A Rake's Vow (44 page)

He knew very well what being “blind” would do to her. Without sight, her remaining senses would heighten—her sexual sensitivity, physical and emotional, would reach new peaks.

Slowly, he turned her to face him, and lifted his hands from her.

Senses flickering wildly, Patience waited. Her breathing was shallow, tight with anticipation; her skin prickled. Hands lax at her sides, she listened to her heartbeat, listened to desire thrum in her veins.

The first tug was so gentle she wasn’t sure it was real, then another button on her nightgown slid free. Her senses told her Vane was near, close, but precisely where she couldn’t tell. Tentatively, she reached out—

“No. Just stand still.” Obedient to his deep voice, to its compelling tone, she let her arms fall.

Her gown was buttoned down the front, all the way to the floor. Only the waft of air on her skin and the slightest of tugs told her when the last button fell free. Before she could imagine what might come next, quick tugs at her wrists had the lacings undone.

Blind, helpless, she shivered.

And felt her gown part and lift away, then it was sliding down her arms, down her back, slithering free of her hands to fall to the floor behind her.

She sucked in a tight breath—and felt Vane’s gaze upon her. He stood before her; his gaze roved—her nipples puckered; heat spread beneath her skin. A warm flush followed his gaze, over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She felt herself soften, felt anticipation surge.

He shifted—to the side. Tilting her head slightly, she strained to track his movements. Then he stepped closer. He stood to her left, bare inches away; she could sense him with every pore of her skin.

A hard fingertip slid beneath her chin and tipped her face up. Her lips throbbed; he covered them with his.

The kiss was long and deep, ardent, brutually candid. He surged deep and claimed her softness, then tasted her, languidly but thoroughly, a demonstration of what was to come. Then he drew back—and the fingertip slid away.

Naked, unable to see, with nothing beyond the soft glow from the fire and the heat of desire to warm her, Patience simmered. And waited.

One fingertip touched her right shoulder, then lazily meandered down, over the swell of her breast to circle her nipple. At the last, it flicked the achingly tight bud, then disappeared.

His second caress mirrored the first, teasing her left nipple, sending a long quivering shiver through her. She sucked in a fractured breath.

He leaned closer, reaching behind her to trace the long muscles framing her spine, one, then the other, stopping where they trailed into the hollow below her waist.

Again his touch was withdrawn; again Patience waited. Then his palm, hard, hot, slightly rough on her smooth skin, settled low on her back, in the curve below her waist, then boldly traced down. And around. Proprietorially claiming the full curves, knowingly, appreciatively assessing. Patience felt desire flare, hot and urgent inside her, felt its dew dampen her skin.

She gasped softly; the sound echoed in the stillness. Vane bent his head; she sensed it and lifted her lips. They met his in a kiss so full of aching wanting she swayed. She lifted a hand to grasp his shoulder—

“No. Stand still.” He breathed the words against her lips, then kissed her again. Then his lips trailed to her temple. “Don’t move. Just feel. Don’t do anything. Just let me love you.”

Patience shivered—and mutely acquiesced.

The hand fondling her bottom remained, distractingly intimate. It dropped to briefly trace the backs of her thighs, then, long fingers trailing up the line between, returned to caressing her tensed curves.

Then a rogue fingertip found the hollow at the base of her throat. Involuntarily, Patience straightened. The finger slowly tracked down, sliding smoothly over her skin. It passed between her swollen breasts, continued down her sensitive midriff, over the line of her waist, to her navel. There, it circled, slowly, then trailed diagonally, to one hip, then down the midline of her thigh, stopping and disappearing just above her knee.

The fingertip returned to her throat. The long journey was followed again, this time diverting to her other hip and ending above her other knee.

Patience was not deceived. When the fingertip again came to rest below her throat, she dragged in a desperate breath. And held it.

The fingertip slid down, with the same lazy, langorous touch. Again, it circled her navel, then, deliberately, it slid into the small hollow. And probed. Gently. Evocatively. Repetitively.

Patience’s breath escaped in a rush. The shiver that racked her was more like a shudder; breathing became even more difficult. She licked her parched lips, and the finger eased back.

And drifted lower.

She tensed.

The finger continued its leisurely descent, over the gentle swell of her belly, on, into the soft curls at its base.

She would have moved, but the hand behind her gripped and held her steady. With unhurried deliberation, the finger parted her curls, then parted her, and slid further.

Into the hot slickness between her thighs.

Every nerve in her body clenched tight; every square inch of her skin glowed hot. Every last fragment of her awareness was centered on the touch of that lazily questing fingertip.

It swirled, and she gasped; she thought her knees would buckle. For all she knew, they did, but the hand at her bottom supported her. Held her there, so she could feel every movement of that bold finger. It swirled again, and again, until her bones melted.

Within her, fire raged; Vane certainly knew it. But he was in no hurry—his finger pressed deeper, reached farther, and circled her, much as it had circled her above.

Breath bated, Patience waited. Waited. Knowing the moment would come when he would probe, when his finger would slide deep into her empty heat. Her breathing was so shallow she could hear the soft hiss; her lips were dry, parched, yet throbbing. Again and again, he hesitated at her entrance, only to slide away, to caress her swollen flesh, slick and throbbing with her heartbeat.

Finally, the moment came. He circled her one last time, then paused, his finger centered on her entrance. Patience shuddered and let her head fall back.

And he speared her, so slowly she thought she’d lose her mind. She gasped, then cried out as he reached deep.

His answer was to close his lips about one aching nipple.

Patience heard her responsive cry as if from a distance. Raising her hands, she clutched—and found his shoulders.

Vane shifted so she was fully before him, so he could lave first one breast, then the other, while he sank one, then two long fingers into her scalding heat. With his other hand, he gripped the firm mounds of her bottom, knowing he’d leave bruises. If he didn’t, she’d be on the floor—and so would he. Which would result in even more bruises.

He’d already depleted his stock of control; it had run out when he’d touched the wet heat between her thighs. He’d reckoned correctly on blind nakedness arousing her deeply—he hadn’t foreseen her blind nakedness so arousing him. But he was determined to lavish every attention on her—every ounce he was capable of giving.

Mentally gritting his teeth, mentally girding his loins—in cast iron—he hung on. And lavished more loving on her.

All he had to give, given as only he could.

Patience hadn’t known her body could feel so much, so intensely. Fire seared her veins; awareness invested her skin. She was sensitive to each shifting current of air, each and every bold touch, every nuance of every caress.

Every knowing stroke of Vane’s hard fingers drove pleasure into her and through her; every tug of his lips, every wet sweep of his tongue caught the pleasure and drove it to shattering heights.

The pleasure grew, welled, swept and beat through her, then flared and coalesced into a familiar inner sun. Eyes closed beneath her blindfold, she gasped and waited for the sunburst to break over her, then fade. Instead, it swelled brighter, wider—and engulfed her.

And she was part of the sun, part of the pleasure, felt it wash through her and about her, buoy her up and lift her. She drifted, afloat on a sea of sensual bliss, pleasured to her very toes.

The sea stretched on and on; waves lapped at her senses, fed them, sated them. But still left them hungry.

Dimly, she was aware of Vane’s hands shifting, aware of losing his intimate touch. Then he lifted her, cradling her against his chest, and carried her. To her bed. Gently, with soothing kisses that eased her parched lips, he laid her on top of her sheets. Patience waited for the blindfold to disappear. It didn’t. Instead, she felt the cool slide of her satin coverlet over her sensitized skin.

She listened—ears straining, she heard a soft thud—one boot hitting the floor. In the dark, she smiled. Sinking into the feathers beneath her, she relaxed. And waited.

She expected him to join her beneath the coverlet; instead, a few minutes later, the coverlet was whisked away. He came onto the bed, and stopped. It took her a moment to realize where he was.

On his knees, straddling her thighs.

Anticipation struck her like lightning; in an instant, her body heated anew. Tensed, tightened—quivering with expectation.

Above her, she heard a hoarse chuckle. His hands clamped about her hips. The next instant, she felt his lips.

On her navel.

From there, things only got more heated.

When, endless panting, gasping, shatteringly intimate minutes later, he finally joined with her, she was hoarse, too. Hoarse from her muted cries, from her desperate attempts to breathe. He’d driven her into a state of endless delight, her body awash with exquisite sensation, sensitive to every touch, every unerringly intimate caress.

Now he drove into her, and drove her still further, into the heart of the sun, into the realm of glory. Patience blindly urged him on, let her body speak for her, caress him and hold him and love him as he was loving her.

Wholeheartedly. Unreservedly. Unrestrainedly.

The truth broke on her in the instant their sun imploded and shattered into a million shards. Glory rained about her—about them. Locked together, she felt his ecstasy as deeply as she felt hers.

Together they rose, buoyed on the final rapturous wave; together they fell, into deeply sated release. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they floated in the realm reserved for lovers, where no mind was allowed to go.

“Hmm-hmm.” Patience burrowed deeper into her warm bed and ignored the hand shaking her shoulder. She was in heaven, a heaven she couldn’t remember being in before, and she wasn’t interested in cutting short her stay. Even for him—he who had brought her here. There was a time for everything, especially for talking, and this was definitely not it. A warm glow lapped about her. Gratefully, she sank into it.

Vane tried again. Fully dressed, he leaned over, and shook Patience as hard as he dared. “Patience.”

A disgruntled noise that sounded like “glumph” was all he got out of her. Exasperated, Vane sat back, and stared at the golden brown curls showing above the coverlet, all he could see of his wife-to-be.

As soon as he’d woken, and realized he’d have to leave, he’d tried to wake her—to tell her, simply and clearly, what he’d failed to tell her earlier. Before her passions had run away with them.

Unfortunately, he’d come to her late, and had stretched the time out as far as he’d been able. The result was that, only two hours later, she was still deeply sunk in bliss and highly resistant to being roused.

Vane sighed. He knew from experience that insisting on rousing her would result in an atmosphere totally inimical to the declaration he wanted to make. Which meant waking her was useless—worse than useless.

He’d have to wait. Until . . .

Muttering a curse, he stood, and headed for the door. He had to leave now or he’d trip over the maids. He would call and see Patience later—he’d have to do what he’d sworn he never would. Never expected he ever would.

Lay his heart on a platter—and calmly hand it to a woman.

Whether he was up to it no longer mattered. Securing Patience as his wife was the only thing that did.

W
as she imagining it?

Seated at the breakfast table the next morning, Patience carefully buttered a slice of toast. About her, the household chattered and clattered. Since breakfast was served later, in keeping with town hours, all the household attended, even Minnie and Timms. Even Edith. Even Alice.

Patience glanced about—and ignored the conversations wafting up and down the board. She was too distracted by her inner musings to waste time on less-urgent affairs.

She picked up her knife and reached for the butter.

And started to spread butter. On butter. She focused on the toast—then, very precisely, laid the knife aside and picked up her teacup. And sipped.

Langorous lassitude dragged at her limbs. Sweetly salacious thoughts dragged at her mind. Pleasured exhaustion had her in its grip; it was difficult to concentrate, but, again and again, she drew her mind back to the unexpected revelation of the night before. It required supreme effort to focus on the undercurrents that had run beneath their love-making, rather than on the lovemaking itself, but she was certain she wasn’t inventing, that the underlying intensity she’d sensed had been real. The intensity of Vane’s need, the intensity he’d brought to the act of loving her.