A Rogue by Any Other Name (42 page)

His fingers fluttered against her, and she squirmed against him, one of her hands tumbling down his torso to rest, tentatively, on the part of him about which she was so curious. He sucked in a breath as her hand settled on the hot steel of him. “Penelope . . .” The word was lost in a groan.

She wanted to touch him, to learn him, to give him all the pleasure that he was giving her. “Show me how. Teach me.”

His eyes were black with pleasure, and he moved his other hand to guide her, showing her just how to touch, just how to stroke. When he groaned, long and lovely, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek softly, whispering against his skin, “This is much more interesting than billiards.”

He laughed harshly at the words. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“You’re so smooth,” she said, stroking his length, marveling at the feel of him. “So hard.” He closed his eyes as she touched him, and she watched his face, enjoying the play of pleasure across it.

She rubbed one thumb firmly across the tip, and he gasped, his eyes opening to slits. “Do that again.”

She did, and he pulled her to him to kiss her long and deep as she continued her exploration, his hands on hers, showing her how to move, where to linger, how much pressure to exert. His head tilted back, and his breath came in short, pained spurts. “Is this all right?”

He groaned at the question. “It’s perfect. I never want you to stop.” She was not interested in stopping. She loved watching him take pleasure. Finally, he pulled her away from him, the movement rough. “No more. Not before I’m inside you again.” The words sent a blush across her cheeks, and he laughed, low and lovely. “Does the fact that I want to be inside you embarrass you, beautiful?”

She shook her head. “The fact that I want you to be inside of me embarrasses me. Ladies don’t think such things.”

He kissed her roughly. “I never want you to silence your salacious thoughts. In fact, I want to hear every single one of them. I want to make them all come true.”

His fingers were moving firmly, doing wonderful things between her thighs, and she was gasping. “Michael. More.”

“More what, beautiful?” The tips of his fingers slid against the place she wanted him, a tease more than a touch. “More here?”

She gasped at the sensation and he moved away before she repeated his name, hearing the pleading in her tone. “Or perhaps more here?” One long finger slid deep, and she moaned at the sensation.

“Everywhere.”

“What a greedy, greedy woman I’ve married.” He teased, kissing her, licking deep, holding her still as he explored her mouth, all the time, his fingers moving in wicked little circles, just barely touching her. He raised a brow, and a second finger joined the first on a slow, long slide of pleasure. “Here?”

“Yes,” she gasped; he was close.

“Here?” He moved.

Closer. She bit her lip. Closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“Here?”

So. Close.

She held perfectly still. Not wanting him to stop.

“I love touching you here, Penelope,” he whispered, as his wicked hand explored. “I love discovering your shape, the feel of you, how wet you are for me.” Those fingers stroked once more, his whispers continuing. He twisted his hand, circled just so, threatening that marvelous place. “I love searching you.”

“Find it . . .” she whispered, unable to keep quiet.

“Find what, love?” He was all innocence. A wicked liar.

She met his gaze, feeling powerful. “You know what.”

“Let’s find it together.”

It was too much. She reached between them, grasping his hand and finally, finally, pushing him against her. She leaned over him, meeting his eyes, seeing the dark pleasure in him, the tightly leashed need. His fingers slid through her soft curls, parting her secret folds, twisting, circling, guided by her hand at his wrist. His thumb stroked long and slow in a wicked loop that made her question her own sanity.

He watched her as she struggled under the weight of the pleasure, teasing her with his words as much as his fingers. “There, love? Is that where it feels good?”

She was lost to his wicked, encouraging words and his wicked, encouraging fingers, and she whispered her response, moving against him. And then he was touching her just as she wanted, circling her perfectly, stroking with exactly the right amount of pressure. It was as though he knew her body better than she did. It was as though her body belonged to him.

And perhaps it did.

One of his beautiful long fingers slid deep inside of her, the heel of his palm rocking against a point of acute, almost unbearable pleasure, and she called out his name, rocking against his touch, knowing that something incredible was about to happen.

“Michael,” she whispered his name, wanting more. Wanting everything.

She was filled with desire and greed and she wanted him to never ever stop touching that most secret part of her. The part that now belonged to him.

“Wait for me,” he whispered, and he was widening her legs. He pressed closer to her, his fingers leaving her, replaced with the soft, broad tip of him, and as he rubbed against her, he gave a long sigh at her ear, before whispering, “God, Penelope . . . You’re like fire. Like the sun. And I can’t help but want you. I want to be inside you and never to leave. You’re my new vice, love . . . more dangerous than any I’ve ever had.”

He slid deeper, gritting his teeth as the tip of him settled against the entrance to her, where she felt so empty . . . where she needed him. She edged closer to him, loving the feel of him against her. Wanting him deeper.

He stilled. “Penelope.” She opened her eyes, meeting his serious black gaze. He leaned down and took her lips in a long, slow, promise-filled kiss. “I’m so sorry you ever felt dishonored, love . . . in this moment, there is nothing about you that I do not find utterly precious. Know that.”

Tears came to her eyes at the words, stunning and filled with truth.

She nodded. “I do.”

He would not release her gaze. “Do you? Do you see how much I value you? Do you feel it?” She nodded again, one tear spilling over, rolling down her cheek and dropping to the smooth skin of his shoulder. One of his hands slid to her cheek, thumb brushing away the salted track. “I adore you,” he whispered. “I wish I could be the man you deserve.”

She lifted her own hand to capture his at her cheek. “Michael . . . you can be that man.”

He closed his eyes at the words, pulling her to him for a deep, soul-shattering kiss before he reached between them to seek and find that wonderful place where pleasure seemed to pool deep within her. He stroked and circled for long minutes, over and over in perfect, nearly unbearable rhythm until she was pushing against him, and she could feel her pleasure cresting. He stilled before she could reach the edge, letting her come back to earth before pushing her once more and hesitating again. She cried out her frustration. “Michael . . .”

He kissed the side of her neck, whispered in her ear. “Once more. Once more, and I’ll let you take it. I’ll let you take me.”

This time, when she reached the edge, just as she was about to tip over, he slid deep into her in one long, smooth stroke, stretching her. Filling her. Gloriously. And she was lost, over the precipice, safe in his arms as they rocked together and she cried his name and she begged for more, and he gave it to her over and over until she could not breathe and could not speak and could do nothing but collapse in his arms.

He held her for an age, his hands stroking along her back, the movement soft and generous and patient.

She would never stop loving him.

Not for the immense pleasure he’d given her but for the almost unbearable softness he offered her now. For the way he stroked her gently and whispered her name as though he had all the time in the world, while he remained seated to the hilt in her, hard and unsatisfied. He had waited to take his own pleasure, wanting to be certain that she’d had hers first.

He worked so hard to hide this side of him, but here it was, all tenderness.

She loved it.

She loved
him.

And he would never accept it.

She froze at the thought, lifting her head, afraid to meet his gaze, worried that he might sense her thoughts. His hands tightened around her. “Did I hurt you?” The question was hoarse, as though he couldn’t bear the idea.

She shook her head. “No . . .”

He moved beneath her, trying to pull himself from her. “Penelope . . . let me . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Michael.”

And then, because she was too afraid to speak—too afraid that if she allowed herself to speak she might tell him something that he did not wish to hear—she rocked against him, lifting herself barely and sinking back onto him, loving the way his head tilted back, eyes narrowed to slits, teeth clenched, neck corded with unyielding control. She repeated the motion, and whispered, “Touch me.”

At the words, he released his control and finally,
finally
moved.

She sighed at the movement, and he stroked deep, beautifully deep, all pleasure and perfection. They moved together, his hands on her hips, guiding her, as her hands settled on his shoulders, and she leveraged herself above him. “More . . .” she whispered, knowing, somehow, unquestionably, that there was more for him to give.

And he gave it in longer, deeper strokes. “Beautiful Penelope . . . so hot and soft and glorious,” he whispered at her ear. “When I watched you come apart in my arms, I thought I might die with the pleasure of it. You’re beautiful in ecstasy. I want to bring you there again . . . and again . . . and again.” His words were punctuated by his thrusts, by his hands stroking along her back, across her shoulders, down again to cup her bottom and guide her, beautifully, on him.

“Michael, I . . .” And then his hands were on her, between them, and he was so deep, and she could not finish the sentence . . . because that strange, remarkable edge of pleasure was there again, looming up in front of her, and she’d never wanted anything so much as she wanted to reach it.

“Tell me,” he whispered harshly, thrusting harder, faster, giving her everything she did not know she wanted. Needed.

I love you.

Somehow, she stopped herself from saying the words as pleasure rocketed through her. He tumbled over the edge with her, shouting her name in the dark room.

Chapter Twenty

Dear M—

I’m in a bit of a reflective mood—it’s been six years to the day since ���The Leighton Debacle” as my father likes to refer to it, and I’ve turned down three proposals—each less appealing than the last.

Nonetheless, my mother continues to ferry me about to modistes’ shops and ladies’ teas, as though she could somehow erase the past with a few yards of silk or a whiff of bergamot. This cannot go on forever, can it?

Worse, I continue to write letters to a specter and imagine that, one day, replies will arrive in the post.

Unsigned

Dolby House, November 1829

Letter unsent

“Gooseberry fool.”

Penelope did not lift her head from where it lay on Michael’s shoulder, her blond hair spread around them. “I beg your pardon?”

He stroked one warm hand down her spine, sending a shiver of pleasure through her. “So polite.” He leaned over the edge of the chaise, not wanting to disentangle himself from her just yet but knowing that she would grow cold in the large room if he didn’t do something. He grabbed his frock coat from where he’d left it in a pile on the floor in his rush to get to his wife, and pulled the navy wool over them both.

She cuddled against him under the coat and he caught his breath at the feel of her, soft and silk against him. “Gooseberry fool,” he repeated.

“That’s not a very nice thing to call your wife,” Penelope said with a little smile, without even opening her eyes. “Though after what we just did, I might be a bit of a gooseberry fool over you.”

It was incredibly silly, and Michael could not help his laugh.

How long had it been since he’d laughed at something so silly?

A lifetime.

“Funny girl,” he said, tightening his arms around her. “Gooseberry fool is my favorite pudding.”

She stilled at that, her fingers pausing the lovely swirling in the hair on his chest. He took her hand in his and brought her fingers up to his lips, kissing them quickly. “I like raspberry fool, as well. And rhubarb, too.”

She lifted her head, her blue eyes searching his, as though he’d just made an earth-shattering confession. “Gooseberry fool.”

He began to feel idiotic. She didn’t really care about his favorite pudding. “Yes.”

She smiled then, wide and beautiful, and he did not feel idiotic anymore. He felt like a king. She laid her head upon his chest once more, her breasts rising and falling against his chest in a tempting rhythm.

Then she said, simply, “I like treacle,” and he wanted to make love to her again.

How was it possible that conversation about dessert could be such an aphrodisiac?

His hand trailed down her spine again, curving over her rounded bottom, and he pulled her against him, loving the feel of her. He kissed her temple. “I remember that.” He hadn’t remembered until the moment she mentioned it, when a vision of young Penelope in the Falconwell kitchens, round face covered in treacle, had come fast and clear. He smiled at the sticky memory. “You used to convince our cook to let you lick the bowl.”

She rolled her face into his chest in embarrassment. “I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

She shook her head, her silken hair catching in the stubble on his unshaven cheek. “Spoons, maybe. But never the bowl. Ladies do not lick bowls.”

He laughed at the proper correction, the deep rumble surprising them both. It felt good to lie there and laugh with her. Better than he had felt in a long, long time. Even as he knew that this moment was all they had, the last quiet moment before all hell broke loose, and he ruined the little goodwill she had for him.