by Robyn DeHart
“I’ve dreamed of washing them, lathering up soap, and rubbing the soft bubbles against your magnificent breasts.”
Her fingers ventured lower, to the indention at his hip and then around to his bottom. She brought her entire hand there and cupped him. He ground himself against her thigh as he sucked hard on her breast.
She arched again, pulled at his bottom to get him to move closer to her. But it wasn’t time yet. He needed her nice and wet and wanting him so badly that he barely had to touch her before she came.
“I, of course, dreamed of kissing and sucking them, as I am now.” He showed her precisely what he’d thought about doing to her so many times. Her moans of pleasure tugged at the base of his erection. He slid a hand up between her breasts, the sensitive skin that lay in her cleavage. “More than anything, though, I’ve thought about putting my cock here.”
He’d have given anything to have seen her expression because the little “oh” that came out of her mouth must have reflected pure desire.
“But not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to put it here.” He slid his hand down her stomach, into the warm, wet spot between her legs. He did not slip his finger inside her just yet. All the same, she pushed herself into his hand, her body begging for what it needed.
Her hands were frantic and needy as she moved them across his skin. One still cupping his ass, the other moving over his stomach muscles.
She rocked her hips toward him. He slipped one finger into her folds.
“Oliver,” she breathed.
He closed his eyes and relished his name on her lips. He pushed another finger inside her, and her hands gripped at his flesh, her nails biting into his skin. Then he moved them, slowly at first, but as her whimpers increased, so did his speed. With his thumb, he traced over the hidden nub, and she gasped.
“Oh my, oh my!”
He kept his rhythm, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Her channel tightened around his fingers, and her breathing shallowed. She was getting close. He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth and laved it with kisses. She tensed and then broke.
“Oliver, Oliver, yes…”
He could wait no longer. While she was still riding the aftereffects he positioned himself atop her.
“Am I too heavy for you?”
“No, the pressure is actually pleasant,” she said. “Though foreign.”
He was glad that she felt free to talk to him during their lovemaking.
“This might pinch,” he said, then he sheathed himself inside her.
Her nails bit into his biceps, and she tensed.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. There’s no way around that little pain. It won’t hurt from now on.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
He bent and kissed her, tenderly, then slowly he moved his hips, pressing into her, then pulling back out nearly to his tip.
“Harriet, you have no idea how good you feel.”
Gingerly, she pulled up her legs and wrapped them around his waist, seating him into her even deeper. He swore.
She froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s just really good, and I wanted to last longer for you.” With this new angle though, every thrust rubbed him against her bundle of nerves, and she gasped each time.
“Again?” she whispered.
He chuckled. “I hope so.” He thrust into her, in and out and then felt her spasm around him as she cried out his name. One more push and he spilled his seed inside her.
He’d been right about one thing—his desire for her would never wane.
Chapter Sixteen
Harriet had woken alone. The soreness between her legs and in muscles she was certain she’d never used before told her the night before had, indeed, happened. She was married, and well and thoroughly defiled. Well, she supposed, since the wedding had happened first, then defiled wasn’t the appropriate word. That’s certainly how it felt, though.
After going back to her own bedchamber and washing herself, she rang for a maid, who assisted her in dressing. She missed Lottie and her mother, even Malcolm. Her life was different now. She would make her own family here with Oliver. Her heart fluttered at the thought, and she rolled her eyes at her foolish reaction.
She knew this estate wouldn’t be their permanent home, considering Oliver preferred London. Still, Brookhaven would be home on some occasions. With that in mind, she left her bedchamber in hopes of exploring the estate. She’d seen some of it when she and Oliver and their mothers had initially arrived. He’d shown her the basic rooms, including that mesmerizing shower he’d had installed.
A miniature version of a Roman bathhouse was what it had looked like to her. He’d used the technology from such places to create a refuge for him here and the one in his London townhome. An even smaller version was due to be finished soon. Though he’d invited her to do so, she hadn’t intended to make use of the shower feature. That was before they had married.
Before she was his wife. Lady Davenport.
Her heart thumped again. Good heavens, but she was a goose this morning. She’d wanted to be a wife for as long as she could remember. This hadn’t been how she’d envisioned it, though. Granted, last night wasn’t how she’d envisioned that, either. She’d known there could be pleasure found in the marriage bed. Her mother had told her as much, but what Oliver had done to her, the responses he’d elicited from her…pleasure seemed such a lackluster word in comparison.
Two hours later she had walked the entire perimeter of Brookhaven Hall and seen most of its rooms. She found herself in the armory where Oliver had made her practice room. Sparring and practicing was rather difficult without a partner, so she ended up sitting on the mattresses in the center of the massive room.
He’d done this for her, because he liked her, was what Agnes had said. Had it all been a ruse to get her into his bed? Is that why she hadn’t seen him at all today? Because he’d had her and now he was done?
Perhaps he intended to leave her here in the country where he could visit her when the mood struck. She would not stand for such a thing. He’d gotten her into this marriage, and she’d be damned if she stood by while he ignored her. She could return to London and live her life as she had before their vows.
Vows.
She’d made promises. To him. To God. In front of their families and friends.
She would adhere to her vows, but she would not forsake her heart in the process.
…
He had successfully avoided his wife the entire day. Though, admittedly, it had not been easy. He’d wanted to find her during luncheon to make certain she had everything she needed. During afternoon tea, he’d thought to call for her, but knew if he did, they’d end up tangled together and he’d not get any work done.
Damned if he hadn’t missed her presence, her smile, her laugh. That meant nothing other than he’d grown accustomed to being with her. Without her, though, he’d been able to accomplish some tasks that day.
He’d drafted the design for the expansion at Benedict’s, then he’d sketched two new pictures of Harriet. He scrubbed a hand down his face. Christ, what was the matter with him? Would he ever have another moment free from thoughts of her?
By the time he’d gone in search of her, he’d discovered she’d eaten supper without him but had not yet retired to her room. Her angry threat about having a marriage in name only after she produced him an heir hung over him. He’d make certain she was so addicted to the pleasure he brought her, she wouldn’t dare.
Before leaving her bedchamber, he spoke briefly to her maid, then went to his own room to prepare himself.
…
After supper, Harriet had walked briefly in the gardens. Brookhaven was a beautiful home, his ancestral home, having been in the Davenport family for hundreds of years. She could imagine the halls filled with the laughter of their children, Christmases in the largest parlor and games of hide-and-seeking in the maze outside.
She might not be happy with the way Oli
ver had brought about their union, but she’d made vows and would follow through. Once he provided her with children, perhaps she would stay here at Brookhaven and raise them. With any luck, she’d be a mother, and her children would adore her.
Children would be the only thing that would tempt her to leave the Ladies of Virtue. She wasn’t certain she’d be able to walk away for any other reason. She’d asked Agnes to make certain to send notice if any new information about Lady X came out. So far, she hadn’t heard a word.
She stepped into her dressing room, and her maid was already waiting for her. The girl quietly went through the routine, and before Harriet knew it she was dressed in the shimmering shift and dressing gown from the night before.
Her hair was simple enough that she was able to send the girl away so she could undo it herself. She started removing the pins, then stepped into her bedchamber. After dropping the pins on her dressing table and pulling the rest of her hair free so it fell down her shoulders, she rolled her neck to ease the tension.
“I love when your hair is down,” Oliver said.
She jumped and turned. He stood by the fireplace, dressed only in his dressing gown.
She swallowed. “My lord, I didn’t see you.”
He gave her a lazy grin.
Her breath caught. How was it possible that something so simple as a smile could have such an effect on her?
“I didn’t see you all day,” she said, then frowned. “That is, I wasn’t certain I’d see you tonight.”
“How is it possible you still doubt that I want you?”
How could he see her doubt? Did it show in her face?
Instead of coming to her, though, he stepped over and sat in the large chair next to the fireplace. In doing so he allowed his robe to fall open. His body lay open to her perusal.
His manhood lay against his thigh, unassuming, yet still intriguing her.
“Take off your clothes, Harriet. I want you to watch me, to see what you do to me.”
She bit down on her lip and shook her head.
“Sweet Harriet, let me see your beautiful body.”
Tears pricked at her eyes, so she slammed them shut. She didn’t want to, but as her husband he had the right to her body. He’d touched her everywhere the night before, he could surely feel her flaws; showing him would be no different. Her hands shook as she untied the small ribbon that held her dressing gown together. The filmy material fell to the floor, leaving her in nothing but the gossamer shift.
“Open your eyes, love. Watch my body and see what you do to me, what you are already doing to me.”
She opened her eyes and settled them on him. His legs stretched out in front of him. His broad shoulders and perfectly sculpted torso made her hands itch to touch him.
“Take off the gown,” he said. His voice edged with an almost painful quality.
She did as he asked and, though she wanted to douse the lights and hide beneath the covers, she stood boldly in front of him. Desire darkened his eyes to a cold metallic gray, and the weight of his erection jutted out in front of him. His hand wrapped around his length.
“This is what you do to me. Do you understand that?”
Her body reacted instantly, her nipples pebbled, lust pooled between her thighs. Her exhale was louder than she intended. She bit down on her lip.
“You’re so beautiful. Come here, wife.” He held his hand out to her, and she allowed him to pull her forward. He settled her onto his lap, straddling his powerful thighs. His hard length pressed against her aching sex, and she bucked against him. “I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you. I’ve no sooner come inside you than I crave the feel of you all over again. It is as if you alone hold the key to my pleasure.”
His words poured over her. He might never love her, but she couldn’t continue to pretend that he didn’t want her. She might not understand it, since she’d spent so long hating her own body, wishing her curves weren’t so exaggerated, wanting longer legs or a smaller bottom. But her husband craved her body, and she would give it to him freely.
She lowered her head and kissed him. He gripped her bottom and slid her forward, pressing her even harder against him.
“Harriet,” he groaned. He slid a hand up her torso to cup one breast. He lifted it, then brought it to his mouth.
She arched against him as he suckled and nibbled teasingly. Her sex slid against the hard ridge of him, and she cried out. She rubbed against him again and again while he laved kisses from one breast to the other. Pleasure tightened inside her, knotting in her core. Another stroke and the knot burst, jolting her with wave after wave of ecstasy.
Before she’d ridden out every last bit of her climax, he lifted her hips and plunged into her, sending her spiraling again.
“You’re so wet for me, so tight. I knew it would be good with you, but damnation, Harriet, you feel too good.”
He felt too good, too. She wanted to tell him, but the words died in her throat as he lifted her up and then slowly back down. Teasing and taunting, he moved inside her, and she knew another climax built. Gracious what this man did to her.
“Look at me, love,” he said.
She met his gaze as he thrust deep inside her. This beautiful man was hers. Her heart swelled, and she knew no matter how long it took, she’d be here, loving him enough for them both.
Again and again he thrust, and the pleasure mounted. His thumb flicked against the tight bundle of nerves hidden in her folds, and lightning shot through her. She cried out his name and watched his eyes close as he poured his seed inside her.
Their union almost made up for the fact that he’d avoided her all day. Almost.
Chapter Seventeen
They had been at Brookhaven for nearly a week. Still she had heard nothing from Agnes or anyone else in London. Every day went much the same—they didn’t see each other during the day, but at night he lit up her body. Then he’d leave her at some point after she’d fallen asleep; whether in her bed or his, he never stayed.
She hated that she wanted him to, that she longed to wake up with his large warm body pressed against hers. She wanted more than the pleasure-rocking intimacy they shared. But that was all he’d promised her.
Still, it did not stop her from seeking him out that day. She rapped her knuckles on the door to his bedchamber, but no one answered. She checked the door and it was unlocked, so she let herself inside. This was the first time she’d been in his massive room in the light of day. The sunlight from the window beamed in, spotlighting the architect’s table sitting beneath it.
She stepped closer to the window, staring out at the forested area that backed up to the property. This very spot was where she’d want to sit to read or write letters or simply stare out at the beauty of the space. She understood why he chose it to do his own work.
Laying open atop the desk sat his sketchbook with a drawing he must have been working on, as it remained unfinished. It was a rough sketch of a large room with vaulted ceilings, paneled walls, and tables scattered about. Perhaps a project for his friend Benedict’s gaming hell.
She turned the page and found a series of drawings of windows, different shapes and designs, just ideas tossed onto paper, but with such detail they were mesmerizing. The next page featured the same as before, only with archways. One drawing after another, sketched ideas that poured from his head. She had no idea he hid such a talent. She’d heard that he’d been the one responsible for the rebuilding of this house, but she’d never realized.
She turned one more page, and her breath caught. Staring back at her was her own face and her naked body. Heat swarmed to her cheeks, and she swallowed. In the image, she lounged on a settee, one arm gracefully arched above her head, her legs turned slightly and held together, but not enough to hide the triangle of curls between them. Her breasts looked heavy and lush, the curve of her waist and hip in perfect proportion. Not at all what she’d ever seen in the mirror when she looked upon her real body.
Was this how he saw
her?
The woman in this picture was beautiful, desirable, seductive. She moved her finger down the curve of her illustrated arm. All of these drawings were done by his masterful hand. Pictures to do justice to the images in his mind. Certainly that meant that, despite what he’d told her brother, that he’d never love her, he must care something about her. This drawing spoke of more than simple desire. Just as he’d lovingly drawn the architectural details, he’d drawn her, too.
Hope bloomed in her chest. She grabbed the drawing and went in search of her husband. Perhaps there was love to be found in this marriage after all.
…
It didn’t take her long to find him, in that small parlor where they’d stood with their mothers after he’d compromised her. He leaned as much as sat on a stool behind the drawing table, his hand working furiously over a piece of paper. Is this what he spent his days away from her doing?
His eyes lifted and met hers. The blue of them pierced into her. How was it possible for eyes to be that color? A silver-blue that defied creation.
“Harriet,” he said with a nod. “I trust you slept well.”
She blushed and wondered at what point would she stop having such reactions to him. “I did. Thank you.”
“Good.” Polite and cool, not the passionate heat he brought to her at night. “Did you need something?” He motioned to the paper she held at her side.
“I found this.” She bit down on her lip, realizing that she’d been prying into his private belongings. “That is, I was exploring the house and entered your bedchamber. I found your sketches.”
He nodded. “Some of them.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It matters not.” He pointed to the one in her hand. “You wanted to ask me about one in particular?”
She swallowed and stepped forward. She set the paper down on the desk in front of him. Her naked form stared up between them. Her breathing shallowed.
“It does not do you justice. I realized that, after I saw you in all your glory.” He picked up the paper. “The curve of your legs is wrong; your breasts are so much fuller, and your nipples are more upturned than this.”