.”

  Then she rose up on her toes and did. Only he didn’t want it to be farewell. He wanted to remain with her always. Leaving her demanded more strength than he possessed. And he hated feeling this weak. This . . . vulnerable.

  Now, he knew why he’d never wanted to fall in love.