To Charm a Naughty Countess

by Theresa Romain

  “What do you think of that?” She pressed the small tool into Michael’s hand. “I do have a knife in my room, after all. I feel strangely powerful all of a sudden.”

  “There’s nothing sudden about it,” Michael murmured as she pivoted, presenting him with her back again. She held up the fair weight of her hair, and with a few snaps of the small knife, Michael cut the knots he’d clumsily created.

  Caroline drew a deep breath, her shoulders flexing as she wriggled the corset to the floor. She turned again to face Michael, her waist sliding smoothly in his hands. Her skin yielded under the thin layer of her shift.

  To hell with dignity. He groaned. She smiled.

  Then she touched his cheeks, trailing her fingertips over the ridges of his cheekbones—hesitantly, as though she were as virgin as he, and with a tenderness that surprised him. She was entangling him, enfolding him. It was impossible to keep any distance from her when she would keep none from him. When she offered him herself with such sweetness, and he wanted so badly to accept everything.

  Quickly now, Caroline guided his hands in removing the rest of her clothing, and then she began on his. Before he could begin to feast his eyes on her body, he was jolted and pulled as she tugged off his cravat, shook him out of his coat, tugged free his boots. She was swift to undress him; whether his clothes were simpler, or she more practiced, he didn’t want to know.

  When he was naked, as she was, he felt cold. His shoulder blades jumped under his skin, wanting to pull his arms before him in a protective shield.

  That would be undignified. So he tried to sidle sideways to the end of her bed, thinking to work his way around to the far side.

  “It’s as fine as I suspected.”

  He looked at Caroline, keeping his eyes rigidly focused on her face—as rigidly as another part of him was focused on other needs.

  “Your arse.” She grinned. “It’s a work of art, Michael.”

  “You are achieving a comical level of hyperbole,” he said, feeling pleased if not less self-conscious. He had honed his body, though unintentionally, and he could only be glad again that its form delighted her.

  “A little laughter in the bedroom is never amiss.” She folded back the heavy counterpane and crisp sheets of her bed. “Nor is hyperbole. But I’m giving you honesty in return for a peek at that lovely—”

  “Don’t say it again.” His poor, beleaguered buttocks had never received so much attention before.

  Caroline laughed and clambered onto the bed, pulling a sheet over her body and lying back.

  The linen covered her demurely but outlined her immodestly. It draped over her curves, its indentations and swells like snow over hills. Fresh and ready for exploration.

  “Would you care to join me?” She stretched, squeezing her eyes closed. Her breasts bobbed, high, tight nipples making tiny peaks under the sheet.

  “I would indeed.” In a matter of seconds, he was in the bed, under the sheet at her side.

  “May I touch you?” Caroline had opened her eyes and was watching him now, intent.

  The offer was more tempting than any other one life had brought his way. But in this, he wanted to take the lead. He would learn her body, learn the essentials of pleasure.

  He shook his head. “Let me touch you first.”

  “All right.” She looked soft and wistful. Or it might have been the warmth of the fire, the coolness of the moon, casting contradictions over her skin. It was so difficult to tell, especially now, when Michael’s every sense was surfeited.

  He drew back the sheet and began slowly, stroking her bared belly. He had never felt anything so soft and vulnerable as the skin of her abdomen, shivering under his palm. His hand looked sturdy and dark atop her unsunned fairness; her navel was a perfect little bowl just the size of a fingertip. He touched it, finding the firm center, and Caroline breathed a little harder.

  He met her eyes, and she jerked her chin in an unsteady nod. “Yes.”

  Words enough, encouragement enough. He leaned to lick at her navel with his tongue, pressing its tip deep into her belly. Shocking, to take such a liberty with a forbidden part of another person’s body—but in this room, nothing was forbidden.

  He slid his hands over the span of her ribs, nuzzling her belly, her breastbone, and she shifted her shoulders as though settling into his touch more deeply. He marveled at the shape of her form, so strong yet so much more delicate than his own. His hands roamed ever upward, seeking the sleek curves of her breasts, then capturing them under a cage of his fingers.

  The perfect size, the perfect shape. He could not remember ever seeing anything so lovely. The skin was softer than the fine fabric of her gown, the nipple red as a currant. His mouth belonged on it; he was sure of that. He fitted his lips about its roundness, then touched its tip with the point of his tongue.

  She made a low hum deep in her throat. It sounded like pleasure.

  Her skin was warm, tasting faintly of salt, and scored with pink striations where her corset had bound her tightly. He rubbed at one of these indentations, soothing the marked skin, then licked at it, as if he could draw the evidence of her daily discomfort from her body. She stiffened, arching her back under the pressure of his mouth, serving her breasts up to his eyes in a feast for the senses.

  Her nipples were hard, as hard as he was below. Her breasts were soft and yielding, her voice throaty and sweet, and the contrasts nearly scrambled his senses. Her body was so different from his and so lovely in its differences. Where he was prosaic, all long sinew and bone, she was a sonnet of softness over strength. His every depth was exposed in the rangy structure of his body; hers was cloaked in a gentle façade. They might both be strong, but his limits were obvious to anyone, while hers were uncharted.

  But she had sworn she did not lie to him, had she not? Nor did her body. She could not falsify her gasps, for her creamy skin blushed all the way down to the nipples that drew him again and again. She writhed under his persistent, curious mouth.

  He was rather proud of this realization. There was something elemental and masculine in the idea of giving pleasure to a woman. If only he had known how pleasurable it was for himself, he might have overcome his reservations sooner.

  No. No, he wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have. The idea of being so bare with another person—so literally naked—was unthinkable. Only to Caroline could he entrust his very self.

  He shut his eyes against the realization, letting it pervade his body. This was the deepest sort of trust. Yes. As he had trusted her with his secrets, his weaknesses, they had seemed to recede. The burden was split among two and lightened, rather than borne always alone. Now they were bound together.

  He opened his eyes to see her regarding him gravely. “Are you all right?”

  “Very much so.” A smile spread across his face. “I was simply savoring you.”

  “Is that so?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Well, I shan’t stop you from such a noble purpose. Please, savor me some more.”

  Always used to giving the orders, he found that in this moment, he was quite happy to obey instead.

  His mouth played with the curve of her breast, the intriguing darkness and tightness of her nipple. If he used his lips on her, she gasped, and a slight scrape of teeth changed the gasp to a moan. It was remarkable, how he could enslave her with ministrations to such a small part of her body. He nestled his body against hers, raised himself on one elbow, and unleashed himself upon her breasts, playing and licking and nipping and stroking until her eyes closed, her feet twitched.

  She was trembling now, and he thought he would never get tired of touching her breasts. But her knees loosened and parted, and he recalled, there was much territory yet unexplored.

  He raised himself up to a seated position and let his hands roam over her body, rubbing her to moaning life, caressing her face, the spring of her ribs, the pool of her navel�
� the mystery of her most private of parts.

  She was slippery against his fingers. The wetness shook his control. He wanted to stroke it, sleek against his hand. He fingered the slick folds, explored the stiff apex, slid a finger through her fine hairs and down over the welcome of her passage. He was gentle and slow, wondering at her loveliness, her furled sexuality. In this, as in so much else, she was subtle where he was gauche. His desire jutted out before him, obvious and brash. Hers was hidden; it required searching, waking.

  But waking it he was. As he stroked her thighs, let his fingers dance through her wetness, she began to clench her muscles and breathe more deeply, more quickly. She was even more slippery now; his fingers glistened. Caroline watched, eyes avid under half-closed lids, as he brought a fingertip to his mouth and touched it with his tongue. She was tart yet musky, like nothing else in the world.

  “Enough,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Enough, now. I shall have my turn.”

  “Um,” said Michael, as she pressed him flat onto his back. She knelt next to him, then raised her arms to coil her hair into a long, gentle twist. Her rounded breasts bobbed, and one of his hands reached reflexively for a touch.

  “Yes,” she said again, cradling his hand, sliding it over her hardened nipple, the soft curve of her breast. Then she slung her twisted hair over one shoulder, and it fell in a flaxen rope to tickle his abdomen, his cock. Her hands glided over him in languorous strokes.

  He tried to say “um” again, as she trailed her fingers over his body, but all he could do was gasp. And then she stroked him and bent her mouth to him, and he couldn’t even gasp anymore. As she stroked him hard and long again with her fingers and tongue, he forgot everything he knew, everything he prided himself on. There was no logic or learning or Lancashire now—only Caroline and her clever fingers and her mouth.

  Her mouth was shockingly wet and so hot that he almost lost his grip and plummeted. His hips jerked, his hands fisted on the sheet. His sac tightened, and his eyes flew open. No no no no not yet.

  He clenched every muscle in his body, holding back his release with an effort of will, then clambered away from her, his body swifter than his dazzled thoughts.

  Caroline uncurled and stretched out on the bed. “Too much, was it?”

  “What did you do to me?”

  “It’s only a little fornication.” Caroline laughed. “I can see that you liked it.”

  Only a little fornication, she said. Taking away the import of the moment. He wondered if that was a good thing.

  Michael suddenly felt the cold on his bare skin, and he trembled, his staff sinking a fraction. “I almost… it would not be seemly to…”

  She raised her eyebrows, touched her tongue to her lips, and he could have groaned at the sight. Why did he always have to think so damn much? Why couldn’t he have let her draw him to release?

  Because he didn’t want to use her in that way. He wanted his first orgasm with a woman, his first intercourse, to be a true joining, not a service.

  Though God, what a service it was.

  She shrugged. “I liked it. But if you think it wouldn’t be seemly, then we’ll do something else.” She moistened her lips again, and looked at him with an imp’s eyes, a siren’s smile. “Maybe we can try it again sometime.”

  Michael shivered.

  Caroline slid a hand back and forth over the bed sheets. “Come back to bed. Come back to me.”

  He could not resist such a plea. He could not imagine anyone who could. As if transfixed, he climbed back onto the bed and covered her waiting body with his own.

  He’d never been in this position before—literally. But his body had hidden, instinctual knowledge. It knew how to support him, how to fit him into the cradle of her thighs. His cock lay hot and hard against her, the tip wet and slippery from his fluids and hers.

  He locked eyes with Caroline, and she nodded. And with a quick thrust, he sheathed himself.

  Simple as that, he wasn’t a virgin anymore.

  That was the last coherent thought he had, because the tight wetness of her, clenching him, was… it was unimaginable. Oh, God. There was nothing for the moment but blasphemy or a cry to heaven. The feel of her around him and under him was fire, oil, water. Impossible and combustible. Sleek and liquid and hot and deep. This unmade him, this joining. It would rip him apart.

  He could not leave her; he could not keep still. He lowered his full length upon her, bracing himself on his elbows, and he pressed his hips into her deeper, more fully.

  They both moaned at once.

  He knew what to do next; even if his body had not known it instinctively, he’d picked up enough bawdy talk to know about the thrusting that brought on the crisis. But he did know. It felt right, to draw back, to let the work-hardened muscles of his arms and thighs bear his weight, allow him to pull back, then glide home, welcomed and eased by her wetness. Then again, again, until the world was only his body and hers.

  He could never have imagined the tightness, the glide, the perfect slick friction. He could never have understood the fit of body in body, the rightness of it all. Never, without her. He could never have come to this.

  Never, never, never. Never, without her, his body pounded. It was like the rhythm of his headache, but it echoed with a joy that resounded through his skin and muscle, bone and blood. It washed away tension and hurt, filling him with a roiling pleasure that bore him higher, tighter, faster, onward, more frantically, until he flung himself from the edge of the cliff with a cry.

  He landed in a heap, so stunned by the force of his sudden ecstasy that he was unable even to breathe. What an extraordinary feeling: to be exhausted yet tingling with life.

  Sense returned in slow flickers. His heart pounding with the force of sweet exertion. The hush of Caroline’s swift breathing in his ear; the softness of her breasts beneath the wall of his chest. Still joined, still one, he felt as if his heartbeat were hers, as if every breath she took gave him the air of life.

  He breathed in deeply at the curve of her neck. Delicate and floral; earthy as passion. “You are perfect.” He could hardly speak the words; he didn’t want to stop inhaling her scent. “Is it always like that?”

  She laughed, trailing her fingertips over his back. “If one is fortunate.”

  “I consider myself very fortunate.” He raised himself onto his forearms, cradling her. Resting his forehead upon hers, he pressed light kisses over her face—the bridge of her nose, the curve of her brow, the angle of her cheek. So many lovely shapes, yet they could not compare to her heart and mind. To the wonder of the passion that had unfurled between them.

  He had never expected such a thing: to let himself be mastered by desire yet to remain master of himself. “Very, very fortunate,” he repeated. Another kiss, this one lingering on her lips.

  Her nails bit lightly into his skin, firing his nerves again. More deeply, he sank into the kiss, brushing her hot tongue with his—until with gentle hands, she caught his shoulders and pressed him upward, away. As the kiss broke, he realized he had been crushing her with his weight. Withdrawing from her heat, he freed himself from their tangle of limbs.

  She raised herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Do you really think so? That you’re fortunate to be here with me?”

  Still trying to master his breath, Michael nodded. “Yes, of course I do. I don’t underestimate the gift you’ve given me.”

  Her lovely face crumpled for a fraction of a second. “Nor I you.” In a bright voice, she added, “How do you like sex, then? Rather amusing, is it not?”

  “Unh.” Michael had no word for the feeling, so he settled for a meaningless syllable.

  Caroline laughed again. “I couldn’t say it better myself. The best lovers always reduce one to a state of complete incoherence.”

  “Well, you’re the best lover I’ve ever had,” Michael said tr
uthfully.

  Caroline smiled and walked her fingers across the width of his chest. “Mmm.”

  A noncommittal murmur or a sound of pleasure? Either way, she did not return the compliment. But this was to be expected. He had not wielded a hammer or an awl perfectly the first time he’d used them. It did not make sense that the tools of his body would be any different.

  Still, though. “Let me try again. I can do better.”

  “So soon?”

  “At once.” He raised himself on his own elbow and pressed her back to the bed. Now that the urgency of his own arousal and climax were past, he felt clearheaded, replete, and calm, as though his world had finally marched into order.

  Here was Caroline, a banquet for the senses, all pale skin and long limbs and rounded curves, so lovely that he could scarcely believe he was permitted to touch her. In the low wink of the coal fire, her face looked flushed. She was beautiful as a goddess, yet touchably warm. As he trailed his hands over her form, she covered his fingers with her own and smiled. “I am fortunate too, Michael.”

  This was his chance: now, while all seemed right with their world. In everything he had done in London, he saw Caroline’s hand. Why, then, should he seek the hand of another?

  She always knew the right thing to say and do. She could be everything he needed. She could save Wyverne, remake it, just as she was remaking him.

  “Caro. Will you marry me?”

  Fourteen

  Another proposal. Damnation.

  Caroline squeezed her eyes shut—a vain attempt to shut out the world.

  Oh, she could close her eyes to the familiar heavy folds of green fabric that hung over the head of her bed. And most of all, the face above her.

  But she couldn’t stop her ears. And now Michael offered what he no doubt thought was a convincing argument for her agreement. “Caro, please accept. You are everything you have been pushing me toward in a wife. Wealthy and respectably bred, but not of noble birth. And you’re unencumbered in every way. It makes sense. Don’t you see?”