Devil in My Bed (11 page)

“I know,” replied Melody testily. “Ready not, here I come!”

Madeleine stepped slowly back, her hand extended behind her. She expected to feel Aidan’s clothing . . .

she simply didn’t expect to feel it full of Aidan!

For a long moment, they both stood frozen, breath stopped, hearts pounding. Madeleine didn’t move, but she didn’t remove her hand from him either. Helpless with curiosity and a burning urge to have, just for a moment, what she’d once had, she simply stood there, so close to him she could feel his breath upon her neck, her hand the only connection between them.

Until strong arms came about her. A wide hand covered her mouth.

“Shh.” Hot breath in her ear. Madeleine’s eyes closed in a shiver of pleasure. She left her hand where it was, unable to move or even breathe for fear of breaking the connection to him.

Was she touching . . . ? Yes, he hardened under her palm. His arms slowly tightened about her, pulling her back against him. She leaned into him, her hand trapped between her own rear and his thickening erection, and let her head fall back to rest on his chest.

For another very long moment, neither of them moved. She was afraid. Was he? Afraid to touch again, afraid to feel again? If she lost herself in him again, she’d never leave. That way lay disaster.

Yet somehow she’d forgotten to inform her hand of that fact. She realized that she was rubbing him in a small circular motion, relishing the feeling of his thick, rigid flesh rising beneath his trousers.

She could have pulled his hand away from her mouth but she left it, allowing his embrace, remaining still except for that one rebellious hand. He pressed her head gently to his chest, tenderly restraining her while his other hand began to rove as well. She went instantly damp.

Touch me. God, please touch me.

At first his big warm palm rode lightly over her torso, sliding up her side, stroking slowly across the upper exposed surface of her breasts. Then up her neck to wrap wide and warm there, his thumb testing the speed of the pulse in her throat. Then his hand slid down, fingertips easing beneath her neckline with familiar accuracy. Her senses, heightened by the darkness and the years without his touch, sent shocks of pleasure through her from the simple roughness of the riding calluses on his fingers and palm.

When his hot hand encased her breast, she whimpered and tried to turn her face away from his imprisoning palm. He would not allow it.

A fresh gush of hot wetness between her thighs belied her tiny protest as she submitted. He was going to touch her now and there was nothing she could do about it.

Yes.

She could worry about being independent and self-sufficient later. At this moment she ached to be mastered by him. Inhaling, she raised her chest to fill his hand. As she did so, she slid her other hand behind her to arrange a better, more encompassing grip on his tumescent organ.

He retaliated by sliding his fingertips around to her nipple, teasing and plucking and rolling it gently. She squeezed his cock in her awkward grip. He inhaled sharply, but did not speak as she thought he might.

Instead, he removed his hand from her bodice entirely.

Disappointed, she twisted against his muffling hand again. He pinned her gently back to his chest, not allowing even an instant of freedom. She heard a small, sliding sound before her and realized that he had reached forward to do something to the closet door, securing the latch somehow.

Then his free hand began to slide down the outside of her gown, over the slight swell of her belly, down until his fingers pressed the fabric into the vee of her sex. The inside layers dampened immediately.

He would feel how hot she was, how wet—he would know that she was ready, now, throbbing and eager and entirely available, no matter the consequences. It was humiliating and freeing at the same time. There was no hiding her desire. He held her last shred of secrecy right in his palm now.

His touch rotated slowly, pressing gently, rubbing her own underthings against her swollen clitoris. She jumped and struggled slightly but he only pulled her more securely against him. Her hands trapped behind her, her head pinned back to his chest, she was helpless in his gentle, implacable grip. Her knees weakened as she surrendered completely at last. Her thighs eased and he drove his hand farther between them. Using only that one hand, he bunched the fabric of her skirts high, one handful at a time, until she felt the hem rise completely and his hand could make free with her tender flesh.

Her pantalets were tied with a simple string. He made short work of that, letting the poor damp things fall to wind about her ankles. That only added to the sweet sensation of being bound by him.

Then his fingers—God, how she’d missed those talented fingers!—slid warm and sure into the slippery folds of her. She gasped into his palm, grinding her bottom back into him helplessly as he slowly invaded her.

In and out, sliding one long finger deeply into her while his thumb worked slippery magic on her aching, swollen button. She rode his demanding hand like a demented thing, squirming and gasping and shaking from head to foot. Whimpers came from deep in her throat, only to be masked by his restraining hand.

He kept her pinned to him like a butterfly in a collection while he sent her wild with his sweet, wicked violation.

I am mad. I am completely insane and yet I simply do not care.

The feel of her skin beneath Aidan’s fingertips was more than enough to keep reason at bay. The heat of her body against his and the way her roving hand massaged his cock only further justified his insanity.

What could he do but take this moment and this woman as far as he possibly could?

Through the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears, he heard her moan—felt the warmth of her sigh of submission in the palm of his hand.

In his hands . . . God, how he’d dreamed that he’d feel this way again.

She felt it, too, though she claimed not to love him. She was melting to his touch like wax to flame. His wayward hand captured the nectar from her slick, hot petals—proof that she wanted him, proof that she lied at least in part. Love, he knew not. Lust and hunger and heat—that he knew she needed from him.

She would marry him and he would own this lust and heat and hunger forever. Perhaps someday it would be more. He wasn’t a gambling man, but he was willing to wager his future on it.

Finally, he spoke, a deep rasp in her ear. “Come,” he ordered. “Come to me now.”

She did so instantly, as if his hot breath on her skin were all she’d lacked to fulfill her. She came gasping and shuddering and gushing hotly into his palm.

“Good,” he said soothingly, bringing her down slowly with gentle, easy strokes, then slipping his fingers from her completely and letting her gown fall once more. “Shh. Breathe now.”

He released his hold over her mouth, sliding his hand down to her waist to support her until her head cleared. Even as she reveled in the satisfaction that only he could give her, even as she appreciated his considerate embrace while she recovered, part of her loathed her own weakness. He found her hand and pressed his handkerchief into it. She took it wordlessly. He turned his back, despite the darkness, while she tended herself.

Finally he spoke, his voice low. “I feel as though I should apologize—”

She interrupted with a short breathless bark of laughter. “One more word and you’ll not make it out of this closet alive,” she whispered furiously. She straightened her clothing, smoothing her rumpled skirts with shaking hands. She would not make herself vulnerable to him again. “This did not happen,” she whispered. “Is that perfectly clear?”

The only problem with her breathless denial was that it made Aidan want to reach for her again. His absurdly endearing Maddie . . . what was he to do with her?

And what was he to do with himself? What madness seized him to strip her of her dignity just to hear her sweet moans?

In the moment that she’d joined the game, she’d laughed—the same sweet husky sound he’d been smitten with four years ago. In that instant, he wanted her back just the way she was before.

At least now he knew that he had not imagined her response to him back then. He passed a hand over his eyes. It smelled of her deepest, darkest secret—whatever her heart might say, her body could not resist his touch. He knew that, had always known that, and had used it against her just now.

How could I do that?

How could I not?

Having Madeleine trembling in his arms again—how had he survived so long without that? He’d wanted so much more. He’d wanted to drag her from the closet and tumble her into bed, craving the sight of her as well as the feel, needing the taste of her as well as the sound of her sighs. If it weren’t for Melody outside—

“Melody!”

“Don’t fret, Aidan. She hasn’t made a sound.”

Oh no. It’s not when they’re noisy that you ought to worry. It’s when they’re quiet.

“Quickly!” He reached for the garter he’d looped about the door catch to secure it. “Are you decent?”

“Allegedly.”

They exited the closet to find the sitting room empty and the bedchamber as well. Then Madeleine saw that the main door was ajar. “Aidan!”

Aidan’s heart sank. Melody on the rampage in Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen? “Oh, dear God.”

Madeleine frowned. “This place isn’t safe for children. We have to find her before she hurts herself!”

I’d be satisfied to find her before she burns the place down. He pulled on his coat. “Stay here. I’ll search for her. Perhaps I can catch up to her before—”

She’d folded her arms and stood glaring at him. “Are you insane? Do you think I’d leave finding her to a man? You lot can’t find your own socks in your own drawer!”

Aidan opened his mouth to deny it, but really, she had a point. “Fine. You search this floor. Old Aldrich is deaf as a post and blind as a bat. You could probably climb into his lap before he’d notice you.”

“Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to restrain myself,” she said dryly, but she was right behind him as he ran from the room.

Leaving Madeleine to search his floor, Aidan raced down the stairs, then pulled up abruptly when he saw one of the more mobile fossils glaring at him as he walked by. Tugging his weskit straight, he tried to assume a more sedate demeanor.

“Young ruffians,” the old man muttered as he carried on to his rooms. “Ne’er-do-wells, all three of you!”

Aidan did not stop to debate his place in the haute ton. As soon as the crusty old patron had rounded the corner, Aidan threw on reckless speed. Casting wildly down the hall, he stuck his head into every empty room and a few that were not. He checked every niche and crawled shamelessly beneath every table. He even checked Jack’s room, which was as cold and impersonal as Jack had left it.

You are the worst father in all of England. Your child needed you and where were you?

In the closet with the worst mother in all of England, actually. Unfair to blame Madeleine, perhaps, but his rising panic bid fair to making him irrational.

“Melody!” His hoarse stage whisper echoed in empty room after empty room. In the last room on that floor he would have begged on his knees to hear a reply.

No Melody. Oh, God. If she wasn’t here, she must be—

Down in the club.

Flying from that room, he skidded to a stop just outside. “Oh . . . Hello, Wilberforce.”

The head of staff stood in the middle of the hall, the portrait of bland helpfulness. Aidan must have imagined the waves of suspicion he felt flowing from the man. Guilty conscience.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Wilberforce nodded a very correct bow. “Is there something you require, my lord?” He glanced at the doorway to the unoccupied room Aidan had just left.

A thousand reasonable excuses ran through Aidan’s mind and then flew right back out again. To hell with it. The uproar would no doubt start rising momentarily anyway. Melody was probably regaling the entire membership with tales of her chamber pot accomplishments even now. “No, thank you, Wilberforce.” He inhaled deeply and ran right past the man, taking the stairs two at a time to the main club floor.

Once there, he realized that there was no one in the main room but Lord Bartles and Sir James, those white-haired fixtures who perpetually dozed before the fire, their chess pieces apparently untouched for decades.

Right. He might as well fear detection by the ivory knights and ebony pawns! Tossing caution to the wind, Aidan freely searched the room. He tossed aside draperies, tipped chairs and crawled under furniture.

When he found himself, dusty, perspiring, and panicked, wedging his big body under the heavy oak liquor cabinet, he was forced to admit that he, a lord of the realm, a man of mature age and education and experience—a man of reason and logic, by God!—had in the past thirty-six hours entirely lost control over his life.

To a baby.

Madeleine waited for Aidan to clear the way, then followed him into the hall. Pausing, she looked about her. There were a number of doors in this wing, but only the farthest one at the front of the house had a tray outside it, waiting to be picked up by the staff. Aldrich’s room, then.

The others opened easily to her touch. Melody might very well be in one. They were furnished much more sparingly than Aidan’s room, thankfully, so it was short work to lift the dust covers and determine there was no curly-haired imp hiding beneath.

Madeleine didn’t bother calling out, for if she were playing hide-and-seek, she certainly wouldn’t fall for such an obvious ploy. Melody was very bright, as of course Aidan’s daughter would be.

Another woman’s child. Another woman’s bed.

Not her affair, to be sure. She longed to ask Aidan about it, for he might very well give her the truth, but she couldn’t very well do so without revealing her own lie. She’d woven herself a tangled web this time, indeed.

Once Madeleine cleared every room, she stood in the hallway, perplexed. She’d been so sure Melody wouldn’t roam far, for it wouldn’t be playing the game properly. Melody had been so adamant that she knew the game, she wouldn’t like to get it wrong. Another quality she shared with her father.