Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  He searched her eyes. “Do you? Do you really?” Then he stroked her cheek, and his tone relaxed to that of the teasing lover. “So may I now look at you? At all of you?”

  She had some alarming idea what he had in mind. “You want this? This is your lesson?”

  “Oh, yes,” he drawled. “It’s very much what I want. And you’ll want it, too. You just don’t know it yet.”

  She took a breath and gathered her courage. “Then yes, please, Dominick, teach me your lesson.”

  He moved on his knees to the end of the settee, pulled her hips up higher on the cushions and padded arm, and draped her stockinged legs over his shoulders. Despite the dim light of flickering fire and candles, she felt horribly exposed, spread naked and opened up like never before. It was frightening and embarrassing and—in some rebellious corner of her proper librarian’s heart—terribly, wickedly exciting.

  By the time he’d nibbled and kissed and lapped his way to that secret core of her, she no longer had it in her to protest. The sensation repeated his earlier attentions, but with intense variation. The wetness and warmth from the rough drag of his tongue caused the tension to build again. Desperate for solid ground, she threaded her fingers through his thick golden curls and held on for dear life.

  His big hands rubbed up and down her thighs before settling around her derriere to cup and massage the flesh there. As the waves built, she became aware of her desire for something more, just a moment before his fingers slipped around to the peak of sensation above where he feasted. Her hips jerked in new pleasure, but then froze as he lifted his mouth and inched into her with his finger.

  He slid in deep enough that she felt a stretch and edge of discomfort, before he paused to twist the digit slowly within her. The feeling of being invaded and filled startled her with the sudden fierce desire it provoked for more, more. She pushed up hard against him, but then jolted back at the pain that shot through her.

  “Dominick!” she yelped.

  “Shhh.” He pulled out to cup her gently and reached up with his other hand to stroke her flushed cheek. “Do you know how your body works, Callista? Of the maidenhead that guards your passage? If we proceed, it’ll be breached. There’ll be some pain, but only this once.”

  She smiled weakly. “I told you there should be a manual of instruction.”

  “There’ll be pleasure as well, beauty. I promise.” He lowered his hand from her face to toy with her breasts, never taking his hot gaze off her eyes.

  “I believe you.” She flexed her hips in renewed invitation, and when he slipped back inside the pleasure was still there, swirling under his clever fingers. When he brought his mouth back to her core as well, the haze of sensation fell over her again, and she couldn’t tell where tongue ended and lips and hand began. The firm pressure of his fingers within stretched and rocked her to the wet languorous rhythm of his mouth.

  As she adjusted to his feel, she forgot to be embarrassed, to be scared, to be proper. She let her legs fall open wider and raised her hips for more. God help her!—she wanted him, wanted this magic he did to her, wanted to feel again that promised climax now hovering closer.

  When he somehow curled his fingers inside to push up against a hidden fleshy part of her—Master of Love, indeed—the waves grew rougher and tossed higher. His medley of tongue and lips and hand intensified to a deep, hard, fast rocking. She felt herself inexorably pulled into a whirling vortex of sensation so searing as to be almost painful, until it burst into a scorching cascade of pleasure that drowned her body in delight.

  “Yes, yes!” The air hissed out of her. As she gulped breath—sweaty, trembling, spots dancing before her eyes—he moved her back up the leather coach and, with a quick rustle of clothing, lay down half across her. It took her dazed mind a moment to register from the heat and rub of flesh that he was finally gloriously naked.

  Afraid he’d change his mind, she wrapped her arms around him tight and wriggled beneath him until she had him between her legs. “Now, Dominick!” she begged. “Show me—there’s more, isn’t there?”

  His earlier teasing languor was gone, and he breathed hard himself. “Callista”—he pressed kisses across her brow—“do you have any idea how beautiful you are in your passion?”

  But she wanted no more of words or delays, needed to take him fully inside her. She had to make him hers, in some drive for joining that even in her desire-drugged haze she knew made no logical sense, except that she’d regret it forever, she’d die if she didn’t have him—now.

  When he flexed his hips to nudge against her swollen folds, so wet and open, his shoulders went rigid. She arched her hips, desperately seeking to draw that heat and hard twitching length deep inside her.

  “Don’t stop,” she moaned. “Please, come into me. Let me have you. I want to take all of you.” The tumbling words were so strange and bold, she barely knew this brazen woman speaking them. But she did know she’d never felt so alive and, somehow, oddly whole. She dug her nails into the bunched muscles of his back and buried her face in his neck. “Now!”

  “Callista,” he growled, with a flex of his hips, “I am yours.”

  And then the world narrowed down to just the slick sensation of Dominick filling her with smooth hard length.

  There was moment of rough catch and then give, as her passage opened fully to him, but he had so thoroughly prepared her it barely registered as pain. Her gasp of deep shaky surprise was more at how wonderful it felt—not only the pleasure stirring anew but the strange sense of her body physically joined to his. The shattering intimacy of holding Dominick deep inside took her breath away. She clutched at his shoulders so he couldn’t see, wouldn’t misunderstand, the tears stinging her eyes.

  He held still, and pleasure rumbled deep in his throat. “God, Callista, you feel like heaven. Are you all right?”

  Words were far, far beyond her, so she pushed her hips tight up against him in response. When some impulse led her to clasp her inner muscles around him as well, it was his turn to gasp.

  “I always knew you were a quick learner, my clever beauty, but slowly!” He nuzzled feathery kisses along her neck. “You have no idea how good that is.”

  She was surprised that the rippling grip of her inner passage brought a tingling pleasure to her as well. There were more moves to this game of love play than she’d suspected. When she pressed up with her hips again, he took the hint and began a slow pulse of his own, setting up an unhurried rhythm of pressure and release.

  The intoxicating pleasure began to swirl across her body again—Lord, would she survive?—and relaxed her to open further to him. But when he first pulled back to slide from her body, she held on to him, distressed—“No! No, don’t leave!”

  “Shhh, look at me.” Holding his weight on his elbows, he swept damp hair from her brow, and she managed to peep up at him. “I won’t leave you.”

  She forced herself to ignore the odd clench of her heart at his words—That’s not what he means, you fool.

  “Trust me,” he said. “See what we can do together?”

  He flexed his hips and thrust back within. The slippery wet drag of his flesh across hers added a new dimension of bliss to her already careening senses. Leisurely, he began to explore the angles and paces of their joining. By the time he’d rocked them into a steady rhythm of thrust and grinding hips, she’d spread her legs wide under him, lifted her hips to his force, and given herself over to him.

  His scent enveloped her: musky, mysterious. His searing heat sank into her bones. His naked golden flesh branded her down her length as he covered her in male possession and masterful loving. Her mouth opened onto the sweaty corded muscles of his neck and shoulder, and she tasted his salt.

  She felt how her passion somehow fed his and exulted in a budding sense of her newfound feminine power. Hot in her ear, his gasping breaths mirrored her own. His motion became less gentle, wilder and more driven. More demanding.

  She recognized by now the signs of her peaking
desire, and in those signs, his own. But this time, it was almost more than she could bear—too much pleasure, too much intensity of him on her, in her, losing control as he shared the pleasure with her. Alongside the sweet ecstasy starting to brim between them, she was caught by an edge of fear and bewilderment and sadness. How did people do this, this wrenching openness of soul and body? She felt terrifyingly vulnerable. She wasn’t herself anymore, never would be again. But there was no going back.

  Caught in a maelstrom of pleasure and pressure and scent and sweat and hard rocking male thrust, her back arched under his weight, her body clenched rigid under him and quivered taut as a bowstring. Her nails might have been drawing blood—she didn’t know, couldn’t tell anymore, where she ended and he began, for time had stopped, and was she even still breathing? God! She was vaguely aware—and in some rational part of her brain shocked—that she screamed as the first waves slammed into her.

  “Look at me!” he rasped, his body clenching into its own driving crisis. “Callista—look at me!” It was a master’s command. It was a desperate man’s plea. It was very nearly more than she could manage. But—mouth open, gasping—she locked gazes with him, and was lost.

  “Dominick, Dominick, Dominick!” She trembled, shook, sobbed his name in entreaty and blessing, thought those must be tears on her cheeks, knew surely it was her soul and his in their eyes as she stared at him, into him. And then her vision tunneled down to those dark needy eyes, burning with—what? What could that look be . . . ? The thought drifted away to smoke, and there was only blackness.

  Although it was surely impossible, she—levelheaded, ever-practical, always-responsible Callista—swooned dead away.

  Chapter 15

  “Holy bloody hell,” Dom muttered.

  He raked a shaky hand through his hair. He hadn’t expected this. Pleasure in her sweet body, yes. Even a companionable sense of connection between two like-minded people. But not this soul-shattering joining. Something had happened here tonight.

  He knew he’d pushed her too hard, insisted on too much. But the sheer bliss of playing with her flesh, drawing forth her untutored response, was so seductive, he hadn’t been able to stop. She was so open to him, so giving and trusting and honest. And it wasn’t only her body. No one knew better than Dom what it was to be wanted only for your body and looks. Christ, it was the damn story of his life. But the intoxicating desire thrumming through him all evening—all the past month—had been for Callista. Not merely her most delightful person, stripped naked and set free in all her sensuous glory, but her essence, her vulnerability and courage, her captivating mix of intelligence and passion, all of which she offered up to him.

  That was most amazing of all: her openness to him.

  Because for the first time in his life, a woman had wanted him: Dom, not Lord Adonis, Master of Love, the legendary golden lover of the ton.

  It felt like a miracle.

  No one had ever—ever—wanted him before.

  His pulled on his trousers and sat on the carpet against the leather armchair, drinking a much-needed brandy. Callista slept the sleep of the dead, naked on her stomach on the settee, tucked under the cashmere throw. Her hair was a tangled nest, one of her arms hung down heavily to the floor, and she might even have been drooling where her face pressed openmouthed into the leather.

  She looked fucking glorious.

  He’d had two lovers in his life, and now Callista was number three.

  Of the dozens of women to whom his name had been amorously linked over the years, none had ever moved him enough to make it real.

  Until Callista.

  Ever since he’d laid eyes on his enticing little librarian, he’d been oddly compelled by her, tempted like the most wayward of libertines, worse even than his reputation, to seduce an innocent and claim her as his own. The thought was immensely satisfying: he wanted her for his own.

  His hands had itched for weeks to do exactly as they’d done tonight: strip her naked and pleasure her senseless. The problem was, he wanted to do it again. It galled him that despite the power of his position, he couldn’t carry her up to his bed and claim the right to sleep with her tucked next to him, then wake up and make love again, before descending together to breakfast in the morning room. Instead, he’d had to lock the library door hours ago and hide in his own home. Now they’d have to sneak around like criminals as he figured out how the hell to get her home without her reputation shredding anew.

  He felt too old for such silly games.

  And then, as if some lock clicked open, or the flow of a philosophical argument became clear, a thought struck: maybe he could simply marry her.

  It was like stepping over a chasm only to find it inconsequential. Billy had brought the idea up first, weeks ago. His sister had inquired about it. Hell, his own mother had suggested it yesterday.

  He’d told his mother, and himself, that he couldn’t marry Callista because of the sham his life had become. Especially in contrast to the fearless honesty with which Callista lived her life, his own seemed a pitiful and sordid lie.

  But after tonight, the puzzle seemed to have shifted on its head. He certainly could marry her! What was the point of being a viscount unless he used the power of the position to damn well do as he pleased? He didn’t have to sneak around with this woman. He’d always supposed he’d marry eventually; it just seemed a task for some far-distant future when the Master of Love mask was long since shed, perhaps when his blasted looks finally, blessedly, fell away into wrinkles and gray hair.

  But here was a woman, considered a bit eccentric for her book-selling ways, yet honorable in every way that mattered, of good family and great-granddaughter to a duke. She was bloody perfect for him. She loved books and didn’t make fun of his scribbling. She even seemed to think he was rather smart. And, unleashed her from her prim spinster librarian façade, she made love like a goddess, albeit one new to the game.

  All in all, she fit him like a glove—in more ways than one. Suddenly it seemed the most brilliant idea in the world to marry her, and a deal as good as done.

  He slapped her on the rump. “Up with you, my girl! We’ve a wedding to plan.”

  She gave a startled cry and half rose on her elbows, red curls gloriously awry over her face. “What? Where . . . oh, no more,” she said with a sigh, sinking back down.

  He chortled and gave her a moment for it to sink in. He positively hooted when she bolted back upright and scrambled to sit. “What did you say?”

  “We’ve got to get married!” he exclaimed. “Look at you!” He scooped up a handful of shining hair and inhaled its subtle gardenia perfume before tossing the locks over her shoulder. “Never again will I smell a gardenia without thinking of you. It should be our flower,” he declared. “Isn’t that what couples do? Pick out ‘their’ flower and ‘their’ song?”

  “Whatever are you babbling about?” She scraped back the rest of her hair while looking around. “We’re not getting married. Where’s my corset?”

  “Never mind the corset, love,” he laughed. “There’s no repairing this toilette now. A trollop from Covent Garden couldn’t look more thoroughly tumbled than you. We’ll never get your hair back up, and I do believe that’s a love bite on your neck.” He rubbed a thumb across it. “So sorry. Guess I’ll have to marry you.” He felt like whistling, he was so cheerful. Lord, when was the last time he’d whistled?

  She pushed his hand away. “I asked you not to call me ‘love,’ ” she said, frowning. “And what do you mean you have to marry me?”

  “Well, you did just comport yourself in a most unmaidenly fashion all over my fine leather settee.” He grinned, most pleased with himself. “Lord knows I’ll never be able to read in here again without hearing the echoes of what, in all modesty, I must describe as your howls of pleasure. After an evening’s romp like that, you have to get married.”

  “I didn’t howl!” She pushed to her feet, wincing, and began to scoop up clothing.

  “Oh,
you howled—and most delightfully.”

  “Dominick, stop it!” She was blushing and sounded aggrieved; why, he couldn’t fathom. “Here, lace up the stays for me,” she said, tossing her chemise over her head and pulling on the corset.

  “What do you mean, stop it?” he asked as he began to tug on the laces. “You could even be increasing now.”

  It occurred to him she was beginning to look rather appalled. “You said you’d see no harm came to me. I thought that meant you’d protect against such an occurrence!”

  That halted him in his tracks. He had said that, hadn’t he? But he certainly hadn’t done it. When he’d finally been buried deep inside her, her last powerful climax milking him and her nails pinning him down, withdrawal hadn’t even crossed his mind. In fact, he recalled feeling some incredible rightness as he spilled his seed deep in her womb. He didn’t want to think about what that meant, but it did increase his resolve.

  He tugged mulishly on the corset strings to tie them off. “The way to keep you from harm is to marry you,” he explained, as if to a child. It seemed perfectly reasonable to him. “We shall wed, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “We cannot just get married, Dominick!” She sifted through the pile of clothing, tossing trousers and petticoats and cravat willy-nilly. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Out of my mind? Is that how you respond to an honorable proposal of marriage, and from a viscount, no less? Are you perhaps holding out for a duke?” He let his sarcasm drip as his good humor faded fast.

  “Was that a proposal of marriage, my lord? You slapped me on the bottom, called me a trollop, and said I howl like some wild beast! And I don’t recall being posed any question.”

  “I did not call you a trollop,” he said sulkily. “I simply compared your looks to those of one.”