Surrender to the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  Setting aside his brandy snifter, he rose and turned. She stood at the foot of his bed, one hand wrapped around the post. On bare, silent feet, he walked across the thick carpet until she was a whisper’s breath away.

  She lifted her gaze to his. Within her green eyes, he saw no fear, no apprehension, no doubt.

  “I want one night with you,” she whispered softly.

  He was unprepared for the force of her words—as though she’d punched him in the heart. Until that moment he’d been deceiving himself into believing that he could live without her because he’d never expected to truly possess her. And now here she was, her mixture of innocence and bravado charming him as no other lady ever had.

  “Then one night you shall have.” Because he couldn’t deny her any more than he could deny himself. Sliding his arms around her, he brought her up against him and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Frannie welcomed him as she might air to breathe or sun to warm. His brandy taste was an aphrodisiac, igniting the flames of desire until they were spreading through her body, heating her core, licking at her fingertips. She glided her fingers up his bare arms and felt the muscles rippling beneath her palms. His strength was palpable, his determination evident. His kiss was more aggressive than any he’d ever given her, as though with her surrender, whatever beasts of pleasure that had been lying in wait were now unleashed.

  Breathing harshly, he trailed his hot mouth along her throat, his tongue swirling over her skin, his teeth nipping. “Stop me if I frighten you, but know that I will not hurt you, but neither can I go gently. I want you too badly, have been patient too long.”

  He’d once warned her that he was no longer civilized. It was here she realized where his warning held the most credence as the gown that separated their flesh was ripped asunder, pooling at her feet before she’d even realized what he’d intended. And then, as though the beast had been satisfied, he touched her with the gentlest of hands that skimmed over her curves. Strange that she didn’t feel exposed, that she had no desire to cover herself. Rather she wanted to light additional lamps, gather up lighted candles and reveal all she had to offer him. She who had once been shy about her womanhood was now glorying in it.

  “Dear God, but you are beautiful. I knew you would be.” He lifted his gaze to hers and held it. “Tell me what you don’t want.”

  “I don’t want you to treat me as though I’m vulnerable or might shatter. I want you to treat me as you would any other woman you’ve known.”

  “You are nothing like any other woman I’ve ever known. Never make the mistake of thinking that you are or could ever be.”

  His mouth came back to hers, kissing her deeply. Her breasts flattened against the warm plane of his chest. She glided her hands down his thighs, then glided them up between them until she cupped through his trousers what she’d felt pressing against her that morning. He released a gravelly groan, broke off the kiss, and stood perfectly still as though giving her leave to explore, to do as she would.

  Licking her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, she lowered her gaze to the hard bulge in his trousers. She had no misconceptions regarding the power presently leashed behind a few straining buttons. It was a wonder they weren’t popping off and spinning on the floor.

  “It won’t hurt you,” he rasped as he skimmed his mouth along her temple.

  “I know. Because you won’t hurt me.”

  His mouth went still, and she was incredibly aware of the tension in his muscles, the light beads of sweat that coated the cords of his neck. His hand moved to the top button—

  “I’ll do it,” she said quickly, placing her hand over his and nudging it aside. The buttons popped free as though grateful for the freedom, and she realized he wore nothing except trousers. But her fingers didn’t falter. Instead they hastened to reveal what cloth held hidden. He shucked his trousers down until he stood before her, erect, proud, and utterly magnificent. She lifted her eyes to his. “You’re beautiful as well.”

  The worry she’d seen in the deep blue of his eyes dissipated. He laughed and lifted her into his arms.

  “We’re going to have a jolly good time, Frannie,” he said as he laid her out on the cool satin sheets.

  She was more beautiful than Sterling had expected, more bold than he’d dared hope for. Whatever experiences may have tarnished her past, she’d not brought them with her to his bed. She was coy. She didn’t turn away from him or pretend embarrassment. She received him as the most highly paid courtesan might, with a seductive smile and welcoming arms.

  But she was there not because of any coins he might have given her. She was there solely for the pleasure they could bring each other. He’d never wanted a woman more. His body ached with the need to possess her, but he had no plans to rush the moment. He’d have only one night with her, but he wanted it to be one that would last his lifetime. He was fairly certain he’d never find another woman as courageous, determined, and intriguing as she was. Any moment not spent in her company was an empty moment. As he stretched out beside her and skimmed his hands over her, relished the gliding of her hands over him, he didn’t want to contemplate the never-ending spectrum of empty moments that might lie ahead.

  “I wonder what would happen to your fair skin if the sun kissed it in the desert,” he murmured.

  “You mean remove my clothes outside?”

  Giving her a devilish grin, he arched a brow at her. Her eyes scanned the length of him. “Did you do that?”

  “Once or twice.”

  Her fingers trailed up his thigh, skimmed around to his buttocks, stopped. Tickled. “What’s that?”

  Sitting up she leaned over and looked at his buttocks. Gently, she feathered her fingers over the five ragged scars that ran from his hip down as though the wounds were fresh and still causing him pain.

  “Tiger,” he said. “I didn’t see him until he was upon me. Fortunately, Lord Wexford is an amazing shot.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  “And instead, now a tiger skin adorns the floor in Wexford’s study. I thought women found scars rakish.”

  “I don’t mind their appearance. I just don’t like that you were once so badly hurt.”

  Powerful words from a lady who carried her scars inside. Cradling her neck with one hand, he brought her back down to the pillow. “How can you have so much compassion and no bitterness?”

  She gave no answer to that. He expected none, truly wanted none as he kissed her. He’d explored many women during his travels but none with the intensity that he wished to explore her. The others were merely passing fancies. She was more. She was the reason he skulked around in alleyways and had food prepared for little thieves. She was the reason he now understood the sentiments that drove a man to kill.

  It was as though before her, each of his emotions had lain dormant. He’d never known such intense anger, or jealousy, or joy, or…love.

  His thoughts faltered. No, it was not love that he felt. Infatuation, adoration. But not love. Nothing as binding. She would walk away from him and he’d allow her to take nothing of him with her. But while she was there, in his bed, he would strive to give her much by which to remember him.

  Frannie had known he was a man of passion. What she hadn’t expected was the way he touched her as though he could never have enough of touching her—not only with his hands, but with his mouth.

  He swirled his tongue around her nipple until it pebbled, then closed his mouth greedily around it. She raked her fingernails through his thick hair, dug her fingers into his shoulders, skimmed the sole of one foot up his calf. Pleasure ebbed and flowed until she thought she would go mad with the wanting for release. Patiently his mouth journeyed to her other breast. She, a child of the streets, had never known such reverence, had never expected it, especially of a man whose life was so above the squalor.

  Here, in his bed, she found what she’d never hoped to hold—unselfish giving and receiving, a sense of evenness that was difficult to explain. He knew of h
er past, but because he hadn’t witnessed it, he wasn’t obsessed with guilt over what he’d been unable to prevent. He didn’t treat her as though she was fine china that would shatter with too much pressure. He squeezed and he coaxed and he trailed his mouth along her stomach, across her hip, down her thigh.

  He lifted his head to give her the most wicked smile she’d ever seen, one that promised adventures, delight, the sun kissing her skin. He gently nudged her thigh and she opened herself to him. He moved this way and that until he was nestled between her legs, his open mouth heating her stomach. And then he journeyed lower and lower…

  She thought she should have been afraid or at the very least wary, but she realized with startling clarity that she trusted him to never hurt her, to never cause her discomfort, to never betray these tender feelings that allowed her to come to his bed when she’d never gone willingly to the bed of another man.

  Then his tongue stroked and swirled intimately. She released a sigh of pleasure as her back arched and her hips jerked. She felt as though her body was the world and he was traveling across it, sampling every aspect. She wanted to do the same to him. Would he think her bold or wanton?

  Did it matter? Did anything matter when he was causing her body to sing? Oh, she felt as though she were an operatic song, rising in crescendo. Her breathing became harsh and rapid. Her breasts tightened, her stomach grew taut. His mouth and fingers were creating sensations more vivid than what she’d experienced on his sofa. Where was her selfish duke who cared only about his own pleasures? Was he enjoying this as much as she?

  Then the questions dissipated as the pleasure spiraled…

  “Oh, God, you should stop now,” she rasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

  He laughed, his breath tickling her, before he returned to where he’d been. She wanted to weep, she wanted to laugh…the cataclysm slammed into her and she was screaming, screaming for him to stop, for him to go on, screaming his name as pleasure shot through her.

  When she came back into herself, she was trembling and he was licking his way up her body until he reached her mouth and kissed her hungrily, so hungrily, as though he could taste what she’d just experienced.

  He brushed his lips over her cheek, nibbled on her ear. “I love the sounds you make.”

  He said it as though her screaming were a wonderful thing. He moved until he could look into her eyes, and she saw, in his, absolute joy, as though he were pleased with what he’d just given her. Dew glistened on his throat and shoulders. She skimmed her hands up his back and felt the tenseness in his muscles.

  “This isn’t…all,” she panted.

  “No, but it will be if that’s all you want.”

  Studying him, she tried to make sense of his words. He would grant her pleasure and forego his own yet again? The words he’d spoken in the library so long ago took on new meaning. He’d asked to be her lover. To give with no expectation of ever receiving?

  She shook her head. “I want everything. I want you.”

  A slow, triumphant smile flashed across his face. “Then you shall have me.”

  He shifted his weight, leaned toward the bedside table. She heard the scraping of a drawer being opened. He pulled something out—

  A condom, she realized.

  It was an odd moment to be disappointed, yet she understood the wisdom of it. She even appreciated his effort to protect her from scandal, but she couldn’t deny that she had a sudden desire to bring his child into the world.

  She watched in fascination as he covered himself. Their eyes met as he rose above her and began to very slowly ease his body into hers. There was a tightness but no discomfort, a sensation of pleasure unfurling as he went deeper and deeper. This satisfaction, this possessiveness, was what it was to want to have a man share his body. He groaned low as he stilled. With heavy lidded eyes he grinned at her. “No pain?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Good, because I want to hear you screaming my name again—but I want it to be from pleasure, not agony.”

  “Again?”

  His grin grew. “Again.”

  She was replete, had thought she’d be able to do little more than run her hands over him as he rocked against her, but his movements awakened something deep within her. The surprise of it had her gasping. He increased his rhythm, the power of his thrusts, until the bed was banging against the wall and she was holding onto him, digging her fingers into his buttocks, feeling the strength, the power…

  His movements contained a wildness. He was uncivilized as he carried her to new heights. She did scream his name again.

  Then he was growling hers through clenched teeth, his head thrown back, his body arching and thrusting, trembling and jerking.

  Collapsing, he buried his face into the curve of her shoulder. She heard his harsh breathing, felt the tremors cascading through him, was aware of her own body’s quivering. Each time was more than the last. She wondered if a person could expire from too much pleasure.

  Relishing the weight of his body on hers, she lightly trailed her fingers up and down his back.

  “Tickles,” he muttered.

  Naughtily, she skimmed her fingers along his sides. He jerked upright.

  “You are a witch. Wait here.”

  As though she had a choice. She would have laughed, but she had no energy. He rolled off her and padded into what she assumed was the dressing room. He returned with a towel and gently wiped the dew from her body. Then he climbed into bed and brought the covers up over them.

  Lying within the curve of his arm, she listened to the steady pounding of his heart. When his breathing evened out, she lifted her head slightly and gazed down on his face. His hair was disheveled. In sleep, he had fewer lines of worry. She felt the tears sting her eyes as she realized she’d made a dreadful mistake in coming here.

  She feared she’d fallen in love with the Duke of Greystone.

  Frannie didn’t know what time it was when she awoke, lying on her stomach, sprawled over his bed, barely opening her eyes. What she did know was that he was no longer in bed with her. She felt his absence without even looking. Was he finished with her then?

  “Don’t move.”

  She opened her eyes fully. He was sitting in a chair near the bed, one leg crossed over the other in such a way to provide support for his sketch pad.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Drawing you.”

  “Do you draw every woman you bed?”

  He glanced up then, looking as though something significant had dawned on him. “No, actually. You’re the first I’ve ever cared about remembering.”

  His words delighted her, made it more difficult not to move when she wanted to crawl into his lap and kiss him soundly. “How much longer must I remain still?”

  “Just a few more moments. Then I’ll show you what I’ve done.”

  “You won’t show anyone else, will you?”

  “Absolutely not. These go into my private collection.”

  “These?”

  “You’ve given me one night. I didn’t intend to spend most of it sleeping.”

  She wanted to smile or laugh, but she fought to stay completely still. She’d never known anyone who made her feel quite so appreciated. Certainly, Feagan’s lads appreciated what she did, but they didn’t make her toes curl when they looked at her.

  “Can you do a self-portrait?” she asked.

  “No. Why would I care for that?”

  “So you could give it to me.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure we could find something around here that would suffice.”

  “All the paintings around here are so large that it would make it difficult to place it in a private collection.”

  He winked at her, and her entire body threatened to curl into a ball of pleasure.

  “We’ll find something.”

  She was surprised by the drawings when he finally returned to bed to show her. They sat back against a mound of pillows while
he revealed them one by one.

  Her feet, one crossed over the other.

  “You rub your feet together while you sleep,” he said.

  “Probably a habit. They were always cold when I was younger. Coal was a rarity at Feagan’s.”

  “If they get cold before you leave my bed, simply press them against me. That should warm them.”

  The sheet draped over her back, one bare shoulder exposed.

  “You have lovely shoulders,” he said. He leaned over and kissed one.

  “You’re a very good artist.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice. My efforts will never be on display in a museum, but they relax me.”

  “And you needed to relax after what we did earlier?”

  He began wrapping her hair around his finger. “No, I was fairly melting into the bed.”

  Her hand curled beneath her chin.

  “That’s my favorite,” he said. “A bit innocent, a bit sultry. I wonder what you were dreaming.”

  “About you, probably.”

  “Probably? Don’t you remember?”

  “I seldom remember my dreams.”

  He gave her a funny look before tossing his papers to the floor and pulling her beneath him. “One night, you said, but the night’s not yet over.”

  As his mouth blanketed hers, she sighed. No, no, it’s not.

  Frannie had planned to leave at dawn, but just before the sun began easing over the horizon, he was making love to her again and he didn’t rush it. They both knew it would be the last time, the final time, and they savored every touch, every stroke, every kiss. When she did finally leave his bed, breakfast had been readied.

  They’d gotten dressed and walked down to the breakfast dining room together. He was telling her about his adventures in learning to ride a camel. She was laughing so hard that she couldn’t eat. She loved his smile and the joy that lit his eyes. She loved—

  “Your Grace, I’m sorry to disturb you, but an Inspector Swindler from Scotland Yard is here,” the butler announced.

  Frannie felt her stomach knot up. Her magical world was about to clash with reality.