Passion

by Lisa Valdez

  Passion. Passion was his tonic. With her, there were no lies. The tension in his shoulders eased. When he was with her, everything bad faded and everything good magnified.

  At the Crystal Palace, he’d been so irritated that she wasn’t alone. But when she saw him, the expression that came over her face had made him breathless. Every emo­tion showed clearly. Yearning, desire, tenderness. And that indefinable something that heightened them all to … to something wonderful.

  “You all right, brother?”

  He needed her. He needed her now.

  Mark nodded. “Yes. Just tired.” He stood and felt his cock pulse. “I should take my leave.”

  Something in Matt’s expression told him he knew where he was going. “Have a good evening, then. Send the carriage back around, will you?” He nodded toward Lord Benchley. “I’m going to play a few hands before I go.”

  Mark made the hastiest exit he could. His body knew his destination, and by the time he leaned back in his car­riage, his prick was full and straining against his trousers.

  He had his coachman drop him a few blocks from Pas­sion’s house, then sent him back to the Benchleys. But the short walk only served to heighten his need. He was still hard as he scaled her trellis. A dim glow lit her room. Was she still awake? He smiled when he found the window ajar. Sliding up the sash, he quickly entered and let the curtain fall behind him.

  Though his heart raced, he stood still for a moment. Passion rested on her side, eyes closed. She faced the win­dow, as if she might have been waiting for him. An oil lamp burned low on the side table, illuminating her in its soft circle of light.

  Mark doffed his hat. Slipping off his topcoat and tail­coat, he moved to her bedside. Her lips were parted in slumber, and her lashes, under the influence of some dream, fluttered gently. Her auburn hair lay in waves across her pillow like a silken pennant.

  God, but she was beautiful.

  Carefully, so as not to wake her, he braced his hands on the side of the bed and, leaning close, breathed in the sweet smell of her. Vanilla and orange blossoms assailed his senses. She murmured something in her sleep and turned onto her back with a sigh.

  Her lips were too close to resist. He brushed his mouth against hers and then tasted her with a gentle kiss. Her lips were soft and warm beneath his, and it seemed only mo­ments before he felt the beginnings of her response. Then her hand curved around his nape and the other slid against his cheek as she pulled him closer, deepening their kiss.

  Mark moaned into her mouth and forced himself to pull back.

  Her hazel eyes blinked up at him.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Her lips turned in a small smile. “Hello. I didn’t know if you’d come.”

  “I told you I would be with you as often as possible.”

  “Yes.” She slowly pulled loose his cravat. “You did say that.”

  Mark sat beside her on the bed. “Open your gown.”

  Slowly, she sat up. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she undid each tiny button.

  “From now on, you must sleep without your gown.” He pulled off his cravat and loosened his collar. “You won’t be needing it.”

  A blush turned her cheeks to roses. Her hair fell around her shoulders, and her gown lay open to her waist.

  Mark’s prick thumped eagerly. He slipped off his shoes. Damn it, he’d never been this hot for any other woman. She watched him as he took off his vest and worked the mother-of-pearl studs free from his shirt. He wanted her desperately.

  “I kept some hot chocolate on the grate for you,” she said quietly.

  Mark paused, and something trembled deep inside him. “What?”

  “Some hot chocolate.” She reached for his wrist and easily freed the stud from his cuff. “I thought you might like something warm.”

  He stared at her as she freed his other cuff. His various mistresses had offered him innumerable drinks: brandy, scotch, port. But he’d never been offered hot chocolate. He’d never been offered anything that was not a stimulant to sex.

  She put the stud on the table and lifted her lovely eyes to his. Even as a boy, he’d never been given something like this. Oh, he’d had more things than he needed, but nothing that wasn’t part of a purchasing list. Nothing purely and especially for his comfort. Nothing thought­fully offered in anticipation of his need.

  His eyes stung.

  Nothing warm and reassuring had ever been given to him without his having to ask for it.

  He had stopped asking long ago.

  A frown wrinkled Passion’s brow. “You don’t care for hot chocolate?”

  His hand shook as he slipped it through her hair. He drew her close and pressed his lips between her brows.

  “I would love a cup of hot chocolate.”

  *

  Chapter Ten

  Dreams, Wishes, and Justifications

  Passion dreamt of the lion. He reared and roared at her and bared his teeth. Even though she was frightened, she moved closer. With each step she took, he grew more fear­some. She paused, wanting to throw herself against him, yet afraid to do so.

  Why? Why did she tempt him? Did she think he would protect her? How could he, when he was wounded him­self? Blood leaked from a gash over his heart.

  He tossed back his head and roared angrily at the sky. Would he tear her to shreds? No, he could have done that already. No. No, he would never harm her.

  With sudden determination, she went to him.

  Passion opened her eyes. The oil lamp still burned. But no warm body touched hers. She sat up in bed and then breathed a happy sigh.

  Wearing only his trousers, Mark reclined in one of the chairs by the hearth. He was looking at her.

  “I thought you’d gone,” she said.

  “No.”

  Passion glanced at the clock. Almost three in the morning. Slipping out of bed, she grabbed the throw for mod­esty.

  “I should have hidden that thing while you slept.”

  Passion smiled as she crossed to him. He took her hand and pulled her into his lap.

  She pushed back the hair that had fallen over his brow. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” His gaze flickered to the bit of breast that was revealed above the throw. “I would have been too tempted to wake you had I stayed.”

  Passion traced the curve of his ear. “That would have been all right.”

  “I thought you might still be sore.” His voice sounded hoarse.

  She shook her head. “That is long gone. The only sore­ness I feel now is the aching need to have you inside me.”

  “By God,” he murmured. “You are my temptress. I cannot resist you.”

  She rocked her hip against his erection. “Then don’t,” she breathed before taking his lips in a soft, searching kiss. She felt the throw being pulled away and let it go.

  Earlier, he had brought her to a trembling climax just with the use of his fingers. Propped on his elbow, he had watched her every gasp and shudder. He had encouraged her between the tender kisses he plied upon her lips. Now she wanted to give to him.

  She slid around so she straddled him and, sitting on his legs, she unbuttoned his trousers. He was already hard. Yet as she watched, he grew larger.

  He brushed her nipples with the palms of his hands be­fore cupping her breasts around each full side.

  Her breathing quickened. She adored his touch—adored the power and strength of him. She stroked the whole length of his smooth flesh with the tips of her fin­gers.

  Mark sucked in his breath, and his hips tilted beneath her as his hands came to rest on her hips. He lifted his eyes to hers. They reflected a raw, aching need. And burn­ing brightly behind the need was pain.

  Her heart skipped a beat in her breast.

  For a moment she didn’t know what to say or do.

  So she gave him the only thing she could think of—herself. She pressed close to him and held him tightly.

  “I’m here,” she whisp
ered. She kissed the soft lobe of his ear. “You’re safe with me.”

  She didn’t know where the words came from, only that he seemed to need them.

  His arms tightened around her, and his hands held her to him.

  She pressed kisses to the strong column of his neck, breathing in lemon verbena, while she rubbed the moist folds of her quim along his shaft.

  She would lead the way. She would take him to bliss.

  He moaned into her shoulder, and one of his hands curved around the fullness of her breast.

  Passion surged against him and captured his mouth in a kiss that offered him all she had. He latched upon her with an open-mouthed hunger that revealed the true depth of his craving. And while her wet quim massaged his shaft, she let him feast upon her for as long as he needed. The more he took, the more she gave, until finally he re­leased her with a broken gasp.

  Light-headed and panting, she moved higher against him, sliding the swollen bud of her clitoris up to the en­gorged head of his penis. And there she remained, rubbing one to the other, while he sucked her nipple into his mouth. He drew upon her voraciously. She wrapped her arms around him and held him to her.

  He shook beneath her, and her own body trembled with suppressed need. But she wanted to take him further. She wanted to make him forget everything that hurt, if only for a moment.

  She moved a touch higher and pressed the wet opening of her body over the head of his cock.

  A deep groan escaped him as she pushed down just slightly and then withdrew.

  His body leapt beneath her as she did it again and again and again. His arms crushed her, his hands clawed in her hair. Yet still, she drove them on—each brief taste prom­ising the banquet.

  His hips began to jerk.

  Sweat broke on her brow.

  “I—I need you,” he gasped.

  Passion gazed down at him, emotions and physical sensation tangled together inside her. Fulfillment was hers to give.

  He pressed his cheek to her breast. His hips lifted. “God, Passion! I need you,” he repeated hoarsely.

  Her body tightened and throbbed.

  “I’m here,” she breathed and slid down over him all the way.

  He crushed her in his embrace, one hand gripping her buttock as his mouth drew upon her nipple so strongly that she felt a tiny pull high in her breast.

  As she held him to her, without even moving, the pow­erful throbbing that signaled his release brought her own. She gasped her pleasure.

  His hips lifted.

  Her fingers clenched in his hair. She shuddered and shook around him.

  His tongue laved her swollen nipple.

  Her heart pounded. She bit back a cry.

  He trembled and clutched her as she let down a warm, sucking rush of moisture.

  Her arms tightened around him. “Come, Mark. Come,” she breathed.

  He groaned and bucked beneath her and then bathed her womb with a thick torrent of seed.

  She didn’t want to let him go, but all her strength left her limbs at once. She collapsed upon him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  He held her for a long time, stroking her hair and pressing kisses to her brow. Finally he said, “Thank you. I think I can sleep now.”

  Passion smiled and forced herself to clamber off him. Crossing to the bed, she slipped beneath the sheet and tossed herself back on the pillow. She watched him as he stepped out of his trousers. He joined her, but he didn’t lie down.

  Leaning over her, he swept a stray tendril of hair back from her face. “You are beyond beautiful,” he whispered.

  A warm tingle tickled her insides. “It pleases me you think so.”

  His striking eyes moved over her features as he sat back against the pillows. A frown puckered his brow. “Who was that man with you today?”

  Passion sat up. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve only just met him.” She turned to face him and crossed her legs. “He is the nephew of one of my aunts’ good friends.”

  “Is he really courting you?”

  She lifted her brows. “I suppose. But I don’t think he will be for long.”

  “The man is an ass.” Mark scowled. “And a lecher as well. I could have broken his arms for grabbing you like that.”

  Passion refrained from commenting on the fact that he had done far more than try to kiss her when they first met.

  He looked at her, and she knew he had guessed her thoughts. “There is no comparison. You wanted me.”

  She took his hand. “Yes.”

  His gaze locked with hers. “I have you for two months. The last thing I will tolerate is some lecherous lout getting in my way. Get rid of him.”

  That he felt the irritation of Alfred Swittly as much as she did surprised her. “I shall. In fact, after you left, we came upon a couple with a rather large group of children in tow. Mr. Swittly commented upon them, so I let drop the regrettable fact that I shall never have such a family.” She lowered her eyes. ‘That should deter him. But still, I must consider my aunt. I cannot embarrass her by being rude.”

  “What’s embarrassing is the suggestion that that man is appropriate for you. Christ, he’s an opportunist of the worst sort. He’ll marry you, children or no, then take everything.” Mark suddenly frowned. “Just what is your situation, Passion? You said you were a vicar’s daughter, yet the cut and quality of your clothing suggests greater wealth than that profession affords. Was your husband rich?”

  Passion shifted uncomfortably. Thoughts of her hus­band were always an unwelcome intrusion. “My husband was prosperous—a gentleman farmer. But upon his death, I turned the whole estate over to my father. I take only a small allowance from it.” She shrugged. “I also receive some money from a trust. My mother brought a comfort­able income with her when she married my father. Of course, according to her side of the family, she squan­dered her worth by marrying down. They hardly ac­knowledge us.” Passion met Mark’s blue gaze. “But my mother was happy. She married my father for love and was never sorry for it.”

  Mark didn’t look away. “That pompous oaf will not make you happy.”

  Passion smiled. “I know.” She traced the lines on his palm. “It’s just that I’m coming out of mourning, and my aunt loves to play matchmaker. She’s usually very good at it.”

  Mark looked tense. “Is that why you came to London? To find a new husband?”

  Why was he on edge? What did he think? Lord, did he think she was trying to entrap him? “I came to London for a much-needed holiday—to see my aunt and cousin, to see the sights, and to attend some events.” She looked into his eyes. “That’s all.”

  His expression didn’t ease. What could she say, and why was this starting to hurt?

  “Mark, in two months I shall return home. I shall return to the same life I left. You will be free—I mean, you are free to do whatever you please.”

  His frown deepened. “And how many men are at home? How many are waiting for you to shed your mourning so they can start chasing after you?”

  Both relief and confusion welled in her. Why was he acting jealous? Just what was his concern? “Mark, I have very few admirers.” She shook her head and smiled. “My sisters are the ones. I think, between them, they own every heart in the county.”

  He didn’t smile with her. “No offense, my sweet, but you are oblivious.”

  Passion tipped her head to the side with a perplexed grin. “What?”

  “I noticed today, at the Crystal Palace. You’re com­pletely unaware of all the eyes that roam over you.”

  Now she frowned. “What eyes? Whose?”

  “Plenty,” he grunted. “And I’ll wager you have at least a dozen randy neighbors sniffing after your skirts at home.”

  Passion thought about it. “Really, I can only think of three gentlemen that might have thoughts in that regard.” She looked at him. “But I’m not interested in any of them.”

  He twirled a piece of her hair around his finger as his blue eyes met hers. “In whom a
re you interested?”

  This was the oddest conversation. He had said the day would come when he would be done. They had a finite time together. So why did he care what she did after that? “I have no marital interest in anyone.”

  His eyes didn’t waver from her. “But one day, do you hope to remarry?”

  Why did he want to know? What did he expect her an­swer to be? The image of them she had pushed away ear­lier blossomed in her mind, where he had held her hand and spoken vows she would only hear him utter in her dreams.

  His blue gaze held her. Her heart hurt.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “I used to think not. But now”—she looked down at his hand clasped in hers—“I might dream of it.”

  He was silent for a long time. When she finally lifted her eyes, he was still regarding her. “I don’t believe in lasting relationships. Nonetheless, if you ever remarry and I discover it, I think I will hate that man.”

  He lay down and pulled her to him as he spooned his body around hers.

  Sadness edged down Passion’s spine. But what justifi­cation did she have for sadness? From the beginning, she had understood the transient nature of their relationship. When she had accepted his proposal, she had known there would be consequences. This sorrow was the unavoidable consequence of her decision to be with him. To want a man who didn’t believe in lasting relationships. To yearn for what he would never give. To crave a future that would never be hers.

  These impossible desires were proof of her wrongdo­ing—covetousness born of fornication, sin begetting sin.

  Her emotions were wrong, indefensible. Her chest tightened.

  When we break God’s laws, the world suffers.

  Passion drew the sheet beneath her chin. At least this suffering was all her own. She would have to bear it. She must bear it.

  She could do nothing else, for she could not resist him.

  Mark’s arm tightened around her, and his hand moved to hold her breast.

  She sighed, and her body warmed with comfort.

  The whole truth was that she couldn’t resist her own feelings for him. She felt physically fulfilled. She felt stronger and more appreciative. She had renewed inter­ested in her art.