Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03]

by What the Bride Wore

  “I’m not suicidal,” he said gently. “I’m just…” His gaze slid away. “I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I shall find our mysterious attacker. I will keep you safe. But beyond that…” He shrugged, having no words.

  “Beyond that,” she said as she pulled his face to hers. “You will kiss me. Now. Like you mean it.”

  His expression shifted into a slow grin. “I always mean my kisses.”

  Then he leaned forward and gently cupped the back of her neck. He felt her breath exhale and could not tell if it came from relief or anticipation. Her breath was sweet—a leftover from the wine—and he felt his entire body surge toward her. But he held himself back, savoring the moment. He loved the hitch in her breath and the pounding of his heart. He loved her heat as it seemed to steam off her body and the silky brush of her hair.

  He might have held back longer, but she would have none of it. She closed the distance between them, and to his shock, thrust her tongue into his mouth.

  Blood roared in his ears as he opened to her, played with her, and tried not to split her legs wide right there and then. Never had a woman done this to him—with him—and he was stunned by how exciting a demanding woman could be.

  She was clumsy in her efforts, pushing at the roof of his mouth, darting and retreating in a frenzied nervousness. Her hands gripped his shoulders, pulling her on top. His free hand was on her waist, steadying her motions, supporting her weight. Her near leg was bent on the settee, and as she stabilized in her position, he dropped his hand to slide it up beneath her skirt and trail across her stocking to the top of her thigh.

  She murmured her assent as he stroked the few inches of bare flesh. He did not need more encouragement as he slipped his fingers around to the junction of her thighs. A half breath later, he was pushing into the moist heat of her, spreading her folds as he explored in a lazy casualness that he knew would drive her mad.

  She pulled back, her breath coming in stuttered pants. She was in the dominant position, her head bowed such that their temples nearly touched. She straddled one of his knees while bracing herself on his shoulders. And yet, for all the power of her position, he was the one who set the pace. Her eyes fluttered closed as he stroked her, pushing into her core before pulling out in a long, hard caress over her hard nub.

  Then he abruptly stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said with false humility. “You were telling me what to do, I believe. Commanding me, in fact, and I have stepped out of bounds.”

  She opened her eyes, and it took her a moment to focus on his face. His male pride surged at that. He liked that he could make her dazed. But then, her gaze seemed to spark, her expression tightening into a startling intensity.

  “You will finish what you are doing,” she ordered. “And it shall not be considered well done until I cry out.”

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise and a great deal of pleasure. “Until you cry out? As in scream? That is a tall order indeed.”

  “Not scream,” she said. “Cry out. Your name.” Then she licked her lips, not in a seductive manner, but unconsciously. And the sight of her pink tongue had his belly contracting.

  “My name?” he said, the words and his focus sadly out. Good God, she was winning in this battle of seduction, and that thought nearly sent his organ into spasms of delight.

  Then she leaned down to whisper into his ear. Between the heat of her breath and her words, a shudder of hunger wracked his frame. “Grant. But on a cry.”

  He wanted to say something clever. Repartee was part of the dance. But his words had left him. All he knew was her body pressed against him and the sweetness of her flesh next to his fingers.

  As she instructed, he began to stroke her. Thrusting push, long pull. He used his thumb to circle her nub, his fingers to open her wider, and then the push inside. Circle, push. Circle, push.

  “Your hair,” he gasped. “Let it down.”

  She took a moment to understand his words. Then she straightened, balancing carefully as she raised her hands to her pins. What a sight she was. She wasn’t even naked, but her uplifted breasts seemed to soar before him. Then she pulled out the pins to her hair, and he watched the black silk tumble to curl across her shoulders.

  “You should be naked,” he whispered. “My God, you are such a beauty.”

  She flashed him a coy smile, but shook her head. The movement was as much denial as simply shaking out her locks. Either way, he drank in the sight, especially the hard, tight points of her nipples directly in front of his mouth. He wanted to suck on those tips. He wanted to tease them with his tongue and nip them with his teeth. Oh, he wanted so many things, but there wasn’t time, as what he did between her thighs overwhelmed her.

  Another circle and push. Hard and deep. But it was enough.

  She cried out, not his name, but a surprised gasp. Her hands came down quickly to his shoulders, and he steadied her with one hand on her hip. But there was nothing to stop her body’s undulations as her pleasure crested and withdrew, peaked then fell. He watched in awe. Then when she finally regained her breath and her equilibrium, he gave her a wolfish smile.

  “Irene?” he said.

  She blinked, awareness coming slowly into her eyes. “Yes?”

  In one motion, he flipped her onto the settee. One second she had been poised above him, the next she was lying flat on her back, as her skirts slid to her waist.

  “My turn,” he said, his hands leaving her glory to quickly undo his pants.

  She smiled, but she held up her hand as if to stop him. “Are you sure?” she challenged. “I don’t believe I cried out your name.”

  He frowned, remembering. “Quite right,” he agreed. Then he spread her legs and stepped naked into the breach. “I shall remedy that immediately.”

  Then to her obvious shock, he dropped to his knees in front of her.

  ***

  Irene felt her eyes go wide as Grant dropped almost out of sight. Then he kissed his way up her thighs while she squirmed. She was incredibly sensitive, and the slow press of his lips coupled with tiny nips had her gasping as she arched off the settee. But he was relentless, and what he did with his tongue gave her no time to speak. Her belly tightened, and she cried out, but he stopped immediately—holding off as she gasped.

  “I can’t have you too breathless to say my name, now can I?”

  She wanted to say something tart in response, but she hadn’t the breath. She simply lay quivering as he lifted one of her legs to settle on his shoulder.

  “Say my name, sweeting,” he said with a wolfish grin.

  She shook her head.

  “Hmmm,” he returned. She thought it was a comment or one of those thoughtful sounds men sometimes made. She was wrong. He repeated the sound—a low hum—as he pressed his lips to her most sensitive place.

  “Sweet heaven!” she cried. Her body arched, the convulsions nearly pulling her off his broad shoulders. He held her safe as the peak rolled through her body. Then whenever the pulses started to subside, he stroked her again. With his tongue or his thumbs, it didn’t matter. He kept her peaking until she was fainting from the pleasure.

  Then he straightened from his position, standing to his full height over her. He looked glorious like that, his skin a rosy gold, his torso sculpted, lean and strong. But she was looking at his eyes, seeing how he looked at her hungrily, though she was sprawled before him in a boneless heap.

  “You’re beautiful, and I want to make love to you now. Will you let me?”

  She nodded and tried to reach for him. He started to join her, but then frowned. “I’ve brought something. A French letter.” He stepped for his trousers, rooting through them before he pulled out a folded envelope. “I know I forgot the other night. I’m sorry, but I remembered this time.”

  She tilted her head, looking at the item he pulled out. “What is it?” she asked.

  His brows shot up, and he grinned. “I love that I can teach you things.” Then he turned, putting himself in profile. His org
an was thick and proud as it thrust up before him. Then he slowly sheathed himself. “It is to prevent pregnancy. Also, many diseases.”

  She glanced at his face, alarmed, but he quickly eased her fears.

  “I’m very healthy. You needn’t fear. But I doubt you want a baby just now.”

  She felt her face flush as she looked away, the old ache returning. She did want a baby, but she understood how it would make her life awkward—his, as well. But the idea of bearing his son made her weepy with want.

  Not understanding, he leaned forward to kiss her trembling lips. “Don’t worry. It usually takes more than one night to make a child, though, of course, it’s possible. But I know many who have waited for years. Besides, we’re safe now,” he said as he stroked her cheeks.

  His fingers came away wet, and he looked down at her in surprise. She blinked, startled by her own grief.

  “Irene?” he said.

  She shook her head slowly. “You twist me around,” she said. “I never know what I will do next with you.”

  “And does that please you? Or frighten you?”

  “A little of both, I suppose.” Then she touched his face. “But mostly, I am pleased. Very, very pleased.”

  “You still have not said my name,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

  “Grant.”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t count.”

  “Then I suppose you will have to do more. Though goodness, I’m not sure I will survive it.”

  He stroked her cheek. “Do you want me to stop? Are you exhausted?”

  “I am empty, Grant. Will you not fill me?”

  “With everything I have,” he said as he slipped between her thighs.

  She was in a rather awkward position, stretched along the couch. But it was a soft piece of furniture, and as he set himself in place, he slipped his hands beneath her bottom to steady her. Then, as he slowly pressed into her slick core, he lifted her, and she let her head drop back. She felt as if she were floating, raised in the air as he entered her.

  He was thick, but she was so wet that he slid easily inside. She stretched around him, she gripped him with her thighs, and finally, she felt gloriously filled.

  “Oh yes,” she said, her eyes drifting shut. “Yes.”

  “Irene,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

  He was leaning forward over her, now fully seated. She opened her eyes and saw his look. His expression was tight, but his eyes still worshipped her. She saw gratitude, awe, and a hunger that she more than matched.

  “I won’t last long,” he said, his voice throaty. “Say my name.”

  She was too happy to fight him on their game. Her earlier anger had dissipated beneath a tide of pleasure. But she still could not give him what he wanted. Not yet. So she mutely shook her head.

  Then he withdrew. Fully.

  “Grant!” Too late, she arched off the couch, trying to catch him before he left.

  “There it is,” he said as he thrust into her again. Thick and hard, slamming against her body, such that she seemed to shimmer with the impact—a shower of sparks throughout her body. “You tricked me,” she accused.

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “Really?” she asked, as she tightened her internal muscles, squeezing him as much as she could manage.

  He groaned in response, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Irene,” he murmured. “Oh God…”

  Then he moved in earnest, his body pulling back and slamming in with steadily increasing fervor. There was a possessive power in his movements, a clench to his teeth, and a madness in his eyes. She watched it grow, felt its demand in every thrust. And she gloried in it.

  The power in him filled her. It was raw, and it claimed her as surely as a brand, burning deeper and harder with every thrust. She arched, gasping as he built her pleasure again.

  Faster. Harder.

  Suddenly his body seemed to contract. The pull was intense. The thrust an explosion.

  “Irene!”

  Twenty

  Irene was still reeling the next morning—er, noon—as she got out of bed, her own bed at home. He had escorted her there well before midnight, bowing over her hand as he took his leave. He’d left her in body, but at night, she’d dreamed such images of him. Not only his face as he possessed her, but the way he looked when he was laughing. Then there was that secret smile he sometimes gave her or the way he often appeared to be listening, his head cocked to one side, even though no one was speaking.

  It was the way he thought, she supposed. Listening to himself as he worked through a problem. She did much the same, although she usually chewed on a fingernail or her lower lip. In any event, she found the sight endearing. And his presence haunting.

  So it was of no surprise that when she descended the stairs for a late breakfast, she found a dozen hothouse roses waiting. She didn’t have to look at the card to know they were from Grant. She did anyway, and the words she found there left her smiling.

  I thank you for the taste of your laughter, the sound of your beauty, and the sweet sight of your sighs. You twist me backwards and around, but I adore it. Thank you.

  “Is that poetry?” asked her mother-in-law as the woman peered over her shoulder.

  Irene spun around, startled that she’d been so absorbed in Grant’s message that she hadn’t even heard the woman’s approach.

  “Yes, of a sort, I suppose.”

  “Odd. Who’s it from?” Then before Irene could answer, Mama gave her a giggly smile. “Is it Lord Crowle? He’s so very handsome, you know. And an earl! But then you’re a daughter of an earl, so I suppose it’s not so fancy for you. But just imagine!”

  Irene flushed and looked away. After all, part of her still felt like a wife to their son, even though Nate had been gone for years now. “I… um…”

  Her mother-in-law squeezed her arm, and when Irene looked up, she was startled to see tears in the woman’s eyes. “Nate loved you to distraction, you know, but he’s gone. You’ve grieved him, and I feared that you would never come out of black. But look at you now.” She gestured to Irene’s gentle blue gown. It was made of thick cotton, fashionable, but serviceable. And it was definitely not black.

  “I will always love Nate.”

  “You are a young woman who should have children at her feet. Papa and I would never want you to end with him.” She dabbed her eyes with a lacy scrap of a handkerchief. “I should like to dance at another wedding before I am too old.”

  Irene smiled, but inside, her heart trembled. Surely the woman understood what society thought of her now. Surely she knew… but of course, she did not. After all, Irene had simply said a dinner party. Not who would attend. Nor that she would appear as hostess, and therefore, declare to anyone who cared that she was Grant’s mistress.

  That word—mistress—caused a tightening in her gut, but her soul seemed to sing at the idea. So she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her mother-in-law’s cheek. “You are the best mother a girl could have.”

  “And you the best daughter,” the woman returned in her usual blustery good cheer, especially as she drew Irene to the side entry table. “And look what has come today!” She held up five elegant envelopes, all clearly invitations. “We are invited to balls! Can you imagine? These are yours…” She examined three envelopes and handed them to Irene. “And these! They’re for me, and a guest! Of course, I shall bring Mrs. Schmitz. It was ever the most exciting time in her life at Lady Redhill’s ball. And now, we are invited to two more!”

  Irene looked at the invitations, reading them quickly as her mind whirled. She knew these women. All three were friends of Helaine’s. Which meant her dear friend had prevailed upon others to bring Irene out of her obscure little corner of London and into the ton as she had never been. As the daughter of an earl, she had once expected these invitations as her due. But she’d been an impoverished daughter, and so some things had been decidedly lacking. And now…

  She shook her head. Clearly, she couldn
’t decline. Not with Mama looking so excited—the woman was likely to explode. But once in the fashionable throng—even as something so little as a matron who sat on the sidelines with her friend—the woman would eventually hear the truth. She would learn what Irene was to Grant. And then, what would Irene do? How could she face the couple that treated her as their daughter?

  “We should go, don’t you think?” the lady asked, quivering in her excitement. “It would be good to get out, and I think it would be such a treat for Mrs. Schmitz.”

  Irene laughed. How could she not? And how could she deny her Mama such fun? “But of course we should go!” she said. Then she sobered a little. “Provided you understand that not everyone in the ton will be pleasant. You know that, right?”

  The older woman’s eyes softened, and she touched Irene’s cheek. “I am a German cit, my dear. Of course I know. But I will be able to see you there and watch you dance. And maybe that handsome Lord Crowle will ask me onto the floor for something easy. When I was a little girl, I would spin around and around until I fell down. My mother once said…”

  The memories went on, one after the other in a lovely parade of words. Irene had heard them all, of course, but not at a time in her life when she had the wisdom to appreciate the repetition. It was good to see Mama so happy, and good too to share in the excitement of preparing for a party. They started talking new clothes and new shoes as they wandered into the dining room, and Irene was served strong tea and a biscuit, as was her custom. Until about ten minutes later when Papa entered the room accompanied by a jowled, broad-shouldered fellow with kind brown eyes.

  Mama cut off her words immediately, her eyes growing worried as she looked at the two men, which, naturally, set Irene on edge. Meanwhile, Papa stepped forward and bussed her on the cheek. All perfectly normal, but when he squeezed her extra hard and held on even longer, Irene’s alarm nearly cut off her breath.

  Then before she could speak, her father-in-law stood back and gestured to the man at his side. “Irene, I think it’s time you met the copper who has been loitering about lately. This is Mr. Tanner. Don’t know as you’ve seen him—”