To Seduce a Stranger

by Susanna Craig

  “Ah.” Privately, he had to wonder if the man’s eyesight had been failing as well as his heart. Good God. One glimpse of Charlotte’s bare shoulder was enough to raise him from the dead.

  “I told him I did not mind. I never wanted, never allowed myself to want that,” she corrected. “Yet . . .”

  “You are human.”

  “Perhaps they were right about me,” she continued as if she had not heard him—or as if she meant to deny what he said. “Perhaps I am more French than English. Because in the end . . .”

  “What do you want, Charlotte?” The question was a whisper now, but he would keep asking until she answered.

  “I don’t have words to tell you,” she insisted with a small shake of her head.

  “En anglais? Alors, parle français.”

  “No. I do not believe speaking French would help me now—if it ever has.” Once more, her gaze dipped to the floor. “I want . . . you.”

  That single word fell on him like an answer to prayer. A prayer he had not even been aware of making. A selfish, sinful sort of prayer.

  But, oh, he wanted her too.

  Which was the reason he forced himself to ask her, “Why?”

  “Because I have always been afraid. And you make me feel safe.”

  It was hardly a declaration of love. Not that he had expected one. God knew he had no business wanting one. This could not be about the future, about forever. But for one night, he would not let his fears keep him from giving her everything they both desired. Only her own fear stood in their way now.

  “Of what have you been so frightened?” he asked.

  “Of myself.”

  Rising to his knees before her, he rested his hands on the arms of the chair, one on either side of her body. And waited until she faced him once more.

  “The words you seek are simple enough,” he said when she had raised her eyes to his. “Yes or no. In French or in English. It does not matter. I will ask, and you need say just one word in reply.”

  “Yes or no . . .” she echoed on a whisper. “And you will heed that one word?”

  “Always.” It would be torture. The sweetest torture imaginable.

  “But what if—what if I am not sure?”

  “Then say no. You can change your mind later. You are always free to choose . . .”

  Her dark eyes widened, framed by spiky black lashes and a few damp tendrils of hair that had escaped their pins. Freedom was a revelation.

  He had seen enough men and women in chains, both real and imagined, to know the value of freedom. But he did not know if he had ever met another soul who had built those chains, link by link, to imprison her true self.

  For all his failures, he at last had in his hands the power to set someone free.

  The distance between the arm of the chair and her face, the distance his trembling hand had to travel, stretched for miles. At last, however, he reached her. He dragged the tip of one finger over her lips.

  “May I kiss you here?”

  He felt her warm breath before he heard her answer. “Yes.”

  Softly, slowly, he brushed his mouth over hers. Gentle. Sweet. Anticipation was an almost painful pleasure, building with each sensation, the way her lips parted ever so slightly, then began to respond, moving beneath his, giving back—lightly, tentatively—what they received.

  Next, he brushed aside a loose lock of hair with his fingertips and traced the delicate shell of her ear. “May I kiss you here?”

  The surprise in her eyes made his heart flip in his chest. What had he done, that she should entrust him with the honor of introducing her to these delights? To say nothing of the delights yet to come.

  “Yes.”

  He allowed himself to do little more than brush her ear with his lips, to breathe in her scent, to breathe out her name. “Charlotte.” Trailing his fingers down the soft curve of her neck, he paused at the ridge of her collarbone. “Here?”

  Beneath his touch, she swallowed. “Yes.”

  With a string of kisses, he traced the same path, sucking the pulse point at the base of her throat, then nibbling his way back to her ear to trace its graceful whorl with his tongue.

  “Yes.” More exhalation than speech.

  Smiling into her neck, he murmured, “Best not give me carte blanche just yet.”

  Some of the familiar stiffness returned to her frame, and she drew back. “I did not mean—”

  “I know.” She was not ready to be teased. At least, not with words. He returned his hands to the arms of the chair. Held his mouth over hers, almost, but not quite touching. And waited. Counted to ten, while she ventured closer by fractions that would defy measurement. Knew, felt when she wetted her lips with the very tip of her tongue right before she reached him, before their mouths met in a kiss so cautious it hardly deserved the name. Still, it sparked along his skin, made him dig his fingers into the worn upholstery to quell a shudder of need. At this pace, the night would slip away and leave them both unsatisfied.

  What better excuse did he need to turn one night into many nights? Into forever.

  She leaned closer, increased the pressure of her mouth against his, more eager, but still obviously uncertain. It was his turn to whisper “Yes,” to breathe that word of encouragement across her trembling lips, which parted, although no word passed them. Merely a kiss. Innocent, sweet. The sort that would bring a hardened rake to his knees.

  Well, he was already on his knees, but certainly no rake—in truth, his experience was so limited as to be laughable. In this moment he hardly knew whether that was something to be celebrated or regretted. He could almost wish himself as perfectly innocent as she. But also, somehow, skilled enough to feel certain he could bring her perfect pleasure.

  Out of their shared uncertainty, they built the kiss with care. Instinctively, she tipped one way, he the other. The soft brush of lips grew firm. The tentative flick of one tongue became a slick tangle of two. Deeper. Longer. Until the air they drew was nothing more or less than one another’s breath, leaving them both light-headed and panting.

  When he drew back, her plump lips released him with obvious reluctance. Gradually, her eyes opened, as if she were awakening from an enchanted slumber. What expression did he hope to see in their depths?

  He was not fortunate enough to find out. Her lids lifted only far enough to discover that the blanket in which she had been wrapped had slipped to her waist, revealing her shift. With a quick movement, she grabbed it in both hands and tugged it firmly up to her chin, then winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My—my—” One finger creeped out of its hiding place enough to gesture at the point where her neck and shoulder met.

  He recalled her struggle to brush her own hair. “Still sore from all that cleaning you shouldn’t have done?”

  A tiny, guilty nod. Two more of her fingers slipped free to work at the knotted muscle.

  “Will you let me do that?”

  Her dark brows dipped together. “I—I suppose.”

  He laid his hand on her shoulder, firmly ran his thumb over the point she had indicated, kneading her soft skin. A gasp parted her lips. When he repeated the motion, her eyes drooped closed and some of the tension began to ebb from her body. On the third pass he leaned in, just to brush her mouth with his, and in another moment, all his ministrations were for her sweet, coaxing lips. Her aching neck and shoulders had been forgotten.

  Until he cupped her head with his hand to draw her closer, and her answering whimper spoke more of pain than pleasure.

  Chiding himself for his selfishness, he broke the kiss. First things first. After a momentary study of the best way to proceed, he rose and dragged his makeshift bed closer to the fire. “Here,” he said, patting the center. “Sit.”

  Hesitantly, she uncurled from the chair, rose, and did as he asked, arranging herself with her legs crossed beneath her, facing the fire. The blanket she wrapped around herself, shawl fashion, allowing it to sag just enough that th
e tops of her shoulders showed. He sat behind her, his back propped against the chair she had abandoned. “This way, I won’t be tempted to kiss you instead.”

  True, the position hid her face from him. But he had not reckoned on the temptations every other part of her seemed to provide. The way a few loose tendrils of hair curled along her neck, marking out winding paths to all the other places he longed to kiss. The curve of her throat, the plump lobe of her ear. Well, the rest of him was simply going to have to be as strong as years of hard work had made his hands. With care, he began to massage her shoulders with long, even strokes that moved steadily upward and outward, drawing her discomfort away. Each touch was rewarded with a moan or a murmur that seemed designed to direct his fingers where she most wanted them to go. Harder. Higher. Here—just here. With each sound, he felt an answering thickening in his groin.

  Still, he held his desire in check. Seeking the tender spot behind one shoulder blade, he met the edge of her shift and prepared to pass over it, when the tightly gathered fabric seemed all at once to loosen and let his fingers slip beneath instead. Charlotte must have untied the bow between her breasts. With the sweep of his palms, her shift slid lower, and then there was nothing between his hands and the silky skin of her upper back. Gently—as gently as he could manage—he eased every knot, every ache, every twinge he could find, each one set free with a gasp or a sigh that settled over him like a touch.

  On one pass upward, almost to her hairline, the tip of his thumb brushed against something rough. The scratch from her fall the morning after they arrived. “Does that still hurt?”

  “No.” As if she had not spoken for days, her voice was husky, too low almost to be heard. She shook her head, too, making the firelight shimmer over her skin.

  He sat more upright, desperate, suddenly, for the power to heal all her hurts.

  “May I kiss you there?”

  This time she did not speak, merely tipped her head forward in a nod of assent that bared the back of her neck to his lips.

  “Better?” he asked, when he lifted his head.

  “Yes.”

  Reluctantly, he withdrew his hands and raised the blanket to cover her again. Her shoulders sloped beneath the woolen fabric, more relaxed than he had ever seen her. “Would you like me to take down your hair so it can dry?”

  “Please.”

  Tugging loose her hairpins, one by one, he deposited them in an empty teacup. When her dark hair tumbled free, he spread it over her shoulders, a curtain of coffee-colored silk that smelled like spring rain.

  “This reminds me of the ride to Ravenswood,” she said.

  A huff of laughter escaped him. “Cold and wet?” Then, more serious, he added, “You were frightened then.”

  “At first. Then I realized that with you behind me, holding me, I was secure. Safe. Free.” Her chin lifted as she turned her head, not quite looking over her shoulder. “Will you hold me that way again?”

  If he pressed tight to her, she would discover how aroused he was. How would she react? Was it possible she already knew?

  He drew another ragged breath and eased closer. When he tightened his thighs around hers, he expected to feel her stiffen and pull away.

  Instead, she wiggled more securely into the vee of his spread legs. As he had the afternoon of their rainy ride, he snaked his left arm around her waist. Only the sturdy fabric of the blanket, bunched now around her middle, offered a meager barrier between his hand and the soft weight of her breast, between the plump globes of her bottom and his hardness.

  Until, that was, she tugged the blanket loose and tossed it aside. “I’m not cold anymore.”

  “Indeed not,” he managed to say. She was perilously close to setting him on fire.

  A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a plume of sparks. “What comes next?” she asked.

  You do.

  He bit down, hard, upon his lower lip to keep himself from speaking that answer aloud. Steady. Until tonight, he had always imagined himself a patient man.

  “That’s up to you,” he said instead.

  She had told him she wanted him, but could he really be certain what those words meant? Coming from a widow, a woman of experience, who found herself missing the sort of companionship to which her marriage had accustomed her, their meaning had been clear enough. He—and perhaps every other clerk at the shipping warehouse where he had been apprenticed—had known such a widow once, in the buxom person of Mrs. Amelia Tate-Wetheby.

  But such words might mean something else entirely from a woman of no experience who seemed wary of desire—her own as well as others’.

  While his mind raced, her right hand crept to cover his where it lay spread on his own thigh, the better to keep it from wandering where it ought not. Slowly she entwined her fingers with his, then lifted his hand toward the firelight. With the fingers of her other hand, she traced the breadth of his palm, around his calluses, inscribing a circle on his palm. “I don’t know—”

  “I think you do. Trust yourself,” he urged. “Close your eyes. Feel what you need. Breathe . . .”

  Carefully, she drew his hand to her breast.

  Was she truly ready? He was going to have to trust her, too. Cupping her breast, he allowed himself a moment simply to revel in its fullness before brushing his thumb along the edge of her puckered areola. She sucked in a breath and her chest rose, but she did not pull away.

  “Yes?” He hissed the hopeful question into the sharp peak of her shoulder blade before turning it into a kiss.

  “Yes.”

  Her nipple pebbled against his palm, and remembering how it had felt between his lips, he longed for her to turn around, that he might watch her face while he stroked her, might set his tongue to that firm bud. But their current position had been her request. She felt safe in his arms, she had said. So he held her tighter still, as his fingers fondled and played over the silky fabric of her shift and his lips skated over every inch of her neck and back he could reach.

  When her whimper of longing grew almost fretful, he allowed the hand wrapped around her waist to slide lower, over the curve of her belly. “Let me touch you here.” No longer a question. He wanted, needed to feel her shatter in his arms.

  An almost imperceptible hesitation. Perhaps not really hesitation at all . . .

  He stopped. “No?”

  “I—” He saw her lashes flutter down. Had she closed her eyes? Or was she watching his hand, making sure it stayed put? “Are you certain?”

  Certain of his desire for her? God, yes. It was a wild thing snapping at the bars of its flimsy cage. He could not remember ever wanting anyone, anything with such intensity.

  Certain that acting on his desire was the right thing to do? By no means.

  “I want you, Charlotte. Make no mistake about that. But if you are not certain, that is all that matters.”

  “It’s just that everything suddenly feels so . . . strange.” Her head tipped forward. “Down there.”

  In the nick of time, he buried his smile in her damp hair. It was really a matter for pity, when he thought about it. She had been so determined to prove the gossips wrong about her moral character, she had never even let herself experience arousal. As he smoothed his palms over her hipbones and down her thighs, he urged them gently apart. Her shift, already hitched above her knees, inched higher. “Open your legs,” he whispered. “Feel the cool night air. Feel the heat of the fire against your skin.”

  When he had given her a moment to accustom herself to the sensations, he spoke what he hoped were words of reassurance. “You’re wet. And I’m hard. That’s just our bodies’ way of saying they are ready for each other.” Another pause. “But we don’t have to listen to them.” God knew his cock oughtn’t to be trusted with making decisions right now.

  She brought her legs together again, shuffling backward so her body was tight against his. “I feel you.”

  “And am I—?” He swallowed hard and began again. “Am I to be accorded a similar
pleasure?”

  Slowly, she parted her thighs once more. “Oui.”

  In the part of his brain not fogged with lust, her answer registered. Had the French word been a deliberate choice? It felt, somehow, like a sign that she was giving him her truest self.

  With a palm laid against each of her legs, he swept his hands upward again and again, over her shift at first, then under, caressing the soft, delicate skin of her inner thighs, stopping always at the crease where her legs joined her body. When it seemed to him that the tension in those muscles spoke more of eagerness than uncertainty, he allowed himself to play over her dark, silky curls, his touch at first feather light, then firmer, until her fingers, which had been spread on his thighs, began to curl and knead, a silent plea for more.

  At last, he dipped into her wetness. “Ah, Charlotte. So good. You feel so good.” He whispered reassurance at her ear, though she no longer seemed to require it. Her breath hitched as his fingertips slid higher, brushed against her pearl. Vaguely, he considered what her answer might be if he asked to kiss her there.

  While one hand played below, the other rose to tease and pluck her nipples. Her spine arced and before he could wonder whether she would struggle to find release, after holding it at bay for so long, she was shuddering in his arms, swallowing a little cry of ecstasy. Easing her down onto his bed, he curled his body around hers and held her until she stopped trembling.

  Just when he thought she had fallen asleep, she stirred again and turned in his arms to face him. “I—I didn’t know.” Tears streaked her cheeks. He kissed them away, hoping she would never have cause to regret her newfound knowledge.

  In this position, there was no disguising his need. The swell of her belly cradled his erection, which nudged against her as if it had a mind of its own. But she did not shy from it.

  The hand that had wrapped itself around his ribs slid upward to loosen his cravat, unwound the streamer of linen from his throat, then found its way beneath the collar of his shirt. Her fingertips swirled mesmerizing patterns in the smattering of hair on his chest; her fingernails lightly scored his skin. With whisper-soft lips, she kissed the hollow at the base of his throat.