A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  She made a little whimper and covered her eyes again, and a new thrill of pleasure shot through him.

  Yes, he had gone mad.

  “Here, hold this,” he said, briskly.

  She opened her eyes, blinked at him dazedly, then took the rose. Trying to ignore her nudity and his own arousal, Joshua lit a second candle and plucked a freshly laundered kerchief from his pocket. He smoothed it open on the bedcovers beside her and began to fold it again, with uncommonly clumsy hands.

  “A blindfold?” Her confusion was palpable. “That’s how we fold them for blindman’s buff.”

  “You said it: If you can’t see me, I can’t see you. You will have no need to be shy.”

  She laughed breathily and said, “You’re as silly as I am,” but she did not resist as he tied the lemon-scented linen over her eyes, knotting it behind her head. When he gently tipped her onto her back, she fell easily and lay with her legs outstretched.

  There: He had touched her again, and the world still had not collapsed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes trying to take in all of her at once, laid out for him, her skin warm in the candlelight, her body soft with trust.

  “I think so.” She fumbled for him, caught the edge of his robe. “This is very…”

  “Depraved? Do say depraved. I adore the way you say depraved.”

  “Perhaps. But we are married,” she added, as if to reassure herself. “So this must be all quite proper.”

  “Proper!”

  He climbed onto the bed, knelt beside her hips, and plucked the rose from her trembling hands. She fumbled for him again, found his knee, spread her fingers over his thigh. Her searing touch streaked through him, but he ignored it. He feasted his eyes on her, and lowered the rose to her lips.

  “I will strip away your proper,” he promised darkly. “I will strip away your nice and polite. I will strip away everything until you are nothing but raw, savage, aching need.”

  Cassandra did feel depraved, and she had never dreamed that depravity could feel so good, that anticipation could make her quiver. How wickedly delicious it was to lie naked before him like a sacrifice, enclosed in a dark, secret world of promise. And how fierce this craving to pull him on top of her and revel in his weight and strength. She could hardly believe this was her, and was relieved he had taken control.

  She did not understand his game but, to her own shock, she enjoyed playing it and basked in his teasing. If he could make her feel like this, she would do whatever he asked.

  The soft, fragrant petals tickled her lips, tracing their shape, and she was breathing in rose and, beyond that, him.

  “The petals are not quite the color of your lips.” His voice smoldered like hot jagged coals. “But ah, your cheeks…Your blush, here, where you blush for me.”

  The feathery touch trailed up over her cheek, circled lazily, then slid down and grazed her jaw. She tilted back her head in a silent command. He obeyed, and the rose quivered over the sensitive skin of her throat.

  “There is just enough light for me to see your pulse, racing in your throat,” he murmured.

  Yes, it raced, and her blood did too, rushing madly through her like a river in a storm. She tried to breathe, tried to stop breathing. She dug her fingers into his thigh. Her world narrowed down to the sensations: his hard muscles under her fingers, the mattress heating her back, the silk of his robe tickling her, and that rose, tormenting her with lazy zigzags over her chest. Fluttering between her breasts, circling first one and then the other. She arched her back, in another demand; the obedient petals grazed her nipple, oh, so pleasurable, but not enough, oh heavens, never enough. A mewling sound escaped her lips and he answered with a rough, breathy groan. He swept the rose across the valley between her breasts to continue his torment on the other side. How was it that he touched her in only one place and she felt it everywhere?

  “Your nipples are darker than the rosebud,” he whispered. “And I bet they have a sweeter taste.”

  She caught herself rolling her hips and forced herself to stop. One hand still anchored her to his iron-hard thigh, and she realized that her other hand was on her own thigh, tracing shapes in her own skin, and she tried to make herself stop that too.

  “I bet your skin right here is as soft as these rose petals.” Those rose petals caressed the underside of her breasts. “What a shame you won’t let me touch you.”

  She tried to tell him that he could touch her, she never said he couldn’t, he was the one who had made that silly rule, so of course he could, and he should, please, he should, but he did not want to hear, he had his game, and she had no breath to speak and craved so much more.

  The rose skated over her ribs, tracing the curve of her belly. She wanted it back on her breasts and between her legs, but no, not the rose, it was too feathery, too delicious, too much, she needed more.

  “If you let me touch you, I would touch you here too. And down here.”

  The rose swept over the curve of her hip and she squeezed her thighs against the madness throbbing between them. It skimmed over her thigh to her knees, then crawled, slow and desperate like a sleepless night, up the valley where her legs met, right up over her inner thighs, brushing the curls at their juncture.

  “If only you would let me,” he whispered.

  She whimpered, letting her thighs fall apart, and she realized how close her own fingers had crept to the insistent molten ache. Dimly, she was ashamed of her sinful brazenness, but not enough to stop.

  Yet he cruelly ignored her invitation, her need, and the rose danced inexorably away, feathering up over her belly, across her ribcage, finding again the undersides of her breasts.

  She lost her patience, gripped his arm, so strong and sure beneath her hungry hand.

  “Joshua, please.”

  “What a shame you won’t let me touch you, and kiss you.”

  “I will. I do. Stop teasing. Yes.”

  The rose stilled. “Why?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Then the rose was gone altogether. Their only connection was her hand on his arm, and she slid her palm up to his shoulder, rising up to him, clutching at him, tugging him closer.

  This time he did not obey. He pushed her gently back down onto the bed but leaned over her. Even blindfolded, she sensed his tension. She let her hands roam over his back, kneading the muscles.

  “Why do you want this?” he asked softly.

  “Because I want…what…I…” Something to do with husband and wife and duty and babies and she couldn’t think, not with this coiling and tightening and throbbing in her body, not with him so close, and his shoulder under her hand, and her legs, moving, curling around his. “It’s too much.”

  A mutter. A curse. What had she done wrong now? Why did he have to be so complex?

  “What do you feel?” he asked.

  “I feel…everywhere…and it’s…It’s so…”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I want more. But I need it to stop too.”

  She curled her arm around his neck, sinking her fingers into his hair, trying to pull him down to her, but he did not yield.

  “The only way to stop it is to touch you more,” he said.

  “Then I need you to touch me.”

  “That’s what you want?”

  “That’s all I want. Please, Joshua. Nothing else matters but that you touch me.”

  “Oh, Cassandra,” he groaned.

  His hand landed on her hip, firm and warm, and he slid it up her side, commanding a tide of heat beneath her skin. His breath and cheek were on her throat, his hair tickling her, and her own moan filled the room as he cupped her breast and burned her pulse with his lips.

  She yanked off the blindfold, blinked in the half light, drank in the sight of that strong hand around her breast. His eyes were questioning, heated, and they imprisoned her own as he lowered his head and licked her nipple. Pleasure shot through her and she arched her back, digging her fingers into
his neck.

  “You will drive me mad,” she whimpered.

  “That makes two of us.”

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and hauled his face over hers.

  “Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked.

  “You have a preoccupation with being kissed.”

  “Only by you.”

  No sooner had she uttered the words than their lips met in a heated fury. He plundered her mouth with a hunger that ignited a passion so deep within her that it felt as strange as it felt right. His tongue tangled with hers, and she rose up into him, holding him against her, her hands newly wild. She fought with his robe and his shirt to get to his skin, and he did not help her, feasting on her mouth as though it was all he needed to live.

  Until he abandoned her lips and kissed his escape over her jaw.

  “More.” She grabbed his head. “I need you to kiss me.”

  And this time she feasted hungrily on his mouth, not letting him leave her again. She wanted more and more—and his hand, oh heavens, his hand, jilting her needy breast in favor of her hip, her outer thigh, her inner thigh, and she parted her legs, hardly knowing what she craved, until he pressed against the persistent ache, right where she most needed his touch.

  She fell away from him with a cry, struggling for breath, their eyes locked, his fingers stroking.

  Stroking. Stoking the fire within her. Like a magician commanding the tides of pleasure.

  He brushed his lips over hers. “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered against her mouth. “As you never imagined being kissed.”

  He slid away from her, and she tried to hold him, but he had his own plans, as relentless as those stroking fingers, changing her world. He dragged his hot mouth down her throat, to her breasts, attending to her nipples until she kicked with impossible pleasure. And then—Oh heavens! He slid his fingers inside her. Her senses began to crumble.

  “Joshua! You…I…Oh.”

  “Hush, sweetheart.” He breathed the words over her skin. “I haven’t finished kissing you yet.”

  Unyielding, he burned a trail of kisses down her body, branding her with his warm mouth and soft-rough stubble, and she watched, dazed, as he parted her thighs with demanding hands, positioned himself between them. No, he wouldn’t. Not there, he couldn’t kiss her…

  He did.

  Pleasure spiraled through her. She arched off the bed. Her head fell back on the pillows. One strong hand pinned down her hips and still she writhed, seeking an escape from these exquisite sensations that must never, ever stop. His tongue was hot and strong and insistent, and his cheeks on her thighs were rough and soft, and her ache intensified, curling and swirling within her. She tried to move but he wouldn’t let her and she wanted it to stop and he wouldn’t stop and she wanted it to go on forever and it did, it did, and then the pressure was too much and bliss rippled over her, all the way to her eyeballs, all the way to her toes. He released her, as she arched and shuddered and cried out.

  And even when the sensations had passed, her thudding heartbeat was echoed by a sweet, hot pulse between her legs.

  Her breathing had barely steadied when she felt him climbing off the bed. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, waiting for the next part, waiting until he gave her all of him. He stood by the bed, looking at her, and she was not at all shy about her nakedness now. Soon she would have his body too.

  “So that’s why,” she said.

  “Yes. That’s why.”

  His voice was hoarse. She reached for him but he eased away. He swayed toward her, swayed back. He seemed unsure, indecisive. That was odd. He was always so decisive. Even when he knew he was wrong, he was very decisive about it.

  His uncertainty infected her. She shivered, though she was not cold.

  “Joshua?”

  “What?” he snapped.

  She recoiled, confused. “I don’t think that was all. We…” She did not have the words to say what she wanted. “That…that won’t make babies.”

  “That was enough. I told you I could stop.”

  He scooped up her nightshift and tossed it at her. She caught it instinctively and twisted the cool fabric in her hands as the door closed.

  A click.

  He had locked the door.

  Leaving her naked and alone in the candlelight, with a wilting rose and that sweet, smug pulse fading between her thighs.

  No sooner had Joshua fumbled with the key than his shaking hands were in his breeches. He stumbled across the room, fell to his knees, sought his own release with one hand, the other hand stuffed between his teeth to muffle his groans.

  First was the utter pleasure, his mind still in the next room: Cassandra, oh sweet mercy, Cassandra, succumbing to the impolite desire, sweet and savage in her need. Her skin beneath his palms, her scent fogging his brain, her taste filling his mouth, her mewls of pleasure caressing his ears, and oh, sweet mercy, the sight of her. The intense quivers of her flesh as she came on his tongue.

  But when his pleasure had passed, then came the self-loathing over the seed he had spilled, the sting of the toothmarks in his hand, and the hollow in his chest.

  He had only meant to tease her, to taunt her. How had it gotten so out of hand?

  But she wants me too, now. I have no doubt of that.

  Yet he’d denied her that also. The most generous woman he had ever known, and he kept denying her, and himself. And what, exactly, had he achieved? All he had done was hurt her again, break the fragile bonds forming between them, and leave a mess on the floor.

  Congratulations were in order. He had achieved exactly what he intended, except, perhaps, the mess on the floor. How stoic he was, how heroic and clever and strong. What a champion. What a genius. What a man.

  He cleaned up, stripped off, washed in blessedly cold water, and crawled into his empty bed.

  He had not slept here last night, he realized. Last night he had slept with her. It felt like a year had passed, packed into one day: Cassandra and Bolderwood and Isaac and Cassandra.

  Bloody hell, I’m stupid. I should never have started that. I should never have walked away.

  He punched the pillow, lay back down.

  I could bed her without getting her with child. There are ways. I know.

  He tossed over onto his side.

  No, not fair. I promised to be honest; that would be the worst lie.

  He flipped onto his back.

  One time wouldn’t hurt. What are the odds she falls pregnant the first and only time? One time would be plenty and no harm done at all.

  He tried his other side, bunched his fists up under the pillow.

  I could have lost myself in her, let her lose herself in me. Yet I walked away. What an idiot.

  I walked away.

  He tossed himself onto his back and stared into the darkness, and a peculiar peace settled over him.

  I did it. I walked away. I said I could stop, and I stopped.

  He had nothing to worry about, then. Nothing to fear at all.

  Chapter 16

  The following day, Cassandra sat with Sir Gordon Bell and Mr. Das around the large table in Joshua’s study, waiting for Joshua, who was rumored to be somewhere in the house. She had not seen him since he left her room the night before, and she would be happy if she never saw him again. How could she look him in the eye, after her shameless behavior and his chastening departure?

  Then in he charged, kicking the door shut behind him, creating a whirlwind that made the papers on the table flutter. Cassandra stared at the wall of books, as hot humiliation slithered over her skin.

  “Sir Gordon, excellent,” Joshua said. “Let’s get this nonsense over with.”

  This moment will pass, she thought. She would ignore him and he would ignore her.

  Except that he didn’t.

  He stopped beside her chair. A sideways glance proved he was facing her. A light touch on her shoulder: She flinched away, horribly aware of their audience.

  “Are you well?” h
e said softly.

  She had to look at him then. He had not shaven this morning either and was without his coat, with his cravat tied in a simple knot over the throat she had tasted the night before. She bit back her scold over his appearance, for she was wise enough now to understand that her scold was not about that at all; besides, she did not look much better, for she had slept poorly and risen late, and pulled on a loose old morning gown because her maid was busy with other chores. What with housekeeping matters and correspondence, she had no time to change before Sir Gordon was announced. But Sir Gordon was a family friend, and Mr. Das was easygoing, and Joshua was a fiend, so his opinion mattered nothing at all.

  Yet his expression was gentle for a fiend, and she caught herself reliving the thrill of his mouth. Under the cover of the table, she squeezed her thighs shut, feeling the tenderness of the faint pink rash his unshaven cheeks had raised.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I am quite well.”

  “Good.”

  The heavy clock ticked—once, twice, three times—and then he was moving again, pacing up and down the room, claiming the attention with his sheer dynamism.

  “Scandal and debauchery require a special kind of lawyer, it appears, Sir Gordon,” Joshua said. “My regular lawyers excel at commerce, but for expertise in adultery, one must turn to the upper class.”

  Sir Gordon could not be shocked. He steepled his fingers, regarded Joshua steadily with his clear blue eyes, and said nothing. Mr. Das fiddled with his pen and hid a smile.

  “My husband has difficulty expressing himself, Sir Gordon,” Cassandra said. “I assure you, we are grateful that you are leading his defense.”

  “I’ll be grateful when he can make this case go away so I can get my life back to normal.”