A Rake's Vow (28 page)

“Where have you been?” Had he been searching for the Spectre?

“To Bedford and back.”

“Bedford?” Patience noticed the open window. She swung around to face him. “How did you get in here?” When she’d woken and seen him, he’d been standing in the moonlight looking down at Myst.

Vane glanced back at her. “Through the window.”

He turned back to the fire; Patience turned back to the window. “Through the . . . ?” She looked out—and down. “Good Lord—you might have been killed!”

“I wasn’t.”

“How did you get in? I’m sure I locked this window.”

“Myst opened it.”

Patience turned to stare at her cat, curled in her favorite position atop a small table to one side of the fire. Myst was observing Vane with feline approval—he was, after all, creating a nice blaze.

He was also creating utter confusion.

“What’s going on?” Patience arrived back before the hearth just as Vane rose. He turned to her, and reached for her, helping her the last step into his arms.

Muted by nothing more than fine lawn, his touch seared her. Patience gasped. She looked up. “What—”

Vane sealed her lips with his, and drew her fully against him. Her lips parted instantly; inwardly Patience cursed. His tongue, his lips, his hands, all started to weave their magic. She made a wild mental grab—for shock, surprise, anger, even witless distraction—anything that would give her the strength to distance herself from . . . this.

From the drugging wonder of his kiss, the immediate yearning that swelled within her. She knew precisely what was happening, knew precisely where he was leading her. And was powerless to prevent it. Not while all of her body—and all of her heart—was madly in alt at the prospect.

When not even hauteur would come to her aid, she gave up all resistance and kissed him back. Hungrily. Had it only been this morning she’d had her last taste of him? If so, she was addicted. Beyond recall.

Her hands slid up, over his shoulders; her fingers found their way into his thick hair. Breasts swelling, nipples sensitive against the hard wall of his chest, Patience abruptly drew back, desperate for air.

She gasped as his lips slid down her throat, then fastened hotly over the spot where her pulse thundered. She shuddered and closed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

Her words were a thread of silver in the moonlight. His answer was deep as the deepest shadows.

“You offered to be my inamorata, remember?”

It was as she’d thought; he wasn’t going to let her go yet. He hadn’t finished with her, had not yet had his fill of her. Eyes closed tight, Patience knew she should fight. Instead, her willful heart sang. “Why did you go to Bedford?” Had he gone in search of information, or because . . .

“Because I lost my senses. I found them and came back.”

Patience was very glad he, busy branding her throat with his lips, couldn’t see the smile that curved hers—soft, gentle—utterly besotted. His words confirmed her reading of his character, his reactions; he had indeed been hurt and angry—furious enough to leave her. She would have thought a great deal less of him if, after all she’d said in the conservatory, he hadn’t felt that way. As for the need that had brought him back to her—the desire and passion she sensed flowing so hotly in his veins—that, she could only be grateful for.

He raised his head, his lips returned to hers. One hand caressing his lean cheek, Patience welcomed him back. The kiss deepened; desire and passion blended and swelled. When next he lifted his head, they were both heated through—both very aware of what it was that shimmered hotly about them.

Their gazes locked. They were both breathing rapidly, both totally focused.

Feeling the touch of cooler air below her throat, Patience looked down. And saw Vane’s fingers quickly, deliberately, slipping free the tiny buttons down the front of her nightgown. She studied the sight for an instant, aware of the throbbing in her blood, of the beat that seemed to vibrate about them. As his fingers passed the point between her breasts, and moved lower, she drew in a shuddering breath.

And closed her eyes. “I won’t be your whore.”

Vane heard the tremor in her voice. He regretted the word, but . . . He glanced at her face, then looked down, watching the small white buttons slide between his fingers, watching the halves of her nightgown slowly open, revealing her soft, sumptuous body.

“I asked you to be my wife, you offered to be my lover. I still want you as my wife.” Her eyes flew open. He met her gaze, his face set, etched with passion, hard with determination. “But if I can’t have you as my wife, then I’ll have you as my lover.” Forever, if need be.

Her gown was open to her waist. He slid one hand inside, palm sliding possessively around her hip, fingers sinking into soft flesh as he drew her to him. He took her lips, her mouth—a second later, he felt the shudder that passed through her, her achingly sweet surrender.

He felt her fingers at his nape; they slid into his hair. Her lips were soft, pliant, eager to appease—he feasted, on them, on her mouth, on the warmth she so freely offered. She pressed herself to him. Inside her gown, he slid his hand down her back, to stroke, then cup the smooth swell of her bottom. The lower half of her gown was still fastened, restricting his reach; withdrawing his hand, Vane drew back from their kiss.

Patience blinked dazedly. He caught her hand and towed her the few steps to the chair. He sat, then caught her other hand, too, and drew her to stand between his knees. She watched, her breathing ragged, as he quickly unfastened the rest of her gown.

Then the two halves fell free. Slowly, almost reverently, Vane reached up and parted the gown fully, pushing it back to bare her rounded shoulders. To bare her entirely to his gaze. Chest tightening, groin aching, he looked his fill. Her body glowed ivory in the moonlight, her breasts proud mounds tipped with rose pink buds, her waist narrow, indented, the swell of her hips smooth as silk. Her belly was gently rounded, tapering to the fine thatch of bronzy curls at the apex of her thighs. Long, sleek thighs that had already clasped him once.

Vane drew a shuddering breath and reached for her.

His burning palms sliding over her back, urging her forward, broke the spell that had held Patience. On a gasp, she let him draw her near; she had to grasp his shoulders to steady herself. He looked up, the invitation in his eyes very clear. Patience bent her head and kissed him, longingly, openly, giving all she had to give.

She was his—she knew it. There was no reason she couldn’t indulge him, and herself, in this way. No reason she couldn’t let her body say what she would never say in words.

After a long, lengthy, satisfying kiss, his lips slid from hers to trace the curve of her throat, to heat the blood pulsing just under her skin. Patience tipped her head back to give him better access; her fingers sank into his shoulders, his tightened about her waist as he took full advantage. He held her steady as his lips drifted lower, over the ripening swells of her breasts. She drew a deep breath, murmuring appreciatively when the movement pressed her flesh more firmly to his lips.

Her murmur ended on a gasp as his teeth grazed one tightly furled nipple, then he took it into his mouth, and she felt her bones melt. One of her hands slid from shoulder to nape, then her fingers slid higher, to convulsively clutch his head as he laved her breasts, teasing the now aching peaks, soothing one moment, then tantalizing the next, easing her back one minute, then whipping her to an excruciating peak of feeling.

Her breathing was desperate long before his mouth moved on, lower, to explore the tender hollows of her waist, to feast on the sensitive cusp of her belly. His hands, palms hot and hard, fastened about her hips, supporting her. Then his tongue, hot and slick, probed her navel—the ragged hiss of her breathing fractured.

As his tongue delved, the rhythm evocatively familiar, she swayed and gasped his name. He didn’t answer. Instead, he trailed lingering hot kisses down her quivering belly. And into the soft curls at its base.

“
Vane!
”

Her shocked protest carried little conviction; by the time it passed her lips, she was already arching, straining up on her toes, knees parting, limbs pliant, hips tilting as she instinctively offered herself for the next heated caress.

It came—a kiss so intimate she could barely cope with the shattering sensation. He followed it with more, not ruthless but relentless, not forceful but insistent. Then his tongue slid between his lips, and between hers.

For one, crystal moment, Patience was sure he’d pushed her too far and she would die—die of the glory sizzling down her nerves, of the distilled excitement searing every vein. It was too much—at the very least, she’d lose her wits.

His tongue slid lazily across her throbbing flesh—and high became higher, tight became tighter. Hot as a brand, it flicked and swirled, dipped and delved—and her limbs liquefied. Heat soared and roared through her.

She didn’t die, and she didn’t crumple to the ground in a witless heap. Instead, she clutched him to her, and lost any hope of pretending the truth was not real—that she wouldn’t be his, be anything he wished.

He filled his palms with her, cupped her and supported her, held her steady as he tasted her. Explored her with his tongue, teased and tantalized her until she was sobbing.

Sobbing with urgency, moaning with need.

He was hungry—she let him feast; he was thirsty—she urged him to drink. Whatever he asked, she gave, even if he used no words, and she had only instinct to guide her. He took all she offered, and confidently opened further doors, walking in and claiming all as his unquestionable right. He kept her there, his, undeniably his, in a dizzying world of bright sensation, of nerve-tingling realization, of soul-stealing intimacy.

Fingers clenched in his hair, eyes closed, glory exploding, a golden haze on the inside of her lids, Patience shuddered and surrendered—to the welling heat, to the beckoning culmination.

With one last, lingering lick, savoring the tart taste of her, the indescribably erotic tang of her sinking to his bones, Vane drew back. One hand beneath the full swell of her bottom, and her convulsive grasp on his hair kept Patience upright. His gaze roaming her flushed face, he flicked the two buttons that closed his trousers undone.

She was already high, floating, pleasured to her toes; he had every intention of pleasuring her more.

It was the work of an experienced minute to ready himself, then he clapsed her thighs and urged her knees onto the chair, sliding along on either side of his hips. The chair was an old one, low, deep and comfortable—made for just this.

Dazed, she followed his unspoken instructions, clearly unsure but eager to learn. He knew her body was ready—achingly empty, yearning for him to fill her. As her thighs slid past his hips, he grasped hers and drew her to him, then drew her down.

He sank into her—and saw her eyes close, lids falling as her breath expelled in a soft, long-drawn sigh. Her body stretched, her softness accommodating his hardness. Then she shifted, pressing deeper, to take more of him, to impale herself more completely.

For one fractured instant, he thought he’d lose his mind.

Certainly all control. He didn’t, but it was a grim fight he waged with his demons, slavering to have her, to ravish her utterly. He beat them back, held them back—and set himself to giving her . . . everything he could.

He lifted her, then lowered her; she quickly caught the rhythm, quickly realized she could move herself. He eased his hold on her hips, let her have the illusion of setting the pace; in reality, he never let go, but counted every stroke, gauged the depth of every easy penetration.

It was a magical ride, timeless, without restraint. Using every ounce of his expertise, he created a sensual landscape for her, conjuring it out of her needs, her senses, so that all she felt, all she experienced was part of the staggering whole. His own needs he held back, his demons’ cravings, allowing them only the sensations he felt as, rigid, engorged, giddy with passion, drunk on the lingering taste of her, he sank into her cloying heat, and felt her welcoming embrace.

He gave her that—unalloyed sensual joy, pleasured delight beyond description; under his subtle guidance, she gasped, swayed and panted as he filled her, thrilled her, pleasured her to oblivion. He gave her all, and more—he gave her himself.

Only when she started up the last stair, the last flight to heaven, did he loosen his reins and follow in her wake. He’d done everything he could to bind her to him with passion. At the end, as they gasped and clung and the beauty swept over them, through them, and between them, he let go and savored, in his marrow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, in the farthest corners of his being, the glory he intended to capture for all time.

A
deep, regular vibration woke Vane in the eerie hour before dawn. Blinking his eyes wide, struggling to make out shapes in the dim light, it was a full minute before he realized the vibration was emanating from the warm weight in the center of his chest.