Emboldened by his reaction, she let her hands explore further, down the ridges of his abdomen, tracing the line of hair that extended from his chest to his navel, and lower.
Lower, it disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches. Two flicks—that’s all it would take to release him from the confines. She wriggled on his lap, bringing forth another groan as her sensitive flesh tortured the length of his arousal. Her hand slipped to the left button, but unfastening it required too much concentration the way her fingers trembled with anticipation.
He grunted and stiffened. He straightened his spine—somehow he’d slumped, his back against the edge of the table. How they’d managed not to crumple into a heap was anyone’s guess.
His hand encircled her wrist. “Hold on a moment,” he rasped. “I believe we’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom. You deserve better than a tumble on a wooden bench.”
She focused on the fingers curled just above her hand. “It isn’t as if it’s my first time.”
He slid his free hand from the back of her neck to her jawline. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “It isn’t a question of first time or tenth or hundredth time. It’s a matter of what you deserve.”
“What I deserve?” she echoed. She had all she deserved in a tiny cottage in a godforsaken village in Kent. After she disgraced her family, they hadn’t even deigned to give her that much. She couldn’t deserve any more—or a hard bench or a rough wooden table or, at most, a straw-filled mattress covered in musty sheets.
“What you deserve is the finest linen, feather mattress, a canopy, velvet hangings.” He arched a brow. “Cherubs, perhaps?”
“Oh, no, not cherubs.” She tamped down the urge to giggle over his sudden, fanciful turn.
“Just as well. I doubt we’ll find any in there.” He nodded toward the door on the opposite wall. “However, there is a bed of sorts.” He clasped her about the waist and set her on her feet. “We might make use of what we have.”
She wobbled for a moment, her knees shaky. His mood had changed so quickly, from dark and intense, to playful in the space of a sentence. She studied his expression as he pushed himself upright. The hunger still flickered in the depths of his eyes, but he’d exerted an effort to quell it. To rein it in.
Then it struck her. He was steeling himself to stop, even now. Even after she’d fallen apart in his arms without promise of repayment. He would let her go once again—in case she was still fearful of the consequences of this evening, he would allow her to withdraw while there were none. Before she placed herself in danger of conceiving again.
Once more, he was giving her a choice. Giving her power, and the power, in turn, lent her courage. Emboldened, she flattened her palm against the ridges of his belly, her fingers spread across its breadth. She pressed her hand into his skin, as if she might brand him with the imprint, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss the underside of his jaw. She touched the tip of her tongue to the roughness of his beard sprouting just beneath the surface, while, with her hand, she pushed downward.
Her fingers delved beneath his waistband. The slightest of sounds burst from his lips, a near nonexistent groan. He swayed toward her, actually swayed, as if he, too, was struggling to keep his balance.
Such a strong, solid figure of a man, and yet she’d weakened his knees with a bare touch. Then the floor tilted beneath her feet, but his arms encircled her, supported her, lifted her against his firm body, cradled her close as he strode across the planked flooring.
He kicked at the bedroom door, and it burst open, banging against the inner wall. She barely caught a glimpse of a white coverlet before she landed in its midst. The bed ropes groaned as he dropped beside her, his grin boyish and full of sinful promise.
An incongruous giggle bubbled to the surface, and she gave it voice. The sound echoed through the spare chamber, high and girlish and joyous. A sensation of lightness buoyed her until she felt as if she might float on the currents of air, drifting among the heights.
He stretched out beside her, the length of his body warming her in the cool air of the unheated room. He reached for her, but his touch landed first on her temple, brushing back the stray curls of her damp hair from her forehead. From there, it swept along her face, featherlight, almost worshipful, to graze her brows, her cheekbones, her lips, her chin.
Such tenderness, so wholly unexpected.
Based on her experience, she’d braced herself for an assault, sensual to be certain, but an assault all the same. Somehow this, too, this reverent caress, fit his change of mood. Not that he would hold back for much longer, not that he still doubted her intention to continue, certainly not that he was suddenly experiencing a bout of shyness.
Perhaps he, too, felt the lightness, the joy, the soaring nameless emotion that welled, bittersweet, in her heart. For sweet it was, unbearably so, but bitter, as well, for her time with him was finite. Once the house party ended, he would return to the social whirl of London. Oh, he might spend the autumn wandering from one country estate to the next, but he’d eventually return to Town, while she went back to her cottage.
If she was fortunate, she might see him once a year for a week or so, before he moved on. Or perhaps that would be her misfortune, to have him come back from time to time as a reminder of what she might never have. This tenderness on a regular basis. A pair of strong arms willing to wrap themselves about her and lend her comfort.
She oughtn’t venture down this path that led only to heartbreak, but she wouldn’t for anything leave this bed. Not when he touched her so reverently. Not when he pulled her flush with his body and rolled her beneath him. Not when he captured her lips in a kiss that soon turned carnal.
His mouth moving on hers, his weight bearing her into the mattress, his hands trailing fire along her ribs, down her flanks, reaching for her thighs and the hem of her chemise, all of it scattered rational thought and drowned her in a sea of pure sensation.
His musk surrounded her, blocked everything but the pressure of his lips over hers, the short bursts of their breathing, the cool air that rushed between them as he pulled the last scrap of cotton from her body.
The barest flicker of the small fire penetrated from across the main room, casting the bedchamber in hues of gray, enough to make out the expression on his face once her eyes adjusted. And how much could he see of her naked form? She blushed, its heat radiating from her chest to creep up her face and lose itself in her hairline. She’d never been so completely exposed before any man, never so vulnerable.
Never so alive.
He breathed in sharply, a rough, harsh sound in the blackness. He bent, touched the tip of his tongue to her breast, drew the aching peak into his mouth. She arched off the bed, directly into his touch—into him. She grasped at his bare shoulders for purchase, and he became her sole anchor in a world spinning off its axis.
His knee slid along hers, the wool of his breeches rough against her sensitive skin, providing a counterpoint to the sheer pleasure of his hands. Fine, soft hands that had never known a day’s work, that had never known more abuse than the abrasion of a pair of reins, cushioned by leather gloves.
So unlike her hands now. She slipped her palms along his back, enjoying the jump of muscle beneath the smooth skin. Her callused fingers caught on his flesh as she explored. She pressed to his waist and lower, digging her fingers beneath his breeches, kneading the rise of his taut buttocks.
With a grunt, he reared to his knees. His fingers made quick work of the remaining buttons, and he kicked free of his breeches—the last barrier between them.
She pulled him back to her, her lips seeking his. His erection probed at her belly, the tip leaking moisture. His knees settled between hers. She parted her thighs for him, tilted her hips, and braced herself for the remembered discomfort of a man’s body invading hers. She pressed her palms down his spine to his rump, tried to push him into her, even as she gritted her teeth.
He tore his lips away from hers. “No, not yet.”
She released her breath. “What?”
“Not yet. Relax.”
Relax? How was she supposed to relax with him poised on the brink of plunging into her? Of hurting her for a brief moment or two? But she was ready to bear the discomfort to appease the demands of her body. She ached too much, ached for him as she’d never ached for Jack’s father. As she’d never ache for another man, ever.
“Relax,” he insisted. “You’re thinking too much. Feel.”
He bent toward her and caught her lips with his. A gentle kiss, easy and tender, but underneath he shook with the effort of restraining himself. Muscles quivered beneath her fingertips, brimming with a wild energy he held in check. Like the pleasure he’d drawn from her on two occasions now.
At the thought of that rush of joy, her inner muscles clenched, longing to hold him. Fire raged through her at the idea of experiencing it again, only this time, she’d take him with her. Who was she to deny him after all he’d given her?
She returned his kisses, but at the same time slipped her palm across his back, over his hip. Her fingers brushed through coarse hair before meeting with hardened flesh. He sucked in a breath as she fit her hand about him. His flesh pulsed against her palm, the skin smooth and soft over the underlying rigidity. So solid, so hard.
Heavens, it must pain him.
She ran her hand along the length, and he groaned, his head sagging against her shoulder, the soft tips of his hair caressing her skin. A shudder passed through him, and he ground his hips against her palm, his breath shallow and harsh.
“Stop,” he panted. “Stop before you unman me.”
She couldn’t imagine such a thing. How could he ever be less than a whole, vibrant man? Her man. Hers.
“Then come to me.” The words burst from her throat—from her heart—with an animal ferocity. Her need for him far outweighed any vestige of fear, any apprehension. This was their moment, possibly the only one they’d ever have, but she meant to take it, meant to live again for a brief time with all the enthusiasm, all the recklessness that had led to her downfall.
It didn’t matter. She’d done six years’ worth of penance. It was time to take back a little of the joy she’d lost.
“Easy. I don’t wish to hurt—”
“You can’t hurt me any more than I’ve already been hurt.” She curled her fingers about his length and raised her hips.
The tip of his erection met her entrance, and she gritted her teeth as he began to penetrate, slowly—too slowly. Her body stretched to accommodate him, not painful, not even uncomfortable. No, the fullness inside her felt right. It felt incredible. She clutched at his shoulders and wrapped her thighs about his flanks.
Ah, perfect.
He slid home—slid easily, as if she’d been made to receive this one man. She stretched beneath him, craned her neck, and pressed her lips to his throat.
He trembled, and she felt it within, without, beneath her fingers and inside her body where he filled her.
“Please.” Her harsh whisper echoed in her ears. She knew what came next. If he didn’t move soon, she’d go mad. “Please. You don’t need to give me time to get used to this.” Lord knew Jack’s father hadn’t.
Her heart swelled in her chest at the idea of George giving her what she’d missed the first time—consideration. Even now he put her needs ahead of his.
Another tremor passed through him, igniting flames along each of her nerve endings.
“Can you stand it if I pound you through the mattress?” He pitched his voice low, but each word dripped with tension. “God only knows I want to, and if you beg me one more time—”
“Please.”
He let out a groan, and, at last, withdrew almost completely. He filled her again with a powerful thrust that left her gasping, not in pain but in the sheer ecstasy of such complete possession. He surged into her again and again, and each stroke drove her higher. She cried out and arched her back, letting him sweep her along with his passion.
Somehow her body managed to keep pace with his. She pressed her hips into his, her nails digging into his shoulders as her teeth had marked him earlier. He hissed his pleasure, his features twisted and animal.
A part of her wondered at herself for not finding him ugly in such a moment, but there was a wild beauty to him now. This view of him—so intimate, so close to his essential self—could be nothing less. And his expression must be mirrored on her face.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, reared up against the ceiling, filled her vision, and with the movement, the angle of penetration changed. Her eyes widened. With every thrust, he struck at a new spot within her, achingly sweet.
Yes.
Her breath tore from her lungs now. She moaned and whimpered and pleaded while the tempo increased.
Yes.
Harder and harder, and with every surge of his body, he pushed her toward the brink.
Oh, yes.
Somehow it was higher than before. She reached, but it moved further off. When she fell, she would fall long and hard.
God, please, soon.
Then, without warning, she was soaring, keening like a bird as she convulsed. He filled her to bursting, but her body rippled about him. Somewhere far away, she heard his answering shout, and he pulled out and away from her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GEORGE SWALLOWED great gulps of air while his heart ceased its pounding and his body floated back to earth. Gradually, he became aware of the soft curves cushioning his torso.
Isabelle.
He pushed himself onto his elbows and contemplated her flushed cheeks. Her golden hair, tangled in a halo of curls about her head. Her lower lip arced in a half smile. So swollen, that lip, nearly pouty from his kisses. Its plumpness tempted him to take it between his teeth, to tease her into wakefulness, to start again.
Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, and her breath puffed out in a sigh, the very sound of contentment. A note of deep satisfaction such as he’d rarely heard from his lovers.
The warmth of pride filled his belly, and his cheeks stretched in a broad grin. Good thing she was still floating somewhere between this world and the next. No doubt she’d chide him for looking smug the moment those velvet brown eyes opened.
Hell, he felt smug. He damned well deserved it, too.
He rolled to his side before he could crush her under his weight. She was tiny beneath him, delicate and small-boned. How she’d managed to endure that onslaught …
But she had. She’d endured and gloried in it. Good Lord, her enthusiastic response had driven him mad, and when she climaxed around him, when her body gripped his in ecstasy and rippled along his length …
God, that had been a near thing. He’d been a hairsbreadth away from spending inside her.
With one hand, she groped for him, her fingers fluttering against his wrist as if she didn’t quite possess the energy for a firm grip. He knew what came next. This was where his mistresses wanted to purr and preen and bask. It was where he wanted to drift away, but for some odd reason, the last thing he wanted to do now was sleep. In fact, every last nerve ending in his body fairly screamed at him to run.
He’d never in his life fled from a woman, but something had happened just now with this one, something he’d never before experienced. Tenderness of an unfathomable depth filled him. More than that, it overwhelmed and drew him under the way the waters of the Channel had tried to engulf Jack. He felt the bottom roll beneath his feet, the current sucking him under. He could fight or drown, but already the shore was nothing more than a pinprick on the horizon.
Her fingers encountered his forearm and curled about bare flesh. “Wonderful,” she muttered, half-asleep.
It was possibly the most coherent thing she could utter under the influence of drowsy afterglow, but that single word encompassed so much more. She hadn’t known how good relations between a man and woman could be. That much was easy enough to surmise. Hell, he hadn’t known it could be that way—so intimate and i
ntense and raw and deep—and he’d enjoyed the skills of more than one talented courtesan. But the relative skill wasn’t so important as the response.
For all his experience, he’d never known one like Isabelle’s.
Only the worst sort of scoundrel would run now and leave her utterly alone, most especially after the vow he’d made, the vow that had led to this. So he settled beside her, fitted her slight form against him, and pulled her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, and her wayward curls tickled his nose. With his fingers, he combed them back from her face.
Lucy employed a maid who used hot tongs to shape her strawberry-blond locks into ringlets. Isabelle’s curls formed on their own, wild, riotous, untamed. Like the woman herself, her hair had a mind of its own; it refused the kind of regimented order more fashionable coiffures required.
“How is it, after so many years, I’ve finally fallen on good fortune?” Isabelle murmured sleepily against the side of his neck.
“How indeed?” It was all the reply he could muster. What in blazes was the matter with him? At the least, he might invent a snappy rejoinder about his uniqueness among men, something to make her laugh and smack at him and deliver an appropriate set-down. He was long used to the sort of verbal sparring that occurred between bed-mates.
Not even lovers, but those who looked no farther than physical pleasure. With Isabelle, he was out of his depth.
“You don’t regret what we’ve done, do you?” Less drowsiness fogged her words this time.
Oh, God, here it came—the reason he preferred mistresses and courtesans. Ladies who held no expectation beyond the pleasure they could give and receive. Ladies who wouldn’t force him to examine his feelings. Not that he had any.
At least not where ladies whose name wasn’t Isabelle were concerned. The devil take it all, he was a goner.
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