Her hands lowered to cup his ass, Lucas bucking at the unexpected touch. She squeezed, her nails gently scoring him. “Take me.”
Lucas braced a palm on each side of her and lifted his upper torso higher.
Jane brought her hand between them, gently grasping the length of him and guiding him into her. Her breath sped up as he flexed his hips, shuddering as he slowly, carefully, sank home.
He just as slowly withdrew, her muscles contracting, squeezing him in protest.
Jane’s eyes closed as he stroked inside her again and her fingers clenched his skin each time he buried himself to the hilt. Her breasts bobbed with each thrust and Lucas bent his head to lick first one nipple, then the other.
Heat bloomed, roared through his veins, and he quickened his pace. She matched him, a frantic need building second by second.
Jane wrapped her arms around him and her legs tightened around his waist, her head shifting against the bedding as a cry of release tore from her. Her climax reverberated throughout her body, sending spasms of pleasure from her shoulders down to her toes.
It was the single most beautiful sight Lucas had ever seen. He drove into her, his hips pumping in time to the need coursing through his veins.
Jane urged him on, lifting her hips to meet each heavy thrust that buried him deep in her moist, sweet sheath.
The cottage faded away. As did the snow and any memory of life before that very moment, until Lucas could hear only the pounding in his ears demanding release.
Jane cupped his testicles in her palm and Lucas exploded inside of her. His climax stole everything from him but pure, simple pleasure.
Jane pulled him down until he blanketed her, his face level with hers. She wound her legs about his and held him tightly as the haze of lust and need mellowed to a profound sense of homecoming and perfection. “Happy Christmas, Lucas,” she whispered.
Lucas reverently kissed Jane’s temple and smiled down at her. “Happy Christmas, my love.”
Read on for an exciting sneak peek at
The Scoundrel Takes a Bride
Stefanie Sloane’s next Regency Rogues novel
Published by Ballantine Books
Available wherever books are sold
May 15
THE PRIMROSE INN
EDGWARE
MIDDLESEX
OUTER LONDON
The Honorable Nicholas Bourne could not decide which was worse: the rattle of metal rings over the curtain rod as the rough linen hangings were pulled back, the excruciatingly loud crash of the shutters slamming against the outer stucco and timber siding of the Primrose Inn, or the sudden flash of blinding sunlight.
“Mrs. Brimm, are you trying to kill me?” he asked the innkeeper’s wife in a low, even tone as he willed the relentless pounding in his head to stop.
Something soft yet painfully unwelcome landed on his face in response to his query. Nicholas cautiously opened his eyes but could see nothing through the folds of his linen shirt. “I see no need for clothing at this juncture, my good woman, as I intend to stay abed for at least another two hours. Now, off with you. I’m sure there are other guests who would welcome your attention.”
“I am neither Mrs. Brimm nor am I trying to kill you. Not yet, anyway.”
Nicholas startled at the sound of the woman’s voice. He grabbed the bedcovers, yanking them higher over his bare chest as he levered himself upright. “Sophia?”
Lady Sophia Afton stood in front of the open window, backlit by the late morning sun. The warm golden rays silhouetted her graceful form against the gloom and dark of the rented room. All about, empty bottles of brandy and cognac, sheets of foolscap and discarded quills, and Nicholas’s clothing were carelessly tossed hither and yon—the evidence of a messy and misused life.
And in the middle of it all stood Sophia. The faint pink of her rosebud printed gown appeared to be the exact hue of her full lips. Her dark hair, gleaming like autumn’s burnished oak leaves, was artfully pinned up, a few stray curls expertly arranged about her face. And below the feathered arch of brows, her eyes were the deep green of emeralds, framed with dark lashes and spaced just far enough apart to give her an exotic air. One could get lost in those immeasurable depths, a fact Nicholas knew all too well.
Sophia stole his breath away. She always had. And without even knowing that she did so. He’d long ago learned it was useless to fight the fascination. His sanity would return again. Or not. It did not matter in the least.
“Surely you’re not surprised,” she said, slowly walking toward the bed until she stood within touching distance. “Someone had to fetch you.”
Nicholas fought the urge to disappear beneath the coarse bed linens, aware that doing so would only make him appear even more the fool. “Well, someone usually means Carrington or my brother. How on earth did you draw the short straw—and where’s your Mrs. Kirk? This is feeling more scandalous by the moment.” He gestured abruptly. “Turn around, Sophia, while I make myself decent.”
With an unfathomable glance from beneath her lashes, she did as he bade her, turning to face the opposite wall.
Nicholas tossed back the covers and swung his bare feet to the plank floor. He swore under his breath as the sudden movement sent his head spinning. Then swore again as he unearthed his shirt from the pile of clothing flung carelessly on the edge of the bed and pulled it over his head, tugging it into place.
“Mrs. Kirk is waiting in the coach so that we may speak privately,” Sophia replied, her back to him as Nicholas buttoned his breeches. “As for Dash, he’s celebrating his wedding trip.”
“Dammit,” Nicholas cursed for the third time in as many moments. “I thought he was to be leg-shackled on the twenty-fourth.”
Sophia turned back to face him, pity pooling in her eyes. “He was, Nicholas. Today is the twenty-sixth.”
He froze, staring at her, shame snaking its way around his heart. He’d lost a week. In the past there had been a day here or there that had disappeared into the ether, consumed by drink and his need to forget. Never before had there been so many lost days in a row. Too many days.
Sophia crossed the room to where a slat-backed chair stood. She turned it around and clasped the worn wood, tipping the chair onto two legs and dragging it toward the bed.
Nicholas winced as the scrape of wood against wood set hammers pounding inside his skull.
She placed the chair to face Nicholas, then took her seat.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you up to, Sophia?”
“Do you promise to listen?” she implored, extending her arm, her palm up in silent plea.
He scrubbed his hand across his unshaven jaw. “Are we children again, then?” he growled.
“Do you promise, Nicholas?” Sophia pressed. “Or have I come all this way for nothing?”
“Honestly, Sophia,” Nicholas muttered, reaching out and taking her hand in his. “I don’t recall inviting you, so yes, I would say you have.”
Sophia laced her fingers with his and shook four times, just as she’d done during their childhood. “Say it.”
“I promise to listen with open ears, wide eyes, and a closed mouth,” Nicholas bit out, his displeasure with her presence clearly conveyed in every last syllable. “There, will that do? They’re only words—strung together by children, if you’ll remember. Hardly anything that would hold water.”
It killed him to touch her, her soft, small hand in his akin to torture. Yet he wouldn’t let go. He knew he would never be an honorable man. Never marry nor know the joys of family. He would take his love for Sophia to his deathbed. Even if it destroyed him, which, he ventured to guess, was precisely what would happen.
“Thank you, Nicholas,” she sighed, relief easing the strain from her countenance. She squeezed his hand in hers, then let go.
Nicholas lowered his arm, the tips of his fingers still tingling where they’d gripped Sophia’s mere seconds before. “Well, out with it, then. I don’t have all day.”
; “I need your help.”
Nicholas stared hard at the only woman he’d ever loved. He’d often imagined what it would feel like to hear Sophia say such words to him. And the emotion was nothing like the growing sense of unease that crept up his spine now.
“And my brother?” he asked bitterly, desperate to maintain some sense of dignity though he knew it to be a pointless struggle. “I would venture to guess Langdon would be more suitable. Or sober, at the very least.”
“I do not need Langdon. I need you.”
Sophia folded her hands in her lap and stared at Nicholas. When she’d thrown back the curtains earlier and turned to look at him, she’d been stunned, frozen into stillness and too distracted to move or speak. The sunlight had arrowed through the window behind her and directly onto the bed. In that brief moment before Nicholas recognized her, she’d been shocked at the powerful, dangerous man sprawled on the rumpled bed.
The blankets were pushed to his waist, his upper torso bare. Though she’d known him since they were children, he was suddenly unrecognizable. She’d been unable to look away from the flex and smooth ripple of well-defined muscles in his chest and arms as he pushed himself upright. It was only the sound of his sleep-roughened, deep voice as he spoke her name that convinced her she’d not wandered into the wrong room by mistake.
Now that she was nearer, she could see deep crease marks from the crude inn bedding that ran the length of the left side of his face. He’d clearly been abed for some time and yet the dark crescents beneath his eyes intimated exhaustion.
An air of dissipation and soul-deep weariness shrouded his handsome countenance. She wanted badly to know why he felt driven to drink when it only led to this—a dank room in an unremarkable inn, surrounded by nothing that could hope to bring him any peace. Despite their shared history, she felt a reluctance to question him. He’d always held some part of himself back, denying Sophia access for his own personal reasons. And it appeared his years in India had only increased the territory she was not allowed to traverse.
He rubbed his knuckles over his jaw for the second time in as many minutes, the muscles beneath the unshaven skin rigid. “I find such a notion impossible to believe.”
He was clearly exhausted. Still, there was more. There always was with Nicholas. Her presence at the Primrose wasn’t merely an irritation to the man; was he angry? Or perhaps embarrassed?
Sophia felt her nerves tighten with the queer tension that always accompanied their interactions. She was never quite sure how he would respond to her. He was a wild animal and she the hapless human who’d had the nerve to disturb him. It could not be said that Sophia ever felt fearful in Nicholas’s presence, though at the moment the sudden quickening of her pulse gave her reason to pause.
Theirs had never been an easy friendship. Her unqualified need to be near him matched in intensity only by his impatience for her very existence. Sophia had come to believe that he truly disliked her, although she’d never been able to discover what she’d done to earn his ire.
Despite the distance he kept between them, she found herself unable to ignore the inexplicable pull his presence always exerted on her. “Langdon would refuse me. And as much as I chafe at the very idea, I cannot do this alone,” Sophia replied honestly, willing her heartbeat to slow.
Nicholas captured her with a look of shock. “I’m sorry, Sophia. I don’t believe that I heard you correctly. Did you just say that you could not accomplish something on your own?”
His eyes glinted with sudden amusement. There he was, the Nicholas she liked best. Capricious. Irreverent. Clever. He was the only man who could always make her laugh, no matter the circumstances. “I missed you terribly while you were away in India. Do you know, I believe I didn’t laugh once while you were gone,” Sophia countered, relief and an affectionate smile curving her mouth. “But I will not relent, Nicholas.”
He crossed his arms over his expansive chest. “Do stop wasting my time, Sophia. Tell me what you’ve come for.”
She peered down at the planked floor, wincing at his impatience. “Very well,” she began, looking up and fixing him with a somber stare. “Now that Dash is married, someone will need to help you in the search for my mother’s killer. And that someone, I believe, must be me.”
Nicholas uncrossed his arms and propped his elbows on his knees, a menacing glint in his deep brown eyes. “No.”
“I’ve valuable experience,” she explained earnestly.
“Let me see if I understand: a bit of secretarial work at the Bow Street office somehow qualifies you to hunt down a monster—who’s ordered the killings of numerous people, one of whom, in case you’ve forgotten, was your mother,” Nicholas lashed out, raking both hands through his hair until the rumpled black locks stood up on end. “Did you know that Smeade attacked Lady Carrington? Nearly choked the life from her because he’d been paid to do so. His superior will stop at nothing to preserve his anonymity. And you suggest I take you on—a woman, for Christ’s sake—of all people?”
Sophia jumped up, kicking back and sending the chair skittering across the scarred floor. “You’ve no right …” she spat out before forcing herself to breathe deeply. “I understand the danger, Nicholas,” she started again, her tone controlled. “It’s precisely why I did not ask for Langdon’s help. He never would have agreed to—”
“But you think I will? Am I that careless, then?” Nicholas interrupted bitterly.
Sophia reached out to him, flinching involuntarily when Nicholas jerked away to avoid her touch. “No, you’ve misunderstand me,” she begged, her restraint slipping. “Carelessness is not the issue here. I am asking you to do what you know is right.”
“You cannot ask this of me,” Nicholas asserted standing up from the bed and roughly grabbing hold of her arms.
Sophia instinctively jerked back, the sensation of Nicholas so close troubling to her rattled mind and body. A raw, pleasing heat ignited where his fingers and palms touched her. Warmth traveled in rivers through her, her skin suddenly tingling with sensitivity and need. She fought the urge to lean forward, to experience more of the new, unsettling feeling that quickened her breath and sent her heart pounding. He loomed over her, too close, too male, and impossible to ignore. She willed herself to be still, refusing to retreat.
He loosened his grip on her bare skin and closed his eyes. “Please.”
“We’re alike, you and I,” Sophia said with quiet conviction, though her heart raced with aberrant thrill. “Somehow Dash managed to escape. And Langdon can see a future—in the distance, true, but it’s there. As for the two of us? We can’t let go of the past. And we’ll never be able to until my mother’s killer is captured.”
Nicholas rubbed his thumbs over the sensitive bare skin of Sophia’s inner arm. Her eyes fluttered closed, the scent of his spiced soap filling her every sense. The slow, sensual drag of his thumb was mesmerizing. She ached to feel his skin on hers in more intimate places. She angled her head slightly so that the slim column of her neck was exposed to him.
“Don’t do this, Sophia.”
Sophia forced her eyes open, to find Nicholas staring at her, the potent mixture of anger and strong conviction that shadowed his face effectively weakening her will.
But not breaking it.
“I have to, Nicholas. You know that I do.”
Nicholas let go of her arms and pointed to the door. “Go,” he ordered, his voice raw.
The sudden release from his hold was disorienting. Her body mourned the loss of his touch, as if he had held her spellbound, enchanted, for those too brief moments. Her body trembled and her mind searched for an explanation that would provide a reason for her overwhelming response to him. She found none that she could accept.
She stumbled backwards, desperate to put distance between herself and Nicholas. “You will return to London?” she asked, bracing herself for rejection. “I’ll have your word.”
Nicholas lifted his hands to his temples and began to methodically rub as
if in pain, barely nodding in agreement.
“Your word, Nicholas,” Sophia pressed, regretting the childish demand the moment it flew from her lips.
“Go!” he roared, pointing savagely at the door.
Sophia started at the guttural cry and ran for the door, not pausing even once to look back.
About the Author
A native Northwesterner with the pale skin to prove it, STEFANIE SLOANE credits her parents’ eclectic reading habits—not to mention their decision to live in the middle of nowhere—for her love of books. A childhood spent lost in the pages of countless novels led her to college, where she majored in English. No one was more surprised than Sloane when she actually put her degree to use, landing a job in Amazon.com’s editorial department. She spent more than five years reading for a living before retiring to concentrate on her own stories. Stefanie Sloane lives with her family in Seattle.
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One Perfect Christmas (Short Story) Page 6