Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) (19 page)

He stripped off his jacket and laid it out over the pine needles, creating a small but extraordinarily inviting bed. She sunk downwards, and his hands came around her waist, easing her down onto it.

The pine needles made a soft cushion beneath the jacket, their scent resinous and delicious, mixed with the perfume of violets hidden beneath that she and John had crushed with their feet.

John rose up over her now. “Let me look my fill at you,” he said, his voice rasping.

Except for his jacket, he still wore all his clothes, and she found herself suddenly self-conscious, stretched out naked beneath him. She put her hands over her breasts.

“No, Mary,” he said softly. “I told you—no more hiding. And there’s no need to hide from me. I’m meant to see you. And I love what I see.”

“Do you?” she asked. It still seemed so hard to fully believe. “Do you truly?”

“You are beautiful,” he told her. “Utterly mesmerizing.”

She couldn’t seem to remove her hands, so he did it for her. Taking one hand in each of his, he stretched them upwards above her head.

She squirmed with embarrassment.

“Relax,” he murmured. He leaned forward, reaching for something just beyond her reach above her head, and tugged at whatever was there.

Suddenly something was touching her wrists—something like smooth twine.

“Ivy,” he said. “Just to remind you not to cover yourself.” He was winding the long strand of ivy around and around her wrists, the sleek vine and the soft leaves tickling her flesh. She felt a little tug and realized he had wound the ends of it around something solid—the trunk of a sapling, no doubt. Nothing so strong that she couldn’t free herself if she truly wanted to. But just at the moment, she didn’t want to be free.

“There,” he said, chuckling. “That should hold you for a bit.”

“Good Lord, John,” she said. “You
are
still a pirate.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And you are my captive for the evening, to have my wicked way with.”

The pulse of pleasure that went through her at his words turned her almost to liquid.

He began to stroke her once more, down the sides of her face, over her breasts, over her belly. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable...and so adored. His gaze was utterly worshipful, utterly loving.

He looked at her as though she were made of magic.

And so was he. His touch was sending sparks through her as he made his way ever further downward, caressing her hips, caressing her thighs.

“Now open your legs,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Let me see the treasure I’ve won.”

Shuddering with desire, she complied.

It felt so strange, so daring, to expose herself to him so fully, there under the moonlight, in the fresh breeze. But he seemed delighted by her. His eyes sparkled at they gazed down between her thighs. “Luscious,” he said.

And, as if drawn by magnetic force, he bent low and set his mouth once more to her cleft, sending shock waves of sensation through her, making her hips buck upwards against his touch.

His fingers and tongue together made a feast of her, licking and stroking, swirling and sucking, and she felt as if every joint and sinew in her was softening and melting away, even as a great surging pressure built between her thighs.

Oh, his touch was heavenly.

She pulled at the ivy twined about her wrists, but he’d done a better job of tying her than she’d first thought—the vines wouldn’t release her any more than the blackberry vines had the first time they’d come together like this.

So she grasped him with her knees instead, squeezing his ribcage, urging him closer to her, letting him know her pleasure and desire.

He moaned in response, and slipped a finger into her cleft.

She gasped and her back arched, her hips trying to drive him further inside her.

“Easy now,” he whispered, lifting his head for a moment. “A little at a time.” He slipped another finger inside, pushing gently against her walls. He wasn’t trying to preserve her chastity this time, she knew. He was readying her for his ultimate possession.

And she wanted that. And she didn’t want to go easy, she didn’t want a little at a time. They’d been building towards this moment for so long, and she wanted him inside her. She wanted him to lay claim to her once and for all.

With maddening slowness, though, he kept up his steady, gentle pace, a third finger joining the others, sliding deeper into her slick wetness, firing her almost beyond endurance. She lifted her hips again, finding a primitive rhythm as his fingers pushed into her and withdrew again and again, slowly building in pressure, while his thumb and his tongue worked together to play with that sensitive nub at the front of her, making her writhe and whimper beneath him.

She gazed up at the dark sky, at the stars, at the dancing leaf-shadows above her head. The world seemed to be changing shape around her; her head swam, her pulse beat hot and hard inside her—everything, everything was pulsing, shifting, heating, rising.

Now four fingers were inside her, thrusting in and out, and the whole palm of his other hand covered her sensitive nub, the heel of it pressing, working, driving her upward, upward.

“Come for me, darling,” John murmured. “Come, my little pagan goddess. Come, and let me watch you as you come.”

And she was helpless to resist him. At his words, at his touch, a dam seemed to break loose inside her, and waves and waves of pleasure rushed through every limb, every sensitive nerve. Her hips surged upwards, her sheath clenched and clenched around his fingers. Her head tipped back and her mouth fell open and she heard herself cry out in a voice that hardly seemed like it could be her own.

“Mary,” he was saying softly, almost reverently. “Yes, Mary. Come for me.”

And she came and came, swirls of light and pressure and sweetness cresting through her, making her eyes squeeze shut, making her all but lose consciousness of anything but the sensation of his touch.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he whispered, over and over, “yes.”

She had no idea how much time passed before she came fully to herself again, and felt the clear contours of her body once more, and the ivy twined about her wrists, and the soft cushion of pine needles beneath her back.

John was still leaning over her, on his knees, smiling at her.

“That,” he said, “was without doubt the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

She smiled. She was too languid, too warm and soft and melted, to be embarrassed. She was stretched out naked before him, legs spread, skin flushed, but she felt no shame.

No, indeed. In fact, she was far from being done with him. She wanted more, and more, and more.

And so did he apparently. His arousal strained hard against the fall of the trousers he still wore.

He saw where her gaze was focused, and he laughed. “See what you do to me, Mary? You haven’t even touched me yet, and I’m stiff as an oak branch.”

“And what will happen if I touch you?” she asked.

He gave her a piratical smile. “I’d be only too delighted to show you, love.”

“Untie me, then.”

“Not quite yet,” he said with a dark chuckle. “I’m rather enjoying seeing you like this. Having you at my mercy.”

“John, please,” she said. “Before we go any further—”

He glanced at her face warily. “What?”

She smiled at him. “I want to see you, too. I want to see you without your clothes.”

His grin spread wide now, and without hesitation, he pulled his shirt off over his head, exposing his broad shoulders, his beautiful sculpted chest. He gleamed like diamond in the moonlight. With a wicked grin, he straightened his back, and began to work the buttons on his fall. His hard cock sprang free, bobbing against his abdomen.

He lifted himself away from her for a moment, stood to pull off the boots he still wore, to peel away his trousers. His movements were so pure, so strong, so utterly male, and when he stood there, finally naked, glorious, glistening in the moonlight, his muscles rippling, he seemed something more than simply human. He was surely partly a creature from the spirit world.

She wanted him, every inch of him.

She struggled up against the restraints at her wrists, trying to lift her head towards him. “Come closer,” she said. “I want to put my mark on you, too.”

“Your mark?”

“Like you did on my rib. With your mouth.”

John made a sound in this throat that was almost a growl. “Oh, indeed,” he said. “Bound or not, you are clearly a pirate still yourself.” He straddled her again, shifting his weight until he was leaning low over her, his palms braced against the trunk of the tree to which he’d tied her. She could feel the heat of his legs against her ribcage, the surprising softness of his skin and the crispness of his hair.

If she stretched her head, she could touch her mouth to his rock-hard abdomen.

“Make your mark, then, wench.”

With him this close, she could smell the dark musk that rose from his sex. The velvet hardness of his cock pressed against her cheek, almost as if straining for her attention.

Closing her eyes, she set her mouth to the base of his ribs and nipped and sucked at the skin there, just as he had done to hers.

He groaned now, deep and full.

She sucked harder, adding the slight pressure of her teeth, until she felt his skin strain and draw into her mouth. “There now,” she said, releasing his flesh, pleased to see a spot of darker color blooming where her lips and teeth had touched. “You’re mine now, and no one else can have you.”

He gasped. “I am yours, Mary. Truly yours.”

An almost overwhelming emotion soared through her chest at his words, more than she knew what to do with all at once. To distract them both, she darted her mouth sideways, fitting her lips around the tip of his rigid shaft. He caught his breath sharply, and his palms slipped from the tree and hit the ground hard on either side of her head.

“God, Mary,” he moaned. “You undo me.”

And he undid her as well. Her heart thundered in her chest as she took in all the sensations of being like this with him: the heat of his body above hers, the silk of the head of his cock, the warm, intoxicating scent of him, the grip of his fingers as they came against the back of her head to steady her, the pull of the ivy around her wrists. Something about it was more magical, more dreamlike even than when she had knelt before him in the morning sunlight.

They could not possibly be doing this. They could not possibly be the people called Viscount Parkhurst and Miss Wilkins, the vicar’s sister, who just minutes ago had been fully clothed and dancing in a civilized fashion on the Green with all their friends and neighbors.

And yet it was real—the most real and true and undeniable thing she had ever experienced in her life. The most purely natural. The most profound.

She opened her mouth wider to take his cock deeper, flicking her tongue around the breadth of him, round and round. In response, his fingers tightened against her scalp, tugging at her curls. She could see the muscles of his belly contract, his hips begin to flex.

She began to suckle him, drawing him in tighter with her lips and cheeks. Hard as it was to move her head, she managed to slide her mouth at least partway up and down his shaft, causing him to groan and shudder. Looking up, she could see his face above her, his mouth parting, his eyes pressed shut, as if in agony, or on the edge of ecstasy.

She could tell he was fighting hard not to thrust down her throat. Without her hands to guide him, she had to trust him not to lose control. He eased himself in and out as gently as he could, softly drawing her head towards him and away again.

It was an extraordinary intimacy, beyond anything she could have imagined. And yet a sharp, new need was building in her. She knew still greater intimacy was possible, more total joining of their bodies, and every instinct in her clamored for it.

As if he shared her thoughts, he pulled himself out of her suddenly. “Damn me, Mary—you’ll have me bursting in a moment.”

She smiled at him teasingly, surprised at her own wantonness. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” he said. “But not just yet, love. I want to be inside you when it happens tonight. I—I need to be inside you. I want us to lay together, fully. I want the act to bind us together, the pagan way.”

“Oh, John....”

Something seemed to pulse through her—all the power of the earth, surging and singing through the two of them, glowing from inside their bodies, drawing them together, in tune with the night sky and the warm breeze and the gurgling creek and the song of birds and the scent of the flowers.

He knelt beside her again just long enough to untwine the ivy that had held her wrists. “No more of this for now,” he murmured. “Now I want you to feel your hands on me. I want you to put your arms around me. To welcome me inside you.”

“Yes, my love. Yes,” she said. As the last strand of ivy dropped away, she flexed her fingers. Their tips seemed more sensitive than ever; new warmth flowed through her limbs.

John stretched himself full length over her, his fingers reaching down between her thighs again, readying her once more, though in truth she needed no readying. She was hot and slick and open for him, her blood rioting inside her, the aching pressure in her belly so hard and urgent at her core that it could only be soothed by his touch deep, deep within her.