All About Love (23 page)

He was a man, too. In the heat of the moment, he’d overlooked that fact. Steeling himself, tightening his reins, he tensed to draw back.

“Kiss me.”

The words were a whisper in the dark, a soft plea so unexpected he felt stunned. Raising his head, he looked at her face, unsure he’d heard aright.

His jacket had been open; her hands had come to rest on his shirt-clad chest. Now they slid to his sides, gripping, urging him nearer.

“Kiss me again.” He saw her lips move as she stretched up; they touched his jaw. “Kiss me like before . . . just once more . . .”

She didn’t have to ask a fourth time, but it wouldn’t be just one kiss. Bending his head, capturing her lips, he assumed she knew that, that her last words were simply part of her entreaty. He wanted to kiss her a million times, over and over again. He’d never get tired of her taste, of the sweet, innocent, trusting way she yielded her lips, her mouth.

She did it again and captured his senses. He fell into the kiss, into her.

He was ravenous.

The springy hedge was soft enough to press her into. He did; the feel of her supple body taut against his inflamed his need. Her hands slid further, searching, then spreading over his back. She clung and he kissed her more deeply. His hunger exploded. She arched against him, instinctively offering, and then she kissed him back.

She was still new to the game, enough so to distract him. He took the time to coax, to tease, to tutor, until, lips melded, tongues tangling, they were satisfied with the depth of the shared intimacy.

It wasn’t enough—not for him.

It wasn’t enough for Phyllida, either. When he ventured nothing more but simply remained, a hot, vibrant, intensely exciting male all but wrapped around her in the dark, she presumed it was her turn to take the lead. Sliding her hands around from his back, savoring the hard muscles, the tension she felt invest them as she stroked, she searched and found the buttons of his shirt. Quickly, she worked her way up, sliding the small buttons from their moorings, all the while kissing him, taking him in, then returning his hot caresses with heated caresses of her own.

The give-and-take—the reciprocity of it all—was something she hadn’t foreseen. It intrigued her and spurred her on. He’d seen her breasts, stroked them, played with her nipples; it had all been gloriously pleasurable. Now was her chance to return the gift.

The last button gave; she slipped her hands inside the soft fabric. Splaying her fingers, she pressed her palms to the broad muscle that was the equivalent of her breasts.

He reacted as she had; a sharp tensing all but instantly converting to heat, to a curious thrumming resonance of the flesh. Pleased, she caressed, shifting her hands, fingers flexing, digging in, releasing; she wondered if that thrumming resonance was desire—his desire.

Hair rasped against her palms. She found the flat disks of his nipples, so unlike hers yet they still budded as hers did. She played, intrigued by the discovery, by the welling reaction she sensed in him. Their lips remained fused, her mouth trapped beneath his. She sensed his control, his holding back. Boldly, she caressed him with hands and tongue and tempted him more.

The dam broke; heat washed through her in a burning tide.

She’d been right—it was desire; she knew it in her bones. It filled her, warmed her. She basked in its heat and bravely drank it in, as much as he would give her.

She wanted this—desperately wanted to know about all the things she’d feared she never would. She wanted to feel, wanted to know what mutual desire was like, how it felt to burn with that flame.

Tonight might be her last chance to find out—once she told him her secret, he would no longer be interested in her, not like this. He would have no cause to compel her, no reason to seduce her. Once she found the letters, she would have to tell him all; the instant she did, this brief moment—her opportunity to be the object of a man’s desire—would be over.

She didn’t want it to pass. The realization shook her; she pushed it aside, too confusing to deal with now. Now when she had so many new sensations, not just physical but ethereal, to deal with. To experience, to understand—it was like plunging into a new world with new wonders, new customs. There was so much she had to learn.

He pressed her back into the hedge; his hands tugged at her shirt. It didn’t button down the front. She sank back, easing her hold on him. He yanked the shirt from her breeches and then his hands were underneath it.

They encountered the bands wound tight over her breasts; his hands froze. She thought she heard him groan. Then his hands slid around, locking over her back, and he hauled her against him. That she understood. She pulled her hands free, wound them around his neck, and pressed herself to him, giving him back kiss for wild kiss, caress for heated caress.

She wasn’t sure her feet were touching the ground. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to get closer, to combine her heat with his.

His hands slid lower, over her hips, until they cupped her bottom. He lifted her against him, into him. His desire was very evident. She let her body press like a hand to him, as if with her soft stomach she could caress him there.

Something changed. Not in a flash, but in a steady rush of power. Something new rose between them, something so vital, so intense, she ached to hold it, to know it. She tightened her arms about his neck and kissed him more deeply, sharing the driving need. He kissed her back. The power swelled and spread through them until she was glowing with it, aching with it, and he was the same.

Their lips parted. They both needed to breathe. A curious hiatus held them; she glanced at his face. His eyes were shut; his breathing was as ragged as hers. What next? She had no idea. She was quite sure he did.

She brushed her lips against his. “Teach me.”

His harsh laugh was mostly groan. “Dammit—I’m trying to
spare
you!”

“Don’t.” She would have frowned, but his eyes were closed. Was he being chivalrous? Or pigheadedly protective? Was there any difference? And did she care? “Stop making my decisions for me.”

“You don’t even know—”

“Stop arguing and
show
me.” She kissed him—hard, forcefully. He reacted instantly and kissed her back fiercely. Her head spun. She didn’t draw back, she refused to retreat—she kept kissing him, sinking against him, using her body against him. She sensed the moment when she won, when desire triumphed over whatever misguided male notions he’d held.

A shudder went through him, then heat and glory welled between them again, even more powerful than before.

The tenor of their kiss changed—the giving and taking shifted to some deeper level of intimacy. She gave readily, took gladly, and refused to back away.

A deep sigh coursed through him and his hands firmed about her bottom. His fingers flexed, then kneaded; heat spread in a prickly wave over her skin.

He backed her further into the hedge. One hand cradling her bottom, he held her there, pinned by his weight, while, with fingers quick and sure, he undid the buttons closing her breeches.

She should have been shocked, but she wasn’t—she wanted to know. Now. Tonight. Here. With him.

Long fingers splayed over her stomach; they gently pressed and she lost her breath. His lips firmed and she took her breath from him, and rode the spiraling sensation of his touch, of his exploration.

He didn’t hurry. He took the time to savor, to learn. Nerves tightening to excruciating sensitivity, she followed his every move.

Followed his fingers through the springy thicket of her tangling curls, felt the long slide of his fingers between her thighs. Sensed the heat, the curious dampness he encountered, thrilled to the flash of pure sensation that speared her when he caressed, then fondled.

His knowing fingers touched her, parted her, explored her—waves of pleasure rose and swamped her. They pushed her on. On toward something; the urge to reach it grew, swelled, until a near-mindless want consumed her.

She didn’t know what she wanted; she was sure he did. Holding tight to him, to their anchoring kiss, she tilted her hips, opening herself to his hand, begging . . . she knew not for what.

He cupped her, fingers sliding slick in a soothing caress; then, very slowly, he entered her.

So slowly she felt the intrusion keenly—no force, no pressure, just the yielding of her body to his penetration. He reached deep, then stroked.

The heat within her tightened, coalesced, then contracted even more. He stroked again, finger within her, thumb upon her—she would have gasped, cried out, but he drank the sound. And stroked again.

Her heat fractured, imploded, then erupted. Hot glory and pleasure spilled down every vein. Fierce delight, tangible in its sharpness, ran across her skin, through her body, scattered her wits and left her senses sighing.

Clinging tightly, she gave herself up—to him, to the splendor of desire.

Lucifer watched her face as the pleasure rolled through her, his awareness centered within her, savoring the rippling caresses as she eased. Every demon he possessed was slavering, expecting its customary reward; he didn’t know how he was going to hold them back, only that he would.

Somewhere, a line had been crossed, some Rubicon beyond which there was no turning back. He didn’t know where or when, but there was no longer any point pretending he hadn’t, at least partly deliberately, taken the fatal step. Whether it had been fifteen minutes ago, when the realization that he’d already nearly lost her had hit, whether Horatio’s garden was to blame, or the inheritance as a whole—or if he’d decided in that instant when first he’d laid eyes on her face—didn’t matter. She was his. So the only matter he had to concentrate on right now was not giving in to his demons.

Not easing her breeches farther down, lifting her, and taking her here, now, against the hedge.

Studying her face, eyes closed, her expression beatifically serene, helped—so did easing his fingers from her, gently drawing them from between her thighs.

Her musky scent rose, teasing, taunting his demons. He slammed a mental door on them, shut his ears to the howls.

He’d have her—he’d decided that days ago, even if he hadn’t let himself think of it—but not here, not tonight. For all that she’d insisted, she deserved better than a shrubbery hedge. And he seriously doubted, when the time came, that once would be enough—not now. He’d known from the first that abstinence was not a good idea.

A whole night. If he exercised appropriate caution and skill . . .

Leaning into the hedge beside her shoulder, he was still watching her, her breeches done up, his hand resting on her hip on top of her loose shirt, when she drew in a deeper breath and opened her eyes.

She blinked. Her gaze flew to his face.

Even in the dimness, he saw awareness bloom; through his hand on her hip he felt tension reinvest her spine. She stared into his eyes, then swiftly scanned his face before once more meeting his gaze.

His lips curved, not so much a smile as a gesture of intent. He leaned into her. “That was just the appetizer.”

He brushed a kiss across her swollen lips, then captured her wide-eyed gaze. “Next time, I’ll have you naked, on a bed, and I won’t let you go until I’ve had you. Multiple times.”

At eleven the next morning, Phyllida closed the side door of the church and started down the path. The vases were done for the services tomorrow—one item she could cross off her list.

Jem, the Grange’s youngest groom, was lounging in the lych-gate; he straightened as she neared. She’d requested his presence on her errand to protect her from the murderer or to protect her from Lucifer—she wasn’t sure which. If the latter, then she’d failed. A pair of blacks pranced before the lych-gate; she had not the slightest doubt who would be holding their reins.

Jem opened the gate and she stepped into the lane. Lucifer was listening to Thompson, standing beside the curricle, but his blue gaze was all for her.

Thompson saw her and broke off to nod.

Lucifer seized the opportunity. “Good morning, Miss Tallent. Would you prefer to drive back to the Grange?”

No one would believe her if she said she wouldn’t; in truth, she was perfectly amenable to meeting him again. In public. “Thank you.” She sent Jem home, then strolled to the curricle’s side. Although still engaged with Thompson, Lucifer held out a hand as she neared. She considered it, then calmly put her hand in it and allowed him to help her up. In public, she’d be safe.

Settling beside him, she shamelessly eavesdropped.

“So you want new locks on all the doors and windows, the kind that can’t easily be slipped.”

Lucifer nodded. “I haven’t any idea how many will be needed, but I want every window secured.”

“Aye, well—no point otherwise.” Thompson straightened. “I’ll be along this afternoon to count up. I knows just the sort you want, but it’ll take a week or more to get ’em in. Come from Bristol, they do.”

Lucifer nodded. “Get the job done as fast as you can.”

“I’ll do that.” With respectful nods to them both, Thompson stepped back.

Lucifer clicked the reins and the blacks stepped out. He glanced at her, but had to look back to his horses. They passed Jem, swinging down the lane. “You have no idea,” Lucifer said, “how pleasantly surprised I am to see you with Jem in your train.”

“Why? I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

“You didn’t say you would, either, and you are the most contrary female I’ve ever met.”

She couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or insulted. “Why are you ordering locks? Because of last night?”

His gaze touched her face. “Because of the intruder.”

A
frisson
of awareness raced through her; she carefully kept it from her face. She wasn’t going to let what had happened last night inhibit her from continuing with their joint investigations. She had a shrewd notion he’d be quite happy to see her retreat from the field, a victim of consciousness. But last night had come about by her insistence; just because he’d given her precisely what she’d wanted—even though, as he’d observed, she hadn’t known for what she was asking—she wasn’t about to convert into some mindless ninny.