My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  She’d never felt so powerful. Even as he continued to caress her, sending glittering sparks throughout her body, she savored the measure of her sovereignty. He lavished her with sensation as she bestowed pleasure to him.

  “Enough,” he rasped and laid a restraining palm over her hand.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Like it too much. But there’s something I want.” He nuzzled along her neck before lightly biting her throat. “I want to taste you. Will you let me?” His gaze flicked downward—he didn’t mean tasting her mouth.

  She’d read about it, of course. The Lady of Dubious Quality had a remarkable way of describing what it was like when someone licked a woman’s quim, and the thought of it had inspired Grace many times as she’d touched herself. To experience it for herself . . .

  “Please,” she said in a husky whisper.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  She shivered from his rough demand. This delightful, commanding Sebastian stoked her arousal higher. “I want you to taste me. Between my legs.”

  God, if she could only capture the sound he made and listen to it every day for the rest of her life. It was the primal sound of a highly aroused man. Not any man. Sebastian.

  He pressed scorching kisses along her throat, then lower, just above the neckline of her gown. She released her hold on his cock as he continued to move down her body. And then he knelt between her legs, gently easing up her skirts before tugging off her drawers. She watched the focused desire on his face as he beheld her bared quim, and his hunger made her own need blaze.

  Before she could plead with him to please, please put his mouth on her, he lowered down and gave her folds one long, slow lick. She cried out. And when he sucked on her sensitive flesh, she cried out again.

  He consumed her. There was no other way of describing it. He feasted on her with a single-mindedness that robbed her of the ability to do anything but lie back and let herself be pleasured. Nothing had ever felt so wondrous—or so she believed until he slid his finger into her passage and she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle her scream of ecstasy.

  She’d wanted him, wanted this, forever. And to have him now worshipping her body—as though she was everything to him—filled her with a wild and uncontrolled joy.

  His tongue lapped at her and circled her clitoris, while he stroked in and out of her with his finger. Deep within her, he found and caressed a swollen spot.

  “Sebastian. Yes. Oh, God. I—”

  She broke into thousands, millions of fragments. It wracked her sharply. But he didn’t stop, and no sooner had she collected herself than another orgasm shattered her. And another. Was it possible to die from pleasure? If so, she didn’t care, so long as he kept making her feel this way.

  She’d experienced release before at her own hands. Yet it was as if she’d never known what it was to feel ecstasy because what he gave her was so much better, both ruthless and giving. It was as though he would do anything to give her pleasure.

  Eons or seconds later, he lay beside her, his expression gratified as well as hungry.

  “I’d read about that,” she said, her words lightly slurred. “But it’s so much better than I could have imagined.”

  She tasted herself on his lips when he kissed her.

  “I’d like to fuck you now.” A stain of color spread across his face, as though he shocked himself with his own profane language. His voice was taut, and even though she’d just had a number of orgasms, desire slammed back into her to hear him speak such earthy words. “I’ll be careful. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “Yes.”

  He moved to lie between her thighs. She opened eagerly for him, and her breath caught when he gripped one of her legs, hitching it high.

  His cock rubbed between her folds before he fit the head at her entrance. His gaze found hers. Then he thrust, filling her.

  She gasped. At the same time, he gave a deep, carnal growl.

  He was inside her, and her heart was as full as her body, completely suffused by him. Yet, for all her joy, a small whimper escaped her.

  “Hurting?” His brow creased.

  “A little . . .” He moved to pull out, but she wrapped her free leg tighter around him. “Stay. Stay inside me. Just . . . give me some time.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. Clearly, waiting cost him, but he did so. He held still as she breathed through the pain and her body relaxed to accommodate him, gradual waves of loosening until the hurt lessened, bit by bit. Then it was gone, and all she felt was pleasure.

  She pressed up, taking him deeper.

  “Grace . . .” His groan was pained.

  She canted her hips, working herself on him. With each movement, pleasure burst through her and behind her eyes.

  “Oh, hell, yes,” he hissed.

  She went slowly at first but could not stop herself from moving faster and faster still. It wasn’t enough. She needed more. More of him.

  “Fuck me, Sebastian.” She cupped her hand over the bare curve of his arse as she spoke words that she’d only read but always wanted to say. “Fuck me the way you’ve wanted to.”

  “God—” He could only rasp out one syllable before he began to thrust. Hard, powerful strokes that made her jolt.

  Lord above, but she loved it. He was rough and forceful, giving his entire self to this marvelously earthy act. He was over her, and she was beneath him, spread wide for his enjoyment.

  And then he moved, twisting so that he lay on his back and she straddled him. She braced her hands on his chest as she looked down into his face, gone rigid with ecstasy.

  “Your turn,” he rumbled. His hands gripped her hips with almost bruising force. “Fuck me the way you’ve wanted to.”

  His coarse directive was her undoing. She rode him, stroking up and down on his cock, losing herself to a frenzy that claimed every inch of her. Her head tipped forward as she leaned into sensation. Opening her eyes, she saw him lick his thumb and reach down between their slick bodies. He thrust up into her just as he circled her clitoris with his finger.

  She clamped her teeth together to keep from crying out as another climax split her apart. It went on and on, until, at last, she sprawled atop him.

  They spun once more, until she was back beneath him. He plunged into her, a handful of heavy, solid thrusts, each one accompanied by his pleasured grunt, before he pulled out and groaned his release, droplets spattering on her belly.

  He lowered himself beside her. There were no sounds other than Grace’s and Sebastian’s own slowing breaths. The village was quiet—everyone had found their own beds. Maybe some of the villagers were doing just what she and Sebastian had done. If so, bless them. Everyone should have that kind of fathomless pleasure.

  The rain had stopped, with an immense, velvet quiet following.

  Sebastian’s arm wrapped around her waist, and he rested his lips against the crown of her head. She felt protected. Adored. Tenderness swept through her.

  “Grace,” he said, his breath warm on her. “You don’t have to worry.”

  “I know,” she murmured. He’d been careful, as he said he would be, ensuring he didn’t get her with child.

  He exhaled with what sounded like relief. “Good. I’m glad. I won’t ask more from you. You and I . . . we’re friends, and I don’t want to rob you of your dreams.”

  She frowned in confusion, unable to make sense of what he said. Her mind snagged on the word friends. “My dreams?”

  “Of Fredericks,” he said quietly. “He’s who you want. And you and I can go on as we have, put this behind us. It was a onetime madness. An error in judgment, never to be repeated.”

  Dismay nearly choked her. Was it true—he thought making love with her had been a mistake?

  God, she’d been so idiotic. He’d said that their adventure was like the old days of their friendship, and, absurdly, she had let her ungovernable emotions rule her. When he’d touched her, when he’d been inside her, she hadn’
t felt friendliness toward him. She’d felt . . . she wasn’t certain what to call her wildly careening emotions, but they overwhelmed her, muddled her thoughts. They had, until he’d brought her back to solid ground.

  Clearly, she’d been alone in her overwrought emotions.

  Never would she have anyone—Sebastian in particular—feel for her a sense of obligation but not love. That was the worst kind of trap and presaged a lifetime of misery.

  “Glad we’re in agreement,” she made herself say, though she hurt as if she spoke in knives not words. “We’ll chalk it up to curiosity.”

  “Nothing more.” He was quiet for a moment. “So . . . friends?”

  “Friends,” she said.

  As she lay in his arms, she squeezed her eyes shut against the confusion and pain that threatened to obliterate all the ecstasy she’d just experienced.

  Chapter 21

  Grace sat opposite Seb for the carriage ride back to the city. She didn’t cram herself into a corner, trying to gain as much distance between them as possible, but she never met his gaze, and whenever their knees bumped from the sway of the vehicle, she quickly moved them aside. As if they hadn’t just engaged in the most intimate, carnal act two people could. As if he hadn’t held her in his arms, treasuring how their heartbeats aligned as they quieted in the aftermath.

  He clenched his hands into fists as they rested beside him. Several times, he opened his mouth, but then shut it again. What could he say to her?

  Though it had devastated him, he’d made certain that she knew he expected nothing from her. She’d no obligation to him. They’d given in to their attraction, and while it had altered the very terrain of Seb’s world like an earthquake, he had made certain that if she had set her heart on someone else, Seb wouldn’t stand in her path. To ask for anything more was a violation of their friendship, and he respected her too much to demand something she didn’t want to give.

  With that, she’d withdrawn from him, as though, after receiving permission to walk away, she did just that.

  The spring night cooled with each passing minute, but it was nothing compared to the chill within the carriage. The iciness clenched around him, squeezing air from his lungs.

  How long was this damned ride back to town?

  He peered behind the carriage window curtain to see the streets of Camden Town streaming past. He knocked on the roof of the carriage, and the vehicle slowed.

  “Why are we stopping?” This was the first Grace had spoken since she’d agreed that they were to remain friends.

  “I’ll walk from here.” He put his hand on the door, eager to be anywhere else but with her and the reminder that she wanted someone else.

  She leaned forward. “It’s miles back to Howland Street.”

  When had he told her where he resided? But her words were still tight and distant.

  “A mile and a half, truly,” he said, forcing himself to sound jovial. “Not far.”

  “I see.” She sat back, and while the physical space between them wasn’t much altered, the expanse seemed to stretch into infinity.

  He’d half hoped she might protest and insist that they continue to ride together. If not all the way to Howland Street, then perhaps until they reached Mayfair. But that wasn’t to be. And he shouldn’t feel disappointed that she’d agreed to his decision to walk.

  The carriage stopped. With relief, Seb opened the door before the footman could, and stepped down from the vehicle. The residential streets of Camden Town were empty, befitting his mood. After the crush of people at the Viscount Marwood’s ball, and the village festivities, nothing suited him better than solitude. He was too raw and tender for other people, other voices.

  Though that could change—if she said she wanted him to stay with her.

  He turned to Grace, one hand on the door. She remained in the shadows, wordless, her hands clasped together in her lap.

  What was there to say? “Thank you,” seemed too paltry, and she likely didn’t want to hear him add, “for the most incredible experience of my entire life.”

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Good night,” she answered, as if they were still friends who met at the Benezra Library and the occasional trip to a lecture or exhibit. Exactly what he’d offered, and she’d agreed to his terms.

  Chilled to his marrow, he shut the door behind him and began to walk. The carriage wheels clattered over the road as it drove on, passing him. He didn’t slow to watch it disappear down the street, going south, back to life as it had been.

  But it couldn’t return to normalcy. Such a feat was impossible. He would never look at her again without recalling the feel of her mouth against his, or the sweet, spicy taste of her, or the way her gaze filled with desire and wonder and something that came close to adoration when she had been beneath him.

  He walked with long, brisk strides past the dark spread of Regent’s Park, and along streets of refined new homes. After the tense confines of the carriage, it felt good to move and breathe the chill night air. He passed a few wagons trundling along, and a quartet of soldiers staggering as they sang a regimental tune. The men had their arms slung around each other’s necks while they leaned together, offering support. Likely, they’d been in battle together, survived Bonaparte, seen the best and worst of humanity together.

  A stab of longing pierced Seb. Not for war—his father had flatly refused to buy a commission for him, and had declared that he’d cut off every cent if Seb enlisted—but for the company and camaraderie of his friends.

  He looked up in surprise as he found himself standing outside Rotherby’s imposing Mayfair home. All the windows were dark. Save one.

  He’d been to Rotherby House many times over the years, yet never at this hour. Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the iron gate, walked to the door, and knocked brusquely.

  A minute later, a sleepy-looking footman opened the door.

  “His Grace is in his study,” the servant said and yawned into his gloved hand.

  So. He was expected.

  “I know the way.” Seb slipped the footman a coin for his trouble and, picking up a lit candle, moved into the massive spread that was Rotherby House.

  It had been designed and constructed with the intent to intimidate visitors and impress upon them the master’s vast, almost unchecked power. Naturally, Rotherby himself had not built such a structure, and had often expressed his dislike of the place. But Seb believed there was a part of his friend that secretly needed the distance it gave him from others, cocooning him in heavy sandstone.

  The door to the study stood ajar, and Seb rapped lightly. “It’s Holloway.”

  “Enter, you wily bastard.”

  “Since when have I become a wily bastard?” He stepped into the room. Bookshelves lined one wall, and a massive mahogany desk was positioned near a bank of velvet-draped windows. Rotherby stood beside the low-burning fireplace, his coat and waistcoat gone, a glass of something in his hand. “If that’s whiskey, I want it.”

  “You’ve become a wily bastard since both you and Grace disappeared from Marwood’s ball, and me none the wiser about where you might have gone. You only said that you were leaving.” Rotherby pointed to a walnut table, atop which crystal decanters were arrayed. “Help yourself to whatever’s there.”

  As Seb poured himself a liberal amount of whiskey, he could hear Rotherby using a poker to rouse the fire.

  “You’re welcome, incidentally,” Rotherby said drily.

  Seb turned and raised his glass. “Thank you for the drink.”

  “Not the whiskey. I’m talking about Lady Pembroke—Grace’s mother.” Rotherby sprawled in a chair near the fire. “I invited her, and the Earl and Countess of Ashford, to dine with me after Marwood’s ball. Kept her occupied for a good two hours while you and Grace did . . .” He waved his hand. “Whatever you did.”

  “My thanks.” Seb had barely considered her mother, but thank God someone had taken such things into consideration. He hadn’
t been thinking logically at all, not when it came to her. All his reason and lucidity and carefully constructed scaffolds of scientific understanding—it all fell apart whenever he was near her.

  He ambled to the other chair near the fire and lowered himself into it before taking a long swallow of whiskey. It burned his throat and cut through the haze of thought and sensation that continued to cling to him.

  Belatedly, he realized that his skin still smelled faintly of her. She clung to him, the feel and flavor of her, and the gorgeous flush that rose to her cheeks when she came. All he wanted was to see that blush again as she tightened around him.

  Goddamn it.

  He threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass down hard on the floor.

  “Son of a bitch,” Rotherby said. “You slept with her. Denial is impossible,” he went on when Seb didn’t respond. “You’ve got the look of a man who’s calculating the next time he can get beneath a lady’s skirts.”

  Seb could do nothing but drop his head into his hands. His whole body felt like rusted metal. “I’m in a bad way.”

  “An understatement.” The chair beneath Rotherby creaked as he leaned forward. “On the morrow, you’ll go to her family and make an offer.”

  “What?” Seb straightened. “An offer of marriage?”

  “No, an offer to buy five acres of pastureland. Of course, an offer of marriage.” Rotherby’s drink spilled as he stood. “My God, Holloway. You can’t just tup an earl’s daughter without there being consequences. I thought you two might have snuck off to the library for some illicit reading, or whatever it is that scholars do. I didn’t think you’d plow her.”

  It felt like so much more than plowing. “We were careful.” Seb swallowed. An icy cascade pulsed through him.

  “Whether or not there’s a babe is irrelevant. She’s a damned unmarried lady.”

  Seb tipped his head back to stare at the shadows flickering on the ceiling. “But she said nothing about marriage. Not before, and certainly not after.”