by Erica Ridley
Oh, right. That little fib.
She shook her head and reached for the next button. “I don’t need to save myself for—”
He twirled her to the door of the library as if to the tune of a private waltz playing just for them. He turned his key in the lock with one hand because his other arm was busy holding her close.
“There are many things one can do without ruining oneself”—he paused—“in the classic sense.”
She slid a finger beneath the exposed collar of his linen shirt. “What if I want the classics and the non-classics?”
“Chloe.” His gaze was tortured. “I can’t offer you marriage. All I can offer is pleasure.”
“That’s all I want.” She slid her arms about his bare neck. “Lots and lots of pleasure. Ruin me for all others, Your Grace. Wynchesters never were cut out to be respectable.”
He covered her mouth with his as they swept backward through the library. Her knees buckled against the sofa and they came crashing down atop the cushions in each other’s arms. Her pulse was jittery beneath her skin, but already her body was ripening, impatient for what was to come.
His eyes shone like blue fire. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“Lying with you is what I’ve wanted to do ever since you made me those bonnets.” She dragged her lower lip against the scratchy edge of his jaw. “I realized it was what I was going to do the moment you said ‘Not betrothed.’”
He caught her lip between his teeth, gently, then licked where he had nibbled.
“In that case, I should have mentioned it sooner.” He pressed openmouthed kisses down the side of her throat, tasting her, supping there at the base. “I’ve wanted you since you made me put in an appearance at the Blankets for Babes charity tea with the wrong kind of blanket.”
“I didn’t make you do anything,” she protested, dipping her head to allow him more access. “A certain know-all decided to go off half-cocked without asking any questions.”
But her insides warmed at the knowledge that he had been thinking of her even then, try as he might not to. She was not the one he needed, but she was definitely the one he wanted.
The feeling was mutual.
She knew better than to become romantically entangled with a cull. But along the way, he had stopped being a mark and started being Lawrence. The man whose seductive kisses and romantic murmurs melted her knees and who somehow kept a straight face when Tommy’s “Great-Aunt Wynchester” was at her most outrageous. He did all of that for Chloe.
Her pulse rushed faster. Although she had not coupled with anyone before, her life had been far from sheltered. She knew what to expect and was glad it would be with Lawrence.
This was the memory she wanted to look back on when she remembered her first time. One perfect night. A fantasy come to life, before reality came to snatch it all away. This was their moment.
Chloe reached for him with eager hands. She could not divest him of his clothing until she got rid of his coat.
The buttons slipped free in a blur. “Aren’t you hot under all these fashionable layers?”
“My entire body heats at the mention of your name,” he growled, and reached for her. “The sight of you makes my trousers too tight.”
She grinned and pushed his tailcoat off his shoulders.
“Poor darling.” She ran a finger down his chest. Finally she could undo his waistcoat. “How terrible it must be to suffer inside such binding breeches! We must get you out of them at once.”
He allowed his waistcoat to fall to the floor, but he did not let her reach for his waistband. Instead, he caught her wrists in his hands and pressed a kiss to each pulse point. Her blood ran faster, carrying the kiss to every secret place she hoped he’d find.
He dropped her wrists and sank between her knees to the carpet to begin untying her half boots. She could see only the top of his head. As he loosened each lace, he buried his face beneath her skirts to kiss the top of her thigh or the inside of her knee. She felt each touch of his tongue on her flesh all the way to her core.
She was boneless by the time he slipped the boots from her feet, her limbs trembling with anticipation. They were going to make love. She was about to feel him inside of her.
But he did not immediately rise to cover her body with his. He stayed on his knees between her parted legs. Slowly he slid the pads of his thumbs beneath the hem of her skirts to skim the thin silk of her stockings.
“I’ve been told,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, his gaze burning, “that I look at you as though I’d like to eat you.”
It sounded wicked and wonderful. She swallowed hard. “Is that what you want?”
“Trust me.” His arrogant smile had never looked so arousing. “It’s what you want.”
He ducked his head to where her stocking covered her calf. As he slid her hem higher, he feathered little kisses first to one sensitive patch of skin, then the other. He made thrilling dark promises with his mouth and tongue as he exposed her inch by inch.
When her hem reached her hips, she gasped—not at the sudden contact with the library’s cool air, but at the heat from his mouth as he kissed the secret spot between her legs where only she had touched before. It had never felt like this. Wanton and overwhelming.
Her eyes fluttered shut, blocking out everything but the sensation of his talented tongue, teasing her and tasting her. Pressure built within her, sharp and luxurious. Her legs trembled and her body pulsed with need. She was almost at her peak.
“I want…” she panted. Her fingers dug into the cushions of the sofa. “I need…”
Without lifting his tongue from the little nub, he slid his hand between her legs and filled the ache with his fingers. Her body responded at once, the twin pleasures radiating through her. She came apart against his mouth and fingers, exploding like a distant star in the heavens.
Only once the tremors ceased did he climb atop the sofa to nestle her to his chest.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, once she found her voice.
He brushed a damp tendril from her forehead. “Cuddling with you.”
“Stop it at once,” she demanded. “We aren’t finished.”
His eyes were dark with desire. He stroked her hair, her cheek. “You’ve no idea how deeply I yearn to bury myself between your thighs. You may not care about your reputation, but I shall not defile you.”
She wiggled beneath him, coaxing their hips to align. There was no sense saving one’s virginity for a prince who would never arrive. She had never planned to marry. A wise woman took what she could when she had the means to do so. The man she wanted was in her arms. There was nothing to stop them.
“I want you to make love to me.” Her voice was husky, unrecognizable with desire. She trailed a fingernail down his back. “I know what I’m asking and what it means. This moment is about taking what we want, not what others think we should have. You’re worth it. So am I.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes glinting.
He did not look convinced, but he was close. The wildness in his eyes made him look as though he wanted to pounce upon her, rend her gown from her flesh, and show her exactly what ravish meant. He was holding himself back by a thread. A single, solitary, gossamer thread.
She could snap it with one touch…
“You once told me not to uncage you unless that was what I wanted.” She ran her hands up his strong arms. “It’s what I want.”
He brushed his knuckles against the underside of her bosom. Her breasts tightened, the peaks hardening. His lips parted as though he wanted to taste them just as he’d devoured her below.
“Besides”—she tugged his shirt free from his waistband—“it’s not ‘defiling’ if I’m begging you to finish what you start. It’s an act of mercy.” She skimmed her fingertips across the hard planes of his stomach and felt the muscles jump. “A true gentleman would not hesitate to bring pleasure to us both.”
His breath caught, his eyes h
ot and his voice raw. “If my very honor depends upon finding release with you…”
“It does,” she assured him. She slid a finger down the seam of his fall. “I shall be quite piqued if we walk away now.”
“Well, I cannot have you piqued with me,” he murmured, and slid his hand to where his fingers and tongue had been moments earlier, this time keeping his gaze locked on hers to see just how deeply he affected her.
She could hide nothing. Her body was still slick and sensitive, more than ready for his touch. She moaned as the welcome teasing sensation quickly spun the pressure inside her higher and higher.
A sense of power filled her. He was no more capable of walking away than she was. He craved her just as she craved him, had feasted upon her and still hungered for more. In seconds he would have her back at the edge of need, teetering on the precipice.
“No.” She reached for the buttons of his fall. “Not without you this time.”
Eyes glittering, he flung his linen shirt from his chest in a single movement.
She had not realized the sight would be so erotic. His skin was hot and inviting, the hard muscles twitching beneath the light pressure of her fingertips as though her touch brought both pleasure and pain.
He caught her hands and pinned them to the cushion as he covered her mouth with his. She should feel trapped and helpless, but instead her body quickened with exhilaration, relishing the promise of his possession, eager to join as one. She let her legs fall apart in invitation.
When his hands released her wrists from their sensual prison, she immediately sank her fingers into his hair, marking him as he had marked her. His hair was disheveled because of her hands, her thighs. His gorgeous perfection mussed from feasting on her.
Her body clenched deliciously in remembrance.
“Hurry,” she begged.
His smile was wicked. “No.”
As he reached between their bodies to unbutton his fall, his knuckles brushed against her slick core.
Her body pulsed with need. Now he would claim her with the most intimate part of himself. Her breath was ragged. She’d loved his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, and was ready for—
His thick shaft pressed hot and heavy against her belly. It felt impossibly big and unspeakably tempting. If a single finger could push her over the edge, how much more pleasure would all of him bring? She writhed against him.
“Patience,” he murmured against her lips. His shaft pulsed between them.
“Don’t make me wait.” She barely recognized the smoky need in her voice. “Please.”
He lowered himself until he slid perfectly against her, but nudged nothing more than the tip inside. It was decadent, potent, teasing her with promise. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. If only for tonight.
She lifted her hips to coax him inside. Every new inch stretched her, bound them closer. He was not just on top of her but inside of her. The realization made her dizzy.
“Chloe,” he said, his voice strained. “This is going to…”
They gasped together as he entered her fully.
A sharp pain pierced her and disappeared as fast as it had come.
She clenched her muscles around him, testing the strength of this new invasion.
He sucked in a ragged breath.
“You felt that?” she whispered.
“It almost broke me.” His words were rough, his gaze hot with need. “You have no idea how much I’ve longed to be inside of you. I can barely think.”
She could not stop her lips from curving into a naughty grin. “Now that you’re here, what are we going to do?”
He began to move his hips. Slowly, tantalizingly, his hard shaft surged within her. The feel of him inside her, the sight of his strong shoulders from this strange new angle, almost undid her.
She wrapped her legs about him, at first matching his rhythm, then goading him faster, deeper. Each stroke fed the increasing pressure like kindling to a fire. Soon it would consume her.
Kissing her hungrily, he cupped his hand to her breast. His fingers teased the pert nipple the way he had played between her legs. Little sounds escaped her throat, sounds she did not recognize. The pressure rose and rose until it was difficult to breathe and all she could do was feel. It was happening again, this time with him inside of her.
He would feel it, too.
She grasped his shoulders. “I’m going to—”
It was too late for a warning. The peak was already upon her, lifting her, squeezing him, fracturing her into a thousand prisms of light and taking him with her. Sweat lined his brow.
“Thank God,” he muttered, pumping his hips rapidly in short succession before jerking free to grip himself with his handkerchief and allowing it to tumble to the floor. He collapsed beside her, sated and exhausted.
She had done this to him. No—even better. They had done it to each other.
He pulled her against him possessively. “Any other favors?”
She nestled against his warm chest, reveling in the sound of his heart beating as fast as hers. “Do it again?”
“Give me five minutes,” he mumbled, and lay his cheek against her hair.
They nodded off for a few moments, awakening when the chill in the air permeated their sated embrace.
Lawrence tugged her hem back down to her ankles, then arranged his breeches and slipped his shirt back over his head. Much as Chloe was loath to cover him back up, she enjoyed being the one who could do so.
She helped with his waistcoat and his cravat, not because he needed it but because she wished to. Adjusting the folds of a neckcloth and rebuttoning the jacket they’d tossed aside somehow felt just as intimate as everything they’d done moments before—perhaps more. It was different now. No longer a mystery. They knew what they could have together.
He kissed her forehead. “Shall we tour the rest of the library?”
It took her embarrassingly long to fathom what on earth he was talking about.
Art.
The reason Chloe was allegedly here. In his house, in this room. Thank goodness Lawrence was keeping things on track.
“Yes,” she managed. “The tour would be fascinating.”
He laced his fingers with hers and led her to a different section of the library from the last. Instead of paintings on the walls, there were waist-high fluted columns topped with busts and sculptures.
All except for a single column with nothing on it.
She pointed. “What belongs there?”
The casual joy disappeared from his eyes.
“A vase. My father’s most prized possession, and mine as well.” A tendon flexed in his neck. “When I find the blackguard who stole it…”
“A vase?” she repeated.
“A fine one. It looks like a cherub or an angel.”
She knew the vase quite well indeed. It was sitting back home in the Planning Parlor. But she hadn’t known the vase was missing. Old Faircliffe had given it to Bean voluntarily, as compensation for stealing a family heirloom. Then again, Bean had not agreed to the trade. The vase had been imposed on him against his will.
“You’re certain it’s been stolen?” she asked carefully.
“I’ve been through every inch of this property,” Lawrence said darkly. “It was here before the accident and gone after Father died. Someone took it while the house was at its most vulnerable.”
While Lawrence was at his most vulnerable.
Chloe gulped. “Er, perhaps it’s not what you think.”
He wasn’t listening. “The Bow Street Runners are investigating as we speak.”
Her stomach dropped. “They are?”
“Between their best investigators and the reward money, I’ll have the culprit before the magistrate in no time.” His eyes were hard. “And then I’ll make him pay.”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no…
If only the prideful man hadn’t been too lofty to acknowledge a Wynchester from the start! They had tried to exchange their fathers’ possess
ions. They’d sent countless offers to purchase back the painting, for ever-increasing sums of money.
Chloe had intercepted Lawrence on half a dozen occasions to broker a trade—outside Parliament, in Hyde Park, at Berkeley Square—only to be rebuffed before she could get a word out. Ignored, unacknowledged, time and again.
He’d never truly seen her until the day she stole his carriage. The debt of a favor—no money, no objects—this ruse had been her one chance to ensure he wouldn’t brush her away yet again.
Everything had changed since then. He had changed. She couldn’t risk her siblings’ freedom, should one of the Runners take an interest in the wild Wynchesters. There was no choice but to try.
He wouldn’t listen to her in the past, but perhaps he would now.
“I…” She cleared her throat. “I might know where to find your father’s vase.”
He dropped her hand. “What?”
This was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Even if it destroyed whatever connection she and Lawrence had forged between them, at least the truth would give him peace and Puck could finally come home.
“Your father gave the vase to mine—” she began.
“He would never,” Lawrence said fiercely.
“He did. He left it behind in exchange for the one piece of art my family cherishes above all others. A lively portrait of mischievous fairies.”
He blinked in surprise. “The one I gave Miss York?”
“No, that was a copy.” Which she had replaced with an equally erroneous forgery, none of which was important at the moment. She was the one in the dragon’s lair. She would not implicate her siblings. “Where is the original?”
His face flushed. “Is that why you’re so ‘interested’ in my library? Our little ‘tours’? You’re hoping I’ll lead you to an ugly painting?”
“I adore your library,” she said, “and I do want my family heirloom back, more than anything. We can trade, just as our fathers wished. That is, if you still have it.”
He stepped backward.
“That’s what you’ve been after all this time.” Each word was a blade of ice. “Not me, but a painting? Bloody convenient to have this streak of honesty now, once I’ve mentioned the Runners, rather than coming to me right from the start—”