by Mia Vincy
Arabella began to undress.
Chapter 6
Guy’s mirth faltered. Arabella was actually doing this.
She slipped off her shoes and arranged them neatly, then unfastened her gown.
“Are you going to stand there and watch?” she demanded.
“Yes. I think I shall. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
A frustrated sound escaped her throat, which was much more arousing than it should have been. In the circumstances, he should not be getting aroused at all.
She undressed efficiently and entirely without self-consciousness, as if his opinion mattered as little as a chair’s. Once naked, she made no attempt to conceal herself, but stood tall and straight. Bloody hell. Arabella, naked in his drawing room. Her body was a breathtaking gallery of angles and curves, light and shadow, with the candlelight gilding the dark curls between her thighs, her pink nipples, the moles scattered over her skin like stars. His daft body responded helplessly. He had to remember to swallow, to breathe, to unclench his greedy, eager fists. And as for his cock… Well. He was in close proximity to a naked woman; no surprises there.
She perched on the edge of the oversized daybed, hands folded as if waiting for tea. “Now what?”
Good question.
“Take down your hair,” he ordered her.
“It is too difficult to pin up again. I must leave here looking as I did when I arrived.”
“You should leave now.”
“I shall leave when we have concluded this business.”
Bloody hell. What did a man do with an attractive and apparently willing woman, when his only aim was to make her admit she was wrong? He would not go through with this; of course he would not. But neither would he give in first. That was what mattered most: to watch her famous composure crumble, to compel her to scuttle away and never make demands of him again.
He was on the right track: Her shoulders were stiff, her muscles tense.
If her own nudity did not frighten her, then surely his would.
“Have you ever seen a naked man, Arabella, a virile young man? You may find it a fearsome sight to behold.”
“I shall make every effort to be impressed.”
Chuckling at her nonsense, watching her watching him, Guy slowly slipped his dressing gown off his shoulders, the silk and velvet pooling on the floor. Next was his shirt, tugged over his head and tossed at her. Impatiently, she flung it aside, and watched as he dispensed with his remaining clothes and presented himself.
Her gaze roamed over him; he fancied it a hot blue like the center of a flame, singeing his chest, his waist, his hips. With surprising boldness, her eyes lingered on his cock, which preened under the attention. Desire spread helplessly through his blood. He was vain enough to hope he impressed her, with this body forged by years of adventure, long marches and short skirmishes and heavy lifting. He had worked his body hard, and it had served him well, and if any women enjoyed the result, he would not object.
“You’re all muscle.” Her breathiness rippled over his skin.
“That’s not what I call it,” he said, and, with deliberate crudeness, wrapped one hand around his eager, upright cock.
A small mewl escaped her mouth. He took one step toward her, and another. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. Her breath caught.
She was troubled, unquiet. Good.
“Lie down,” he said.
She didn’t move.
“So you’ll be leaving, then.”
Her shoulders flinched, and she slid up the daybed with sinuous grace. Guy placed his knees on either side of hers and crawled over her length until their faces were level. He moved slowly, to give her time to escape. Time, too, for her scent and warmth to curl over his skin and take possession of his senses. Stars above, but she was lovely, her body a carnival of angles and curves that his fingers and mouth longed to explore.
He would not. He could see to himself later, after she had fled.
“Now,” he murmured, his mouth inches from her own, “are you ready to be ravished?”
One of her legs knocked against his own and bounced away. She would not last long, if she could not bear to be touched.
“No need for a ravishing.” Breathiness undermined her attempt at hauteur. “If you would simply proceed to—”
“Oh, Arabella, sweetheart, have you learned nothing about seduction? No, no, no.”
Shifting his weight to one arm, he splayed his other hand over her chest. His fingers nudged her collarbones, and the heel of his hand savored the warm swell of her breasts. The incongruous sight of his rough, tanned fingers against her delicate skin and fine bones was unexpectedly arousing, and he fought the urge to traverse those few desperate inches and palm her soft breasts. She trailed her eyes along the length of this arm. He shifted so his cock brushed against her. She gasped, jerked, lay still. He nipped her ear; again she jerked and gasped.
“I don’t think you’re ready yet.” He traced lazy patterns over the no-man’s land between her throat and breasts. “Whatever shall I do?”
She reared up slightly. “You can stop toying with me, for one.”
“You started it,” he growled. Fighting his own desire became harder with every second he hovered over her. “You came here to play with me, but this is a dangerous game—a game you are guaranteed to lose. Admit you were wrong, that this was a mistake, and go.”
A rueful expression crossed her face, chased away by what he might have called amusement, were it not for her lack of mirth.
Then she sighed, sounding impatient and bored. “I had not expected this to involve so much talking. Do hurry up, Guy. I don’t have all night.”
A fine performance, but her muscles were tight and her heart pounded under his hand. Any moment now, she would realize her mistake and flee, proving to them both that she could not make him obey.
Speaking of obeying…
“Touch me,” he ordered.
Her eyes roamed over him, burning his skin.
“Your shoulders…” she murmured. “They’re very…”
Her expression was fleeting, but he saw it: hunger. Arabella, who had been trained to show no enthusiasm or passion, suffered not from anxiety but desire. The knowledge acted like oil on the fire of his lust. Damn her. He did not need another aphrodisiac.
He had misjudged. He should stop this. Now.
And give in before Arabella admitted defeat? Never!
Soon. She would find an excuse to go soon, spout some nonsense to salvage her pride.
Her hand fluttered onto his upper arm, danced upward to his shoulder. Guy turned his head and watched, as she reverently traced the indent between his muscles.
Yet she had flinched under his touch; touch would be her undoing.
He shifted beside her on the daybed. Barely leashing his lust, he trailed his hands over her: along her throat, into the dip above her collarbone, across her shoulders and down her arms, over her belly, her waist, lingering on the crests of her hips. He stroked her thighs to her knees and back again, his eyes seeking her reactions. She withheld them all.
He was determined to coax them from her.
Where his fingers failed, his mouth would succeed. He nibbled the smooth, warm curves of her shoulder, dragged his lips back to her throat, nipped at her ear, and then—
She moaned. The sound shot straight to his groin. He jerked up as she slapped a hand over her traitorous mouth. Aha! She was embarrassed. Almost there.
“What on earth are you doing?” she said. “Why don’t you…”
Laughing raggedly at this self-inflicted agony, Guy tangled his fingers in hers and pressed her hand over her head. She licked her lips. Swallowed hard. Breathed out. Their eyes met, hers as potent as the desert sky. Fierce, unbounded, bold.
He fell. He fell into those fathomless eyes, until some part of him was lost, as if in the desert, as if under the night sky. This woman’s fierceness and vastness and vulnerability—they merged and mingled, like a heavenly blanket woven around him
. The sensation was humbling and inspiring, diminishing and enlarging. He tried to shake it off, because he knew—he knew!—he was just a man and she was just a woman and this act was nothing extraordinary and yet— It possessed him, this fantastic conviction that there was so much more, that she held infinite possibilities, this maddening, demanding, vibrant woman.
And something new entered her eyes, a touch of confusion, but something more, something beautiful and vivifying. Her free hand feathered over his face, as if checking he was real. He was real. Never had he been more real.
No longer could he bear to look at her, for fear he might see the heavens, so he closed his eyes and kissed her lips, because it seemed the only thing left to do.
When their mouths met, delight struck him like a dizzy spell. Like a goddess she rose into him, pushed her mouth fiercely into his, dueled with his tongue. She wound an arm around his neck, melded him to her as she crushed her breasts to his chest. A soft sound escaped her; he tried to capture it with his tongue, plundering her mouth as she plundered his. He planted a knee between her thighs, and she wrapped a leg around him like a vine.
A wild fury simmered deep inside her; he vowed to unleash it. That was her façade crumbling. Yes, yes! That was what he sought.
He wrenched his mouth from hers, dragged his hungry lips along her throat, tasting and teasing her skin. And her tantalizing breasts: He tormented them too, rewarded by her heel pounding his buttocks, by her fingers gripping the muscles in his back, by the animal sounds issuing from her perfect mouth.
Finally, he slipped his fingers between her thighs, his brain melting from her scent as he teased her. Her eyes were indigo and wild, her breathing ragged, and every mewl and gasp further heated his blood.
With a growl she grabbed his head and kissed him, savage and demanding, always demanding. Still he stroked her, relentlessly, even as her hips bucked, as her fingernails tore his skin, as her mouth devoured him. Exhilarated, undeterred, he pushed his fingers inside her; she besieged him with teeth and lips and every limb, hammering, squeezing, clutching. She was not gentle; he did not want her to be. He ignored the roar of his own desire as he dedicated himself to the delicious compulsion to pleasure this passionate creature.
“Make it stop now!” she cried and slapped his bicep, but when he tried to pull away, she gripped him hard, hissing, “I need you to touch me more. Curse you. You must touch me more!”
Exhilaration made him light-headed, laughing, yet still his fingers worked, so that finally—
She cried out and shuddered and gasped. Sensations visibly rippled over her, distorting her face. He was stunned: What ferocious beauty!
Then she lay still and breathed. “Guy,” she sighed.
Finally, a victory. It dimly occurred to him that was not the victory he had originally sought, but the thought dissolved when confusion entered her eyes.
“Please…” She glared at him. “Do it, curse you.”
Lust stole his last resistance. He moved over her, arranged her limbs, and thrust inside her on a wave of pleasure and relief. She released a long sound like the wind on the moors; too late, he remembered it was her first time. He stilled. Her closed eyelids quivered, but if she felt any pain, she betrayed no sign. He waited, trembling, testing his strength, until she took a deep, shuddering breath.
When she opened her eyes, they were dark, wild. Her legs were tempestuous around his waist, her palms were savage on his back, and his name catapulted off her lips like a command. “Guy.”
And he was lost. Every thrust of his hips unleashed her passionate fury all over again. He could not be gentle, for she fought to get closer, to take control of something she didn’t understand. It was like being buffeted by a gale, being enveloped from beneath, and he held on fiercely, taking his pleasure with an intensity he could not fight. Her nails dug into his back; her muscles gripped his cock. Bliss almost blinded him, and he barely managed to pull out and spend his seed onto his abandoned shirt.
He collapsed, aiming for the cushions, mostly hitting them; they thundered with the echoes of his heart, pleasure still swirling through him like a typhoon. The air shivered over the sweat on his skin. He had just enough strength left in his tortured limbs to slide his arms around her and gather her up, to hold her against him, hold her close.
The air on her skin was cool; Guy’s dozing body was hot. Arabella stared at the ceiling moldings, traced the patterns, counted Guy’s breaths. Anything to silence her screaming mind and distract herself so she would not weep.
She never wept, and she must not weep here, now. She must not relax against him, curl into him, revel in the feeling of his hot, hard body, in the comfort of his heartbeat, in the musky smell of sex.
She could do none of that. She must rise, dress, walk the few streets home.
Carry on.
She eased away from him in inches, hoping to dress and escape while he slept. She rolled off the daybed, dropped onto the floor, hesitated, dizzy, fearing her astonished limbs were drained of strength. Somehow, she climbed to her feet, tiptoed to her gown, found her kerchief, and pressed the linen against her still-pulsing quim. It came away with a tiny dark smear, nothing she would call blood. It had not been particularly painful either; uncomfortable at first, certainly. Not… Well. She had expected something surgical at best, sordid at worst. But instead, it had been…
Oh so help her, never had she imagined that—that—whatever that was. The glory of his touch, of his mouth, of his body joining to hers. The way his touch skimmed over her skin and into her veins, stripping her of everything but sensation and fury. And his body! Its hard muscle and hot skin and heavy weight, its maddening, magnificent immovability, the roughness of his palms, of the hairs on his legs. And oh! the relentless pleasure that his fingers dealt. And that hunger that exploded inside her, that fierce, wild, desperate hunger to possess.
Now she ached, not in her body, but in another of those concealed parts of herself. As though something deep inside of her had crashed open, an iron gate to a secret garden, and she could not close it again. That was where the ache lay, and with it this terrible urge to weep.
She balled the kerchief in her hand, squeezed her eyes shut. Her legs threatened to fail her; she gripped the edge of a table to keep herself upright and tilted her face to the indifferent heavens. She must pull herself together. She must stop feeling this.
What had he done to her? What on earth had he done?
A sound. Startled like a deer, she turned. Guy was awake, watching her, carelessly, indolently naked. He was frowning, his expression soft.
Soft with worry. With tenderness. With pity.
“Arabella?” He reared up in a single movement. “Are you all right?”
He had seen. Curse him. He had witnessed her moment of weakness, of despair. Realization lashed her, like a whip at her heart: He saw past her façade to the hidden parts of herself, to that shrouded, panicked part that knew to fear Sculthorpe, that secret, wondrous part that exulted in Guy.
In a few minutes, she would walk home. In a month or so, she would marry Sculthorpe. Her life would go on, with Guy always on the edges; Guy, who had seen her, furious and passionate, raw and weak, helpless and alone.
Her heart wanted to say: When you held me in your arms, I did not feel alone. Her heart wanted to say: Please help me. There is no one else and I am afraid.
She opened her mouth to speak her heart, to the caring in his eyes and the concern on his face. But no, her pride screamed, he will mock you, pity you, and you will never recover from that.
So her blasted pride took control of her mouth and spoke other words instead.
“You must be engaged to me now,” she said coldly. “I was a virgin and now I am not.”
His features hardened and the traces of compassion vanished, like a delicate songbird chased away by the ferocious, snarling bulldog of her pride.
“So that was your scheme, after all,” he growled.
Lip curled with scorn, he threw himself
back against the cushions, naked, decadent, uncaring. Red marks marred his golden skin. She had put them there.
“Because honor demands I marry you? So you would use my honor as a weapon against me.” He laughed, rough and mirthless. “A baron isn’t good enough for you, then? Still you angle for a marquess. If only you had some principles to go with your ambition! To think I was worried about you. Stars above, but I’m a fool.”
She could not bear to look at his face, so she whipped up his banyan and tossed it over his head. He slapped at it, shrugged it on, and fell back onto the daybed to watch her dress, insolent, impassive, irate. In her haste, she missed buttons, but whirled her cloak over them; it was barely two minutes’ walk home. Every item of clothing strengthened her like a suit of armor, helped her wrestle those unruly emotions back where they belonged.
“Did Clare know your plans for me?” Guy asked. “How are you two even acquainted? Do you take tea together and discuss your betrothed, the man who forced her into a life as a courtesan?”
“You don’t know,” she said with wonder. “Oh Guy, you and your honor.”
He snorted. “You adore my honor. In case you aren’t clear, I’ll never marry you. This—” He waved an arm at the daybed. “This means nothing. I owe you nothing.”
Arabella shook her head. He would never understand, he who swam in power like a fish in water. She had chosen him deliberately, used him ruthlessly: the one man certain not to be cruel, the one man whose discretion was assured, because if this became public, they would have to marry, and he was the one man certain to never marry her.
“I suppose no one has told you the truth about Clare Ivory.” She fumbled for coins to buy his servant’s silence. “But then, no one ever tells you things you don’t want to hear. Sculthorpe did not seduce and ruin Miss Ivory. They had a contract. She sold her virginity to him for three hundred pounds. She chose to be a courtesan.”
He sat up slowly. “Impossible. As my wife, she’d have received a lot more than three hundred pounds.”
“Oh, Guy. You lack sense at times, but one could never accuse you of lacking a heart.”