Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  “Clayton?”

  “You think to find me a bride.” One who would be good for his family, and one who would keep him from Sylvia.

  And he also wanted and needed to be sure that Sylvia was well. Allowing her, someone who cared as much as she did for his sisters, and who knew his sisters, made some weird kind of sense. “Fine,” he gritted.

  Her mouth formed a circle with her surprise. “You won’t regret it.”

  And yet, as she rested a hand on his knee, he already did.

  The muscles bunched up under her touch, and his eyes slid closed, and it was sheer lunacy to think about talking of marriage to another woman when this woman was touching him as she did. It was an innocent touch. And yet, her fingers began to move. She unfurled them, and let them glide up and down. Higher. And then back and forth. A siren’s touch. And his breath grew haggard to his own ears.

  Sylvia continued to stroke him, and he fell back in the leather folds of his seat, refusing to be the dastard who turned an innocent exchange into something she didn’t intend.

  Except . . . she followed him, climbing astride him so that her skirts fanned out about them.

  He gulped, his throat struggling through a simple swallow.

  “I’m wanton, aren’t I?” she whispered, her question laden with both desire and guilt, and only one of those sentiments he wanted between them in this moment.

  “You are perfect,” he groaned, arching up as she leaned down, and their mouths met.

  Chapter 17

  You are perfect.

  There had never been headier words spoken to Sylvia in a moment of passion than those three spoken by Clayton now.

  Though there’d never really been any moment of passion. Not before Clayton.

  And not after him.

  Mayhap that was why she so desperately wanted to steal these moments in his arms. Because there couldn’t be a forever with Clayton. Not for her. And he’d one day belong to another, but in this moment, like her, he, too, was free, and so they might make this magic where they could. There was no theft in this.

  His mouth consumed hers. And she devoured his in return. Biting and licking and tasting of one another. She curled her fingers hard against his nape, anchoring him so that she could explore all of his mouth.

  And while she did, his large palms moved over her thighs. And unlike the earlier gentleness to their previous embraces, this caress, this touch, was infused with a primal roughness, and she reveled in it. Moaning his name through their kiss, she thrust her hips, grinding herself against the flat wall of his muscled belly.

  Then he filled his large, powerful hands with her buttocks. Squeezing her. Kneading her flesh until that place between her legs throbbed to an unbearable point that straddled the line of pleasure and pain, and moisture collected.

  Overcome, she broke their kiss and buried her face in his neck. Sylvia inhaled deeply of him. The scent of bergamot that clung to his skin flooded her senses, and she’d never again taste of an orange without thinking of this man and the citrusy hue. Sylvia, however, wanted to know all of him. Even as her late husband had shamed her whenever she’d attempted such boldness. She didn’t care. With those three words, “You are perfect,” Clayton had freed her. And she wanted only him in this moment, and as such, she buried away old thoughts of the past, unpleasant encounters. Shimmying back on his lap, she reached between them and wrestled with the front flap of his trousers. And ultimately, she freed him. Her chest rose and fell, quickly and painfully, as she sat back to admire his length. Thick. Long. The enormous flesh had a perfect plum-tipped crown. Sylvia wrapped a fist about him.

  He hissed through his teeth. “Sylvia.” Just that, her name.

  Desire clogged her senses and her veins as she began to stroke him. She, who’d previously been shamed whenever she expressed curiosity over lovemaking. She, who’d married a man who would make love to her only with the candles out and the blankets up. But at last she knew passion, and now having had a taste, how would she ever be sated?

  Emboldened, she lightly squeezed Clayton’s shaft, silken steel under her fingers. She pumped him. Working him in slow and steady up-and-down, rhythmic strokes.

  Clayton’s breath came in harsh, ragged respirations. She lifted her gaze; the harsh planes of his face were screwed up tight, his expression a study of concentration, as if he were tunneled on the feel of his pleasure and didn’t want to let go. And the sight of him, the evidence of the effect of her touch, sent a sharper ache between her legs. Unwittingly, as she pleasured him, her hips moved in time to each glide of her fist.

  Clayton’s head fell back, and an endless groan spilled from his lips. Because of her. For the first time in her almost thirty years, she knew a woman’s sense of triumph. She thrilled in his desire. A bead pearled on the tip of him, and she stroked the pad of her thumb over it, smearing the whole head in that soft crystal glaze.

  Clayton’s hips shot up, and she took that as an invitation for her curiosity. Bending her head, she flicked her tongue over him, indulging in her curiosity of that taste. Salty and purely masculine, and unlike anything she’d ever consumed.

  “Sylvia,” he groaned, dragging her up and into his arms.

  Coming to his feet, Clayton lifted her from his lap, and she whimpered her protest. But he was only laying her down on the cool, smooth surface of his desk, an unlikely makeshift bedding under her as he came down over her. When all she’d ever known of lovemaking was a mattress and discomfort and awkwardness. Never had there been this beauty and splendor. Sylvia panted, fighting to get air into her lungs, and she pushed herself up onto her elbows as he shoved her skirts up and stepped between her legs.

  He reached between them, untying the flimsy laces that shielded her mons, and then he was cupping her. Sliding a finger within her sodden channel. And then another . . . with such an infinite, agonizing slowness. Sylvia bit her lip, and moved against his hand. Sweat beaded her brow as she lifted into his forbidden caress.

  “Do you like that?” he rasped, his voice harsher than she’d ever heard. This question, spoken in those ragged, gravelly tones, demanding in a way she’d never before heard him speak. And it raised her passion to an intensity that threatened to burn.

  “Yessss,” she moaned, arching in time to the glide of his fingers.

  He found the particular spot, one so heightened she cried out, and he buried that sound with his kiss, but not before it pealed around the room and lifted to the rafters, echoing there, lingering like an erotic symphony created by her and Clayton’s passion for one another.

  Nudging her legs apart with his knees, he spread her wider, and positioned himself against her damp curls. “Yes,” she panted. “Yes.” She needed this. She needed him. She needed all this. Just once. Once would be enough.

  Clayton gripped her by the hips, sinking his fingers into that flesh, and then with one flex of his hips, he thrust deep. She screamed into his mouth, the feel of his length within her wet channel a bliss unlike anything she’d ever known.

  Clayton grunted, those guttural sounds so raw and primal she moaned in time to them. Stroking her fingers down his back, hating the fabric that was a barrier between them, she held on tight to him as he moved. Rocking himself inside her. Withdrawing slowly and then filling her. All the while, his features were tight, as if every stroke was that blend of special torture that it was for her. Clayton pressed his damp brow against hers. “You are so beautiful.”

  She wasn’t. Oh, she’d long known she wasn’t ugly. But neither was she a manner of beauty who inspired sonnets or could make men fall in love at a glance. With this man, in his arms, she believed it. For the first time she felt beautiful, and she thrilled in it.

  Clayton guided the bodice of her gown down, bearing her breasts to his gaze and attention. Lowering his hands, he palmed them, and Sylvia’s eyes slid shut as she luxuriated in the feel of his touch. Then he buried his head within that flesh, and he worshipped the tip of the right mound. “Clayton,” she pleaded, wrap
ping her legs about his waist and lifting into his thrusts. He suckled and teased. Flicking his tongue across that agonizingly sensitive crest.

  She wanted this moment to go on forever. But also knew they danced with danger, discovery, and scandal. God help her again for the wanton she’d become, because she couldn’t bring herself to care about anything beyond assuaging the incessant ache between her legs.

  He withdrew from her and stilled; the head of him throbbed against her.

  Agony. It was sharp and acute, and she whimpered.

  “Do you want this?” he breathed against her ear.

  And she knew that question moved beyond a need to confirm that this was, in fact, what she wanted. He wanted to hear the words. He wanted them from her lips. “I want this,” she panted. Forcing her heavy lashes up, she lifted her eyes to his. “I want you.”

  His eyes darkened, passion turning them nearly black. And covering her lips with his once more, Clayton buried himself deep inside her.

  There grew an increasing frenzy to his movements. Nay, to theirs. For in this moment, it was confusing who each of them were, as they’d merged as one. They moved together in passion’s dance. Neither capable of words. Each of them reduced to animalistic grunts and moans. Ones that should have shocked and induced shame in her. But perhaps it was because this was Clayton, and she’d always been so very comfortable with him. It was only natural that they should be free in this, as well.

  That pressure built, increasing. Steady. At each glide of his hips, at each stroke, he pulled her higher and higher to that magnificent precipice he’d brought her over several days ago. And she wanted that. She wanted to tumble from that magnificent cliff, so all she was, all she became, was that blinding flash of light and color.

  He pumped himself deep inside her. And she lifted her hips to meet each downward thrust.

  “Come for me,” he ordered, his command a harsh rasp against her temple.

  And that was all it took. Sylvia exploded, her body reaching that peak, and she surrendered to it on a cry she pressed against his mouth. She shuddered and shook, weeping from the force of her release.

  Clayton’s entire body stiffened, and then he withdrew, coming in shimmery arcs upon the surface of his desk. His hips still pumping all the while.

  And then he collapsed atop her; catching his weight with his elbows, and framing her within the shield of his arms, Clayton held her.

  Closing her eyes, Sylvia struggled to control her breathing.

  “That probably shouldn’t have happened,” he whispered, his chest still rising and falling quickly. “But I am glad it did.”

  Her lips curved in a smile. “And I am, too.” Her back throbbed. Her legs ached. And she’d change nothing. Not a single part of this moment. She wanted it to last . . . forever.

  Even as it couldn’t.

  As if Clayton’s unspoken thoughts followed her own, he straightened, and she bit the inside of her cheek, silently crying out at the loss.

  And yet, inevitably reality needed to rear its head. Refreshments would be coming. Which meant so would people. Either his sister or a maid, and as such, they had to make the return to the present. There should be a greater sense of urgency and panic at the possibility of impending discovery. All there was, however, was regret at what was coming to an end.

  Clayton used his kerchief to ever so gently clean Sylvia, before then seeing to himself. After he’d wiped the remnants of his seed from the desk, he saw to his garments, and Sylvia straightened her own. All the while, there was a silence between them. One that she was grateful for, as it allowed her some time to sort through and attempt to steady her tumultuous thoughts and everything she was feeling.

  This moment with Clayton had been unlike anything she’d ever known. Nay, so many moments she’d shared with him these past days. From their explosive embrace in Hyde Park to their exchange in Sylvia’s townhouse when she’d first tasted the most complete form of passion. Now . . . this mind-numbingly overwhelming passion.

  When she had gone into his arms today, she’d done so with the understanding and expectation that this would be the last intimate encounter between them, given the terms of what she’d gotten him to agree to—helping him find a wife. It had made so much sense. It had also been how she’d rationalized making love to him here and now.

  Only, when the door opened shortly and his sisters streamed in to see Sylvia, and Clayton ceded his offices to the women, one question whispered around inside her head: How could this one time with him ever be enough?

  Chapter 18

  Later that evening, determined to quash whatever madness this was with Clayton, Sylvia set herself up in her offices and devoted the night to the task of finding a perfect bride for him.

  It was the only logical course to take. For every encounter with him proved dangerous in weakening her toward things she’d vowed to never again want—being so completely and thoroughly head over heels in love with a man. When love had already destroyed her.

  It was why she was determined to do this thing now. She should be able to complete the list.

  Given the members who were part of the Mismatch Society, there should be any number who would be a matrimonial fit for Clayton. And as his friend, it was a task she’d signed on to help him with.

  Except she hadn’t been able to bring herself to compose that list. The one with eligible ladies he might marry.

  Drawing her knees up to her chest, Sylvia wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin there.

  Why was it so difficult to put names upon that paper? After all, it had been her idea. And as a friend, it should be a relatively easy task to help him with.

  What it shouldn’t be was impossible.

  But maybe that was because she cared so very much about him. Because their friendship went back years.

  When Sylvia had made her London debut, she’d not been the diamond of the first waters. There’d been no rush of suitors or a bevy of admirers. Or even one.

  Nor had she found herself the object of society’s meanness.

  Rather, she’d been largely invisible to them, standing on the side of ballroom dance floors. Partnered during sets with men whom her brother worked on parliamentary matters with. Or Henry’s friends.

  And then along had come Clayton. Entirely by chance. They’d found themselves standing beside one another at Lady Waverly’s . . . and from that moment on, they had become friends. When until that time, until Clayton, she’d not known men and women could be friends.

  In the earlier days of their friendship, however, Sylvia had thought there might have been more between them. And through their discussions and the stolen, laugh-filled moments they’d shared in alcoves, escaping the crush of crowds, it had seemed like an absolute certainty.

  But there hadn’t. Their friendship hadn’t moved beyond that. There’d been no exchange where they pushed or challenged the boundary of that to see whether there was or could be something more.

  Now, she wondered.

  If the passion they’d now shared had come then, would their relationship have metamorphized into a romantic one?

  There came a light knock, and she glanced up, grateful for the interruption.

  Valerie hovered in the doorway. “You look busy. I can come back.”

  “Not at all,” Sylvia said. She set aside her notes and stood to meet the woman who’d become her closest of friends.

  Valerie joined her on the sofa and looked Sylvia’s abandoned notepad over. “You’re matchmaking.”

  Yes, because that’s what she should be doing. “I was . . . composing a list of potential matches for Lord St. John.” Or trying to. Trying and failing.

  “I . . . see.”

  Sylvia didn’t know what to make of that slight pause. Feeling the need to explain, she said, “I promised I’d help Lord St. John.”

  Nay . . . she’d offered to help. That was entirely different. She’d all but pleaded with Clayton for the pleasure of this very task.

  “
And . . . is this something you want to do?”

  Was it something she wanted to do? It should be. “It’s something I’ve agreed to take on.” Feeling her friend’s eyes on her, Sylvia made a clearing sound with her throat. “I know you’re likely thinking, with my responsibilities to the society, that it’s not a proper use of my efforts.”

  “No. That isn’t what I’m thinking or saying.” Valerie angled herself so she better faced Sylvia. “Is this something you want to do?” her friend repeated, with a slight emphasis added to her inflection this time.

  Avoiding her eyes, Sylvia stared at the still empty page. “He’s a friend.”

  “You are deliberately not answering,” Valerie said gently.

  Her friend wasn’t wrong. And where these past months Annalee very much lived a separate life in the evenings, spending nights out at various balls and affairs, Sylvia and Valerie had come to spend most of their time together. Perhaps that was why the other woman saw things that Sylvia desperately didn’t want her to.

  “You like him,” Valerie murmured.

  “I do.” She always had. “We’ve been friends,” she hurried to explain. “We knew one another before Norman. It isn’t more than that.”

  “But do you want there to be?”

  “No!” That denial burst from her. Because she didn’t. “Perhaps, if life had been different, and less complicated and . . .” Less everything. She would have allowed herself to consider marriage. But she couldn’t. Not again. Her husband’s betrayal had nearly destroyed her. She wasn’t strong enough to risk her heart again.

  “Mayhap you can have more with him?”

  “Would you give your heart to another?” she asked without intent to wound, wanting only to cement that connection they shared.

  “Never,” Valerie responded almost instantly. “But not for the reasons you believe.” Pain twisted the young woman’s features. “I haven’t been entirely truthful with you or the society.”

  Sylvia tensed. “I don’t . . . ?”

  “I’ve said what I have about marriage and men, and yet . . .” Valerie’s voice broke. “I don’t feel all those things I’ve said I do. Even though he hurt me, and even though he betrayed me and lied to me, I still can’t hate him as I should.”