by Stacy Reid
Bloody hell. Who are you? Where are you?
Chapter Eight
Muted strains of laughter, accompanied by the orchestra, drifted through the oak door of the library, despite it being four in the morning. His mother’s guests were determined to party until dawn. Oliver had left the ball a couple of hours ago and had tried to immerse himself first in a book and then some business ledgers, to no avail. Restless energy had pounded through him, and he’d escaped to the lawns outside, inhaling the crisp night air into his lungs, trying to center his thoughts. It hadn’t worked. He’d returned inside, determined to pen a few letters, and when he’d entered the library, Mrs. Layton had been curled in the sofa closest to the roaring fire, sleeping, a book lying on her chest.
Oliver had snuck away and bounded up the stairs for his canvas and easel, a few oils and brushes. He couldn’t explain the hunger that had seized him. He had sat on the edge of his desk, the canvas mounted on the easel, and with raw but sensually soft strokes, he’d started to paint her.
She’d come awake as if she sensed his intensity. Her movements had been slow, carnal, like a feline as she’d uncurled and sat up. Oliver had paused, poured whisky into two glasses, and handed her one without speaking.
The woman tentatively sipping whisky before him, to Oliver’s thinking, was the embodiment of temptation. The elegant arch of her throat moved as Lily swallowed the last of the drink, and she leaned to the side and rested the glass on a small table.
Silence lingered. He made no effort to speak, and he was pleased she did not shatter the intimacy. A stroke of the brush that he could imagine to be his fingers on her soft skin glided over the canvas. She sat, quite prim and proper on the edge of the sofa, her hands clenched on the cushions, her body taut, a tightly coiled spring waiting for release. Her eyes were wide and luminous as they stared at him, her lush, rosy lips were wet and glistening, for she had licked them several times in apparent nervousness.
“Are you nervous being alone with me?”
She shook her head, and he wished her movements would loosen the intricate hairstyle and let it tumble across her shoulders. Somehow, he knew the waves would be glorious.
“I need the words, Lily.” Inexplicably, he needed to know she felt safe in his presence.
Another glide of her tongue along her lower lip. “I am not afraid or anxious.” Her answer was husky and filled with an emotion he could not decipher.
Something elusive whispered through him, but it was warm and heady. It had been a long time since he felt this way with a lady companion. There was no boredom, only a sense of muted arousal, anticipation, a peculiar sense of something new hovering on the periphery of his awareness of the woman before him.
“Relax your shoulders.”
She unclenched the cushions and, with a whispering sigh, leaned back on the sofa.
He wanted to deck her in an emerald necklace and paint her naked. Immediately he rejected the thought. She should be painted with a hint of mystery, a sensual smile on those lips, invitation and innocence glowing from her golden eyes, her neckline only slightly lowered, but her puckered nipples evident.
“Is this to your satisfaction?” she asked, looking self-conscious.
“Almost. Remove your slippers. Cross your legs at the knee…and allow your gown to drag up and bare your ankles to my eyes.”
Her breathing fractured and a pretty flush of pink bloomed across her cheeks. What would she taste like? A mere brush of his lips on hers would solve that mystery. Would she slap his face or welcome his touch? Something in her eyes invited him over, and he wondered if that was simply a fanciful hunger. Oliver waged a fierce battle with temptation and the needs beating at him. Perhaps painting Lily Layton would be the gravest of mistakes. He cursed under his breath. “Perhaps it was not wise for me to start painting you tonight. You must be tired.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, before flashing him a small smile. Then she stood. “Sleep well, my lord.”
He watched her leave, unable to wrest his gaze away from her. The door closed with a soft click, and Oliver released the breath he hadn’t realized he held. Putting away his oils and brushes, he strolled to the sideboard and poured another drink, then another, pushing all thoughts of Lily Layton from his thoughts.
Unable to halt the need, he made his way to his desk and plucked the diary from the top drawer. Taking a steady breath, he flipped the diary open and picked a random entry.
Dearest Diary,
How I wish to indulge in the simple pleasure of standing in the rain or perhaps reposing on the wet grass, my face lifted to the heavens, the feel of soft wind on my face, the beat of the rain as it pounds against my skin. I long for freedom, to do as I wish without any rebuke. I’ve no husband now, so why do I hesitate? Should I wish to eat dessert before the main course, I shall do so. If I wish to run in the rain or swim in the lake, then I will. And if I desire to touch myself while I think of Ambrose…then I shall, without any guilt. Why does he entice me so? Why does he haunt my dreams when I know full well a man such as the marquess would never consider a woman of my circumstance for his lover?
Giving a rough sound, he closed the diary and put it back in the drawer. What was her circumstance? Nothing in her words ever revealed an inkling of her identity or her connections. With impatient movements he shed his jacket, waistcoat, cravat, and his boots, leaving them on the library floor. He opened a small, carved wooden box by the inkwell, removed a cheroot, and lit it. Oliver stared at the bookcase for several minutes and was still unable to convince himself to retire to his bedchamber. Tonight would be the third night Oliver would haunt his house, hoping—more like praying—that he would encounter his secret lady.
Oliver ground the root of the cheroot in an ashtray, then swallowed the rest of his whisky before placing the glass on the desk.
He pushed off the desk and prowled over to the secret panel. Before he could stop himself, he opened it and stepped into the dark passageway. He took no candlestick, at home with the darkness, and with sure feet, he made his way along the silent corridor. He traversed the length, and it was not long before he realized he was alone. There was no one lingering in these passages. With a groan of defeat, he leaned against the wall and tipped his head back, staring into the abyss. Why was he making it an obsession to find her?
Suddenly, an awareness rippled through him, and he froze, hardly daring to hope. He sensed her approach, and triumph sang through him.
“You’re here.” Her voice was husky, bold and daring, and he instinctively knew this was unlike her.
“Yes. I’ve returned a few nights since.”
A swift inhalation. “I made no promises.”
“Why are you here?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “And somehow I knew you would be here.”
His mouth went dry, and there was a peculiar ache in his chest he was unable to identify. “I was afraid I’d hurt you or scared you.” It was as he said it that he finally understood some of the desperation that had been urging him to find her again. He wanted to ensure she was well, that he hadn’t petrified her with his rough tupping.
“I enjoyed every moment of our time together.” Was it his imagination that her husky rasp seemed familiar?
“Were you at the ball just now?”
Silence.
“Were you?” came her rejoinder.
“Yes.”
“So was I.”
He pushed from the wall, moving to the ghostly outline. “Perhaps we danced.” Somehow, he sensed her amusement. “Are you smiling?”
“Yes,” she said, so softly, he strained to hear.
A hand bumped into his shoulder, then traveled down past his elbow as her fingers searched for his. When she found his hand, she took it and raised it to her mouth. There, he traced the curve of her lips.
“I’m still smiling.”
Without overthinking the visceral need, he cupped her cheek and took her lips.
&nb
sp; Sheer paradise.
She was sweet and soft and decadent. Each touch, each rough kiss, was an erotic torment. He needed her…this. They pulled apart breathing raggedly.
“I have so many questions,” she whispered. “So many hungers. My mind has not been quiet, and somehow, I thought if I encountered you tonight, the uncertainty would be silenced. Instead, it has multiplied.”
He dropped his forehead to hers. “You want to know me,” Oliver said, tempted beyond measure to speak in his normal tone, and not this low, rough whisper. Except, there was a need to honor her request for anonymity. He didn’t want her to think for one second he was a dishonorable bounder.
“No,” she said in a fierce whisper, but there was a tremble in her voice. “I do not want us to know each other’s identity,” she declared, a little too emphatically.
“Let’s for one moment just think—”
She stole the rest of his words in a kiss that burned all his thoughts to ashes.
“I don’t want to think, or talk, not now. Only feel.”
Oliver had hard sexual tastes, and it made no sense to spring any surprise on her. Their first time, he hadn’t been as unrestrained as he liked. If she would be reluctant to try the kind of play he would be interested in, it was better to find out now than when he was balls deep, especially since he had been afraid he had hurt her before. “I want to fuck you long and hard for the whole night, until you can’t think or speak. All the noise in your head will be drowned out.”
“Show me,” she taunted with a provocative arch into his embrace.
He kissed her with such passion her lips would surely be swollen. Moving with her, he pressed her against the wall, pushing her nightgown high on her thighs.
Her subtle, delicate scent surrounded him, only this time, it was lavender.
“You wore a different scent that first night,” he growled in between the almost rough kisses he placed on her lips.
“Yes…”
His thumb dragged along the soft curve of her inner thighs, and without much encouragement, she parted her legs. He trailed his fingers over the soft flesh of her buttocks and around to her mound.
He marveled at the silky feel of her skin, the wonderful taste of her tongue as she dueled with his in their incendiary kiss. He tucked two fingers at the entrance of her sheath, loving the soft flutters as she trembled in anticipation. He shoved them deep, and a moan broke low in her throat. Oliver pulled his fingers out slowly, dragging them against her walls, then thrust them deep again, driving her onto the tips of her toes.
Her soft cry at his action was husky, sultry. And it traveled straight to his cock, hardening him even more. Breaking the kiss, they took panting breaths, trading air with each other. “Your pussy is the tightest I have ever felt. When I am done with you, you will be looser, sorer, but you will enjoy every stroke I give you tonight.”
A gratified groan tore from his throat as wetness bathed his fingers. He leaned in closer, so their lips were only a whisper apart. “I want you to ride my tongue before taking my cock.”
Her hips rolled into him, and he rewarded her with another thrust.
“Have your legs ever been tied open and your pussy eaten for hours with no respite from the pleasure, even if you scream for mercy?”
She jerked and gripped him tightly. “You’ve read more of my diary.”
In her voice, he heard the duality of shame and acute pleasure. He kissed the spot beneath her ear tenderly. “Yes.” Oliver had a desperate need to pleasure her in all the forbidden ways she’d ever yearned for. He wanted to wipe away the shame her husband had inspired for her wonderful sensuality. Her passion was pure and honest, dark and wanton, and he wanted her to embrace it with all the fierceness he could feel simmering inside.
She leaned forward and took his lips in a raw, carnal kiss. Her aggression surprised him, aroused him, and captivated the dark needs flowering in his soul. She took control of the kiss, all but climbing his hand to wrap her legs around his waist.
His hand smoothed over the rounded cheeks of her ass. “I want to take you on a darker journey of sexuality.”
Her voice was dark, heavy with lust. “I’m willing to go wherever with you, my lord.”
The knowledge that she might very well do so had his pulse jumping in his throat and lust stroking over his aching cock. The idea that he could explore all his desires with this woman was thrilling and terrifying. It was also a risk—he could either enthrall or repulse her.
He ran his fingers down the shadowy cleft of her rear. “I’m going to sink my cock here…”
She tensed, then her body relaxed, though only marginally. “Is that possible?”
There was no fear, or disgust, only curious hunger. Oliver’s knees felt weak. Who was she to be so fearless with her burgeoning passions? “Yes.”
“And I’ll feel pleasure?”
He allowed his fingers to linger over the curves of her rear as he leaned close to plant a soft kiss between her shoulder blades. “I’ll burn you alive with it,” he promised hoarsely. “I also want to fuck your mouth, feel these lips sucking and pleasuring me with tight, hot pulls.”
“Yes.”
Oliver sank to his knees and pressed a kiss to the top of her bare mound, inhaling the sweet muskiness of her arousal. He’d never had a lover be so willing to burn in illicit passion with him before. Of course, the women of the brothels he’d visited had been willing to do anything for a coin…but none of his mistresses or lovers had granted him such trust.
He would not betray that confidence and vowed she would enjoy every moment of their tryst. He slowly stood and lowered her nightgown. Then he intertwined their fingers and brought their clasped hands to his lips, where he brushed a fleeting kiss across her knuckles.
Then he tugged her along the corridor, toward the promise of bliss. And she followed without asking any questions, the soft padding of her feet implying she was also barefoot. The level of her faith humbled him, beguiled him, and left him wondering how it was possible to feel such depth of emotion for a woman he had never seen.
Chapter Nine
Her lover’s voice was dark, edgy, and it had wicked lust uncurling in the pit of her stomach. Need whipped like lightning through her bloodstream, heating her body so that every one of Lily’s nerve endings pulsed with fire at his words. What he threatened to do to her was hedonistic—but she wanted it, him, in every way. The thrill of being so improper and free had her arousal spiking higher, and her breath came in short pants. It didn’t feel unsavory…instead it felt right and perfect.
She was grateful she wasn’t quaking with nerves. Except, with each step, her knees weakened. Where was he taking her? He paused, and then she heard several clicks before, with a whoosh, another portal opened into what appeared to be a bedchamber. Lily hovered on the threshold, staring into a room covered in shadows and slashes of silvery moonbeams. Lemon wax was redolent in the air, an indication the space had been recently cleaned. There was a large canopied bed, the white curtains over the bed a beacon. “You anticipated my presence.”
“I believe it was more of a prayer. I had this room prepared after the first time I encountered you. We are on one of the upper floors of the west wing. No other chambers are occupied on this floor, so there will be no chance of anyone overhearing us.”
“You must have been charmingly persuasive for the marquess’s housekeeper to prepare this room. Mrs. Wright is frightfully proper and would certainly deduce your intentions.”
A low grunt was his only reply, and Lily smiled. Inexplicably, she hesitated in moving into the room. He did not prod her forward but simply waited, and she recalled he had shown a similar restraint at their first encounter. He clearly didn’t believe in using force. “You are different from the men I’ve known.”
The confession lay between them, and she closed her eyes, cursing silently.
“Do you speak of your husband?”
One of them. Lily swallowed. “Yes.”
She
jerked slightly as he rested his hand on her lower back. His soft touch was reassuring instead of intimidating. Acting on an unknown instinct, she leaned back into him, the top of her forehead gently butting his chin. “You’re patient and kind.”
She felt him assessing her words.
“And he wasn’t?”
The memories of the few times the vicar had rushed into her body without preparing her rose inside her. “No, he wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “He was a buffoon.”
She smiled. “The memory barely stings. My husband only made it to my bed a handful of times.”
It was the way he had screamed at her afterward and shamed her for making him lose control that still burned her soul. Vicar Layton had thought it a sin to feel lust for his young wife, and he had blamed her for her sensuality, so much so she had tried her best to dress modestly so as not to tempt him. The hours of prayers afterward on their knees in the rectory had been exhausting. Though she had earnestly prayed for her desires to vanish, the sense of being unfulfilled had only grown stronger. Harlot…Jezebel. She bit into the soft of her lip, hating that those hurtful words would echo in her heart at this moment.
“Are you married?” she whispered.
He stiffened. “I would never dishonor my wife by being here with you.”
“Is that a no or a deflection?”
Rough amusement coated the voice that replied, “That is a definite no.”
“A mistress?”
“No.”
“Are you disfigured in some manner?”
His low laugh caressed her ear. “No.”
“Then why are you here…now.” For she truly did not understand it. “These are questions I should have asked when we first met, but I was too caught up in the excitement and impropriety of it all.”
“I am here because I had hoped that you would be.”