Authors: Caroline Richards
The Darkest Sin (18 page)
He smiled faintly. “I sense that you're not satisfied yet?”
She waved an arm in his direction languidly. “You are insufferably arrogant. Of course, I'm satisfied and you well know it.” She leaned up on her elbows, arching her back, giving him a view that lengthened his erection by several inches. “But there's always more.” She had the eager look of a young girl surveying a box of bonbons.
Her frankness surprised and delighted him. The women in his past were much more coy about their demands. “I have my share of masculine pride,” he said with a glimmer of self-mockery touching his eyes.
Rowena's fingertips brushed over his chest. “I'd never have believed it,” she murmured.
In response, he simply smiled his promise, lying down next to her, moving a leg over her thighs, drawing her close against the warmth of his body. It was his turn to close his eyes, the scent of her skin filling the air around him. He inhaled greedily, his hands running over her back, learning again the curve of her hips and buttocks, the smoothness of her skin, the delicate flare of her spine. He felt the press of her breasts against his chest, the tautness of her nipples as he tasted of her mouth with a searching tongue. His need was urgent, eclipsing everything but the immediacy of his delayed desire. With a soft moan, Rowena moved against his hard flesh, her thighs tightening as she held him in the warmth of her body, sliding her hip against a muscular thigh. Her words whispered against his mouth.
“Don't think. Not now, Rushford,” she said with ferocity, as his palms flattened against the silk of her thighs, opening her. He touched her slick core, and she moaned her need. He lifted his head, gazing down at her as she sprawled beneath him in abandon, her hips lifting unconsciously, her thighs parted, moisture on the satin of her skin glistening in the glow of the morning light. Her tongue touched his lips and she said, “Now, please ...”
A wildness surged through him, and somewhere inside he knew he was irretrievably lost. He feasted his eyes on her body, taking in the skin that stretched taut over her rib cage, curving into the hollow of her stomach. He lowered his head to lavish his tongue into the shell of her navel. He moved over her, and his hands lifted her hips to meet his hardness, sliding an inch into her. A slow smile spread over her face, and her eyes widened as he moved in farther, the incursions short and then longer. All the while his hands continued to roam, finding the places that made her wild with desire, stroking and then backing away.
He kissed her again, more forcefully this time, the blood simmering in his veins when he finally entered her with a swift thrust that forced a cry from her throat. He renewed the rhythm, slowly and then faster; Rowena's breath came in gusts from her throat. She sought his mouth with her own and clawed at his back, arching up to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper and deeper still, assuaging a shared hunger.
Lust clawed at his senses, and he brought her legs to rest on his shoulders, filling her to the hilt, balancing them both on the edge of pleasure and pain, punishing her and most of all himself with the most exquisite torment he'd ever known. This wasn't right. And yet it was right, so right, he thought, biting back a groan. Rowena reached with her hands, pulling him down toward her so he would fill her more deeply still, not wanting gentleness, preferring the savage thrusts that were driven by a need that more than matched her own. She kissed him hungrily, moaning her rapture into his mouth as their breaths merged into one.
When the climax came, it jarred him to his bones, the shocks reverberating through their joined bodies. It all but killed him, but he pulled out in time, her legs still spanning his shoulders, her heart pounding against his. They lay locked in each other's arms, shattered by what had passed, not for the first time, between them. They were drained beyond reason, their bodies hot and damp. Rushford rolled off Rowena, but they continued to touch, shoulders, breasts, legs, despite the emotions he tried to shutter behind the mask of his closed eyes. He settled down beside her, throwing one arm across her shoulders.
“Stay here . . . with me,” he whispered, the echo hot in her ear. And she did.
Â
Rowena awakened several times, the warmth of the morning sun turning into the heat of daylight.
Now when she rolled on her side and looked at Rushford, everything was familiar to her, from the breadth of his shoulders against the linen sheets to the clean lines of his jaw, the strong nose, the deep-set eyes. How could she ever have forgotten him?
Forgotten this?
She didn't want to think and she didn't want to remember but only to feel. Moving by instinct, she slid her body over his, watching him close his eyes and absorbing his tremor of pleasure. He caressed her bottom and then dropped his hands on the bed. Sitting up, she straddled him, gazing into his face, the silence heavy around them. Taking a deep breath, she reached out to brush back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead, studying his every feature, understanding fully that while they shared a passion, they knew little of one another.
Forgotten this?
She didn't want to think and she didn't want to remember but only to feel. Moving by instinct, she slid her body over his, watching him close his eyes and absorbing his tremor of pleasure. He caressed her bottom and then dropped his hands on the bed. Sitting up, she straddled him, gazing into his face, the silence heavy around them. Taking a deep breath, she reached out to brush back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead, studying his every feature, understanding fully that while they shared a passion, they knew little of one another.
As though she had done it all her life, she mounted him, impaling herself slowly upon his pulsing erection, holding hands, fingers interlocked as she rode him up and down, moving around in little circles. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse exploding, the pleasure acute. To be in control of his every movement, to have him where she wanted him, while he caressed her core with those clever hands and fingers, she could feel him growing harder and bigger, on the edge of lust. They were both holding back, desperate for another taste of sexual oblivion.
He squeezed her hand tightly, and never taking his gaze from her eyes, he pressed his lips to hers and then trailed small kisses to her breasts. His kisses turned to sucking and then biting, encouraging her to ride him, harder, faster. She came first, long and strong and overwhelming, lost in a vast void of bliss, scarcely aware of his pulling away to spill his seed on the smoothness of her abdomen.
If they wanted to say things to one another, the opportunity never came. It was only there in their eyes, the passion and urgency and lust. They spoke with their bodies. Later, as the sun rose still higher in the sky behind the curtains, they rose from the bed. Moments later, overcome with renewed passion, Rushford held her up against the peach silk-covered wall and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He started again with her mouth, with deep kisses while his hands caressed her breasts. He played with them, burying his face between them as his erection throbbed inside her. He was lost, she somehow understood, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders and leaning back and away from him against the wall so he might continue his kissing. Her legs were still wrapped around him, and she used her grip to ease herself on and off his penis. He moved in time with her, controlling the tempo with exquisite, drawn-out ease.
They came. And then they slept, waking again when the sun began its afternoon decline. He took her on her knees, with him behind her. He had a way of tormenting her with desire, teasing her and holding back until she begged for more. She loved the warmth of his lips on hers, the demand of his tongue in her mouth. His kisses could take her over, and she felt herself giving in to him as the day turned once more into night.
When they finally emerged from the bed, it was well past dusk. “You can come out now,” Rushford said, glancing at her shape under the covers. “You must be starving. No worries. I asked the servants to leave trays outside the door.”
She sat up slowly from beneath a mound of sheets, watching with appreciation as he walked resplendently nude to the door, returning with a tray balanced on each hand, then placing them on the bed.
“You make a superb manservant, Rushford,” Rowena said, reaching for the hand he held out to her, easing into a seated position.
His smile was infectious as he watched her lift the silver covers from the plates before her and take in the rich venison stew, small dauphinoise potatoes, and green beans. “Will you not join me, my lord?” she asked. “Your recent endeavors have surely sharpened your appetite.”
He looked at her propped up against the pillows, disheveled from their lovemaking, her nakedness only half covered by the disarray of linens. “My appetite is only for you,” he said.
“That sounds decidedly romantic. I almost feel as though I should believe you.”
“Perhaps you should.”
A small silence fell while Rowena told herself she didn't dare think any further into the future. She glanced away, uncomfortable with her thoughts. She knew this man was not for her to have by her side where she suddenly, desperately wanted him. The realization stunned her, and she tried to concentrate on the simple task of moving the fork to her mouth. They had been thrown together by a twist of fate, nothing more. But she didn't want to think about that now. His cool murmur forced her gaze back to his. “We have to talk, Rowena,” he said.
She patted the napkin to her lips. “You're angry. Regretful.”
“No. Absolutely not.” They had both agreed to the step they'd taken.
“There is nothing to regret,” she said forcefully. “You found me in the river and saved my life. I'll never forget that. And then when I needed something more . . .”
“Sex is not comfort, Rowena.” His voice was different now, cooler, more remote.
“I am no child, Rushford, despite what you believe. Do you think that what we did over a year ago and these past hours was in any way based on an emotion as pallid as comfort ? If you do, then you are sadly mistaken.” Inadequacy burned in her chest. “I know I am not as experienced as Miss Barry or any other of your mistresses might have been,” she began.
He interrupted her, catching a gesturing hand in midair. “Don't slight yourself, Rowena. You are simply superb. Perfect. No argument.” His voice was low, scarcely audible.
He kissed her palm before releasing it. She said wisely, “Then let's enjoy this veritable feast for the moment. We can speak of these things later.”
The concession was his to make. Rushford reached for a linen napkin and sat opposite her while Rowena lounged on the bed. They ate in companionable silence broken only by murmurs of appreciation and sips of wine that Rushford had decanted.
“That was wonderful,” Rowena said finally sinking into the pillows at her back. “But you didn't eat much. And you're very quiet.”
He glanced up.
“You're looking at me as though you've despoiled a maiden.”
“You're not exactly what I'm accustomed to.” He lifted his wineglass to his lips.
A flare of anger lit in her chest. “I think we've already established that fact. You mean that you are unaccustomed to virgins. I'm your firstâis that right?” she asked with her usual candor. “Or more correctly, perhaps, I was your first virgin when we met over a year ago.” She folded up the napkin on her lap. “I'm becoming increasingly irritated by your condescension, Rushford. I am not some silly doll-like creature who doesn't know her own mind. You should know that by now.”
“There's no possible way I could overlook that fact,” he said dryly. The sound of a door closing, followed by footsteps and the splash of water, interrupted their conversation. “I ordered us a bath,” he said, and she noted that he appeared to welcome the disruption, nodding toward the small door in the corner of the bedchamber, which led to the water closet.
“Us?” She smiled flirtatiously, her ill humor suddenly fleeing as she acknowledged that she was the one who had Rushford for the moment. She also recognized full well that she could never compete with the pantheon of women who had come before her. But she wouldn't think of them now. Throwing the coverlet aside, she slid her legs over the bed. “I'm more than capable of making my own decisions,” she continued. “Which is precisely the reason I came to you in the first place.”
“You mean the second time.”
Her brows rose. “You found me the first time, the details of which I'm anxious to hear. And yes, I made my way back to you, unwittingly, although something drew me toward you. Obviously the memories, the dreams, and the nightmares I had suppressed.” She gathered the linen around her body, though unaccountably unembarrassed by her nakedness. “How did you find me?” she asked bluntly.
“How about your bath first?”
Moments later, he sat a distance away from her while she sank into the copper tub's steaming water. She watched him from beneath her eyelashes, wondering what it would take to tempt him to leave his chair. The knowledge of her power, newly discovered, was alluring. She took a sip of the wine balanced on the stool beside the tub.
Picking up the fragrant bar of soap, she bathed with a deliberately unflustered disregard for his presence, as though she had done so countless times before with a man present. Then she sank back into the water.
“Now you're the one who is quiet,” he said, watching her trace her palm over the surface of the water, causing light ripples to wash over her submerged breasts.
“I'm waiting for you.”
“To answer your questions.” He leaned forward in the chair but stared off into the middle distance as though something required his entire concentration.
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