“Oscar,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying.
But he heard her. It was clear by the way his posture shifted, by the way his pupils dilated. He moved even closer, and now there was nothing but a sliver of space between them. She looked up into his eyes as he loomed over her and lost herself in the solidness of him, both in form and in how in control he was.
It almost felt like she could let some portion of control go and he would hold her and not let her fall.
As if he heard that thought, he reached out, and this time he did touch her. His fingertips grazed her own, and it was like lightning rushed up her arm, flooded her senses, settled in every space in her body that was responsive or sensitive. She heard her breath catch, felt herself sway toward him almost without meaning to do so.
He slid his hand up her bare arm, leaving fire in his wake, and then his fingers curled around her bicep and he pulled her against him. She gripped his lapels for purchase, lifting to him as he lowered to her. Their mouths met. For a moment, everything froze, like time had been stopped.
But then his tongue traced the crease of her lips and an explosion followed. She opened to him, lifting against him, making a hungry sound in the back of her throat that she had never heard before. He growled a response, crushing her against his chest. His whiskers were soft against her chin, but that was all that was soft about the kiss. He was firm, hard even, demanding, and she surrendered what he claimed without resistance.
His fingers slid up her neck, across her jawline. He forced them into her hair, tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss. And she was lost in it, lost in him, from the scratch of his beard on her chin to the taste of wine on his tongue. She was drowning and she didn’t want to be saved.
She groaned again, and he froze. Time stopped a second time, and then he stepped away, balancing her gently before he released her and turned his back. His breath came short and hard, his hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment he said nothing. She couldn’t say anything, so silence stretched between them for what like an interminable forever.
“I think we best not confuse things,” he said at last, his voice lower and rougher than before. He faced her slowly and speared her with that mesmerizing gaze of his. “Do you agree?”
The words he said seemed very reasonable. And yet she didn’t agree. But there was no use in saying it, not now when her mind was addled and her heart was racing. Not now when she couldn’t come to her senses.
“Yes,” she lied instead. “And I…I think I should probably retire to my room.”
“That might be for the best. Good night.”
She nodded her farewell and exited the room. But the moment she shut the door, she leaned back against it and sucked in air like she was coming up from an ocean riptide. In some ways she was. Oscar Fitzhugh seemed to be exactly that: powerful, overwhelming, capable of washing her away to where she might never return.
And for however long she stayed here, she was going to have to find a way to manage it that didn’t include touching herself and fantasizing about the man every night.
Chapter 6
Oscar tightened his dressing gown around his waist and paced across his bedchamber yet another time. It had been several hours since his last encounter with Imogen Huxley, but he couldn’t get the woman out of his mind. Or her taste off his lips.
He’d always been a man of control. In his business, in his life…in his bed. He chose lovers carefully and never allowed himself to be swept away except for that exact moment of release. He certainly couldn’t recall the last time he’d kissed a woman when it hadn’t been a perfectly planned moment. In the parlor after supper, he hadn’t planned anything. He’d just looked down into Imogen’s upturned face and his mind had…shut off. All that had existed was the driving need to touch her.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered as he sat down at the table in his bedroom and slid an empty piece of paper in front of him.
If he couldn’t control himself around the woman, then the least he could do was work to help her. He marked the number one on the sheet and began to write down a list of things he’d need to do. He had some contacts who might be able to help—he’d reach out to them. Roddenbury had once been a member of his club, so he’d search out those records.
He lost himself in the planning, his thrumming body coming under control by strategizing. He had very little idea of how much time had passed when a noise made him jerk his head up.
He focused, listening for it to repeat and it did. This time he recognized it. Imogen was crying out in her sleep, much as she had the night before. He’d ignored it then and the sound had passed swiftly.
Tonight, though, her moans and cries seemed louder. More pained.
He set his quill down and got to his feet. It wasn’t his place to comfort her, of course. He didn’t know her. He was helping her, but only because he had to. Common decency made it a requirement. And Louisa.
And judging from the way he’d lost control of himself earlier, he really ought not go any further than that.
“Please, no!” came her voice from the room down the hall.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and then found himself moving toward the door. He stepped into the hallway, his bare feet silent against the smooth wooden floor.
She was so upset, she was bound to wake the rest of the house. For the sake of his servants, he ought to check on her. Soothe her.
That was it. He would do it only for the sake of his servants.
“Fucking liar,” he muttered beneath his breath as he gently pushed her door open and peered into the room.
Her fire had died, but it still cast a glow over the bed across the room. She had flung the covers off herself at some point and was splayed across the sheets. Her chemise was shoved up around her thighs, her legs twitching as if she were running.
“No,” she moaned.
He eased closer, and now the light hit her face and he saw her cheeks were streaked with tears. “Imogen,” he said softly, hoping not to startle her. “Imogen, it’s just a dream.”
“Help me. Please,” she whimpered, this time softer.
“I’m here,” he said, reaching out. He touched her arm and shook gently. “Imogen, all is well. You’re safe.”
She jolted upright, and he caught her arms so she wouldn’t flail off the bed. She swung at him, still asleep, fighting off an attacker that only existed in the dark recesses of her mind.
He levied himself up to the edge of the high bed and tugged her against him so she would stop trying to hit him.
“It’s me, Imogen. Imogen, it’s Oscar. You’re safe, you’re safe.”
Her eyes fluttered open at last and she stared up at him. At first she was still obviously asleep and not truly seeing him, but then he saw her starting to come back to reality. Come back to him. Her lower lip trembled and then she leaned forward. Her head came to rest on his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she shuddered against whatever horrible images had haunted her dreams.
He could well imagine what they were, considering what she’d gone through. He lowered her back on the pillows, tucking her against his chest as he edged his way next to her on the bed.
Her breath came in great gasps and she lifted a hand to his heart. Her fingers slid past the closure of his dressing gown and rested, gently on the bare skin beneath. He never slept in anything—he was naked beneath the robe—and right now his body was very aware of how close he was to her in bed.
He pushed those thoughts aside. Incredibly inappropriate considering her state.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. “You must think me a fool.”
“For having nightmares?” he asked, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Never. I’m not surprised at all by this reaction. You’ve gone through something terrible, Imogen. It’s not over. I would be surprised if you didn’t have a nightmare or two.”
“I’ve always been an active sleeper,” she said, her voice
still heavy and sleepy. “Warren never slept with me during our marriage because I talked in my sleep and moved too much.”
Oscar pursed his lips. The very idea that a man wouldn’t want to curl himself around this woman all night every night, tradition or discomfort be damned, was…ridiculous. He’d hadn’t often thought of Huxley when he was a member of Oscar’s club. He found himself disliking the man a great deal now.
“An active mind is a good thing, I think,” he said. “You must work on a great deal while you sleep if you are so lively.”
“You’re very kind to say so, rather than chide me about disrupting your rest or upending the household with my screams,” she murmured, and she lifted her head to look up at him.
Their faces were too close now. Just the slightest of angling and he could kiss her again. Everything in him wanted to kiss her again.
Which meant he had to get out of this bed.
“Now that you’re well—” he began as he moved to part from her.
To his surprise, she grabbed for him, her fingers clinging to the lapels of his dressing gown. Color filled her cheeks, but she didn’t release him. “Oh, please. Please don’t go. Could you just…stay a little longer? Just let me try to go back to sleep before you—before you leave.”
It was a bad idea. The worst idea. The longer he lay here, their bodies pressed together, the more the throb of wanting this woman built deep within him. Collected hard and heavy in his cock.
But how could he refuse her when she was trembling in his arms, begging him for just a touch of human kindness? How could he refuse her when the last thing he wished to do was leave her bed?
“Very well,” he said softly, and reached down to tug the covers up. He pulled them over them both and shifted a little lower on the pillows.
She settled her head on his chest, her dark hair fanning over her shoulders and his hands like satin. They lay there together in the silence. She was awake, he could tell that from her breathing. He was never going to sleep in the state she was putting him in.
So it was to be torture. And he wasn’t certain he could survive it, truth be told.
When she moved her hand again, the fingers flexing against his chest, he couldn’t help the shuddering sigh that escaped his lips. She lifted her head a second time, looking up at him in the dimness, her gaze glittering. “You are…a very good man.”
He flinched at that assessment. “I am not.”
“You are,” she insisted. “How many other men would have intervened on my behalf at the brothel, let alone taken me home and given me shelter and help once they learned my predicament? I do not think one out of ten would have done anything more than take advantage of my plight.”
“Use it to bed you, you mean,” he murmured, and watched as his fingers threaded through her hair. Had he meant to start doing that?
She swallowed hard and then nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean. They would have—they would have wanted repayment of some kind…for their help.”
He remained silent, all his control straining against his chest, straining against his dressing gown. Surely she must feel that as she was tucked against him. Surely she must know he was no better than those men she referred to in this speech about his supposed goodness.
“Imogen,” he said, his voice rasping in the quiet. A warning, he hoped. Though it sounded more like a plea in the dark. A needy sound of desire and pleasure and everything he needed to rein in.
She shifted against him in response, her breath shaky as she slid her hand beneath his dressing gown entirely. Her hands traced his pectoral, fingers tangling in his chest hair.
“Why did you kiss me tonight?” she whispered.
“Because I’m not a good man,” he retorted swiftly. “No matter if I try to help you, I’m not a good man, Imogen. You mustn’t forget that. I’m ruthless and cold and unfeeling.”
The last one wasn’t entirely true. He was feeling a great deal right now. It was just all pulsing desire as she let her hand trail along his side and pushed his dressing gown open even wider.
“Be careful,” he grunted, reaching up to catch her hand and hold it still against his hot skin. “Be very careful, Imogen. You push me too far and I might just take exactly what you said those other men would have wanted.”
She stared up into his face, holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long time. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Not when those amber eyes held him steady.
“What if tonight I want that too?” she whispered. “What if when you kissed me it made me forget, just for a moment, everything else? And what if I knew that if you did even more than kiss me, it would erase it all just for a little while? And I want it to do just that, even if it’s wanton and foolish and shortsighted.”
He stilled, focusing on her face. They were opposites in some ways. She was asking him to shatter her with pleasure, strip her control away to make her forget. He had always clung to control as a means to feel…better.
Those two desires could absolutely work in tandem. Wrong or right. And did wrong or right matter in the quiet of her bedroom? With a woman who knew exactly what she was asking? A woman he wanted with a power that startled him. If he took, maybe that driving need would also fade and he could focus on matters at hand.
It could be helpful to both of them.
At least that was what he told himself as he leaned forward, cupped her chin and claimed her lips for the second time that night.
Imogen shuddered as Oscar’s mouth covered hers. He was a very good kisser. That was the one coherent thought that fluttered through her heated mind. She’d been kissed a few times in her life. Warren, of course. Sometimes he was passionate, but often it was all perfunctory. Like she was a duty he had to fulfill.
Afterward, when she’d begun the business of seeking a protector, one or two men had put their lips to hers. Wet, on the whole. Somewhat unpleasant. Just a lot of thrusting tongue, which she supposed was meant to put her to mind of thrusting cock.
It hadn’t had the desired effect.
But Oscar Fitzhugh kissed her differently. Like she was a banquet table laden with every treat in the world and he was a starving man. Like he wanted to savor her every flavor until the world spun into darkness.
She wound her arms around his neck, parting her lips and reveling in the soft abrasion of his beard on her chin. She made a muffled sound in her throat, a moan and a cry merged and desperate. It must have pleased him, for he maneuvered her onto her back and angled his head to kiss her even more deeply.
She drowned in him. That was the best analogy she could think of as he plundered her mouth, thoroughly exploring every nook and cranny until her head was spinning. She recognized his hands were now moving too. He cupped her jaw, thumb tracing the bone with feather-light gentleness. He slipped it lower, his hand covering her throat for the briefest of moments before he traced her shoulder, down her arm.
He was mapping her body with his touch, finding the places where she responded. She surrendered to the process, giving him everything he desired without hesitation or embarrassment. They were just two people here in the dark, both wanting the same pleasure.
There was no harm in that.
He pulled away from the kiss, his dark gaze spearing her, pinning her in place as he palmed her left breast. Even through the thin fabric of her chemise, she felt every ridge of his rough hand, every heated movement as he began to stroke her nipple, pinching it lightly between his forefinger and thumb.
She arched her back, her breath shuddering out. His intense stare was too much, so she closed her eyes and simply surrendered to the magic he was creating with his touch. She heard him chuckle, a low, possessive sound, and that only seemed to ratchet up the intensity of what his fingers did. He was a man stalking his prey.
She wanted him to catch her. To claim her. To make her give over everything she was, everything she could be, consequences be damned. Consequences were for tomorrow. Tonight was for something else.
&nb
sp; His mouth brushed her throat, and she gasped as she dug her fingers into the thick waves of his hair. He sucked her skin, right to the edge of pain, and switched his hand to her right breast. She was panting by then, rising into him, as if she could find relief. But he denied it, instead building an increasingly high and heavy wall of sensation.
His mouth moved down over her collarbone, down the edge of her chemise, then crested over her breast. He sucked her through the thin fabric, and she ground up, desperate for more, for that release that would send her into oblivion for a little while.
His hand dropped lower, fingers splaying over her stomach, cupping her hip. He was sliding her now, pulling her tighter against his chest as he massaged her thigh. Her legs fell open and he caught the one closest to him, arching it up over his legs so that she was splayed lewdly on her back. He pushed her chemise up and she was revealed to him.
He made a small sound at the back of his throat. Something dark and dangerous that sent heat shooting through her veins. His fingers traced a path along her inner thigh, almost tiptoeing up her skin, closer and closer to her core.
When he touched her, she gripped at his arms, even though it was the most glancing of grazes along her entrance. She was so sensitive in that moment, he might as well have been doing far more.
“Do you want to come, Imogen?” he asked.
She let her gaze flit to his face. “Is that a serious question when I’m splayed out before you like a wanton, gasping and arching and shaking every time you touch me?”
“A very serious question,” he assured her as he leaned in and nuzzled her neck, abrading her skin gently with his whiskers. “I want you to say it. Say you want me to make you come. Tell me that’s what you want. Very simple, and you can have it.”
She gritted her teeth at the demand, for that’s what it was, no matter how sweetly it was supposedly requested. He was denying her until she prostrated herself on the altar of his fingers. His mouth. Hopefully his cock.
The Redemption of a Rogue Page 5