Eternally Seduced (81 page)

Rathe said in a velvety voice, “For tonight, I’m just going to read a few passages from a John Keats poem.”

Everyone clapped except for Mary, who was stunned that Rathe even knew John Keats, and Professor Byron, who was scowling because he had been hoping the duke – if he really was that – would not have anything to say.

I met a Lady in the Meads

Full beautiful, a faery’s child

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild---

Rathe stopped and only looked at her.

Mary bit back a gasp because the heat of his gaze was more than enough to throw her back into the past, and in a second she vividly remembered the passion in his kiss and the way they were
wild
for each other.

Oh, drat.

That was not what this poem was about but from here on, she knew Rathe Wellesley had ruined the famous poem for her. From here on, she would not be able to think of those words without blushing, without getting wet, without thinking of…him.

Slowly, a seductively beautiful smile formed on Rathe’s lips, and audible sighs rose from the girls in the crowd.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets, too, and fragrant Zone;

She look’d at me as she did love

And made sweet moan---

Oh, oh God – he shouldn’t be looking at her like he was offering her all the riches in the world if she would give him her body. Mary could feel
the
heat suffusing her cheeks. Professor Byron was speaking furiously to her also. She knew she should pay more attention to him, but she just couldn’t stop staring at Rathe.

The message underneath the flowery lines, issued both as an invitation and a command, was patently clear to everyone.

Be mine, Mary. And everything in the world shall be yours.

Mary gripped the edge of the table instinctively, just to be sure she wouldn’t accidentally melt into the ground if Rathe kept looking at her like that.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sidelong would she bend and sing

A faery’s song---

Someone from the crowd actually moaned out loud.

“Shit, I’m horny,” another girl muttered, her voice breaking the silence of the infatuated crowd.

Mary couldn’t fault any of them. She felt the same way, and she was torn between hiding under the table and throwing herself at Rathe.
What was he doing here and why was he doing this to her
?
she wondered, desperately confused. Why was he wooing her so blatantly and how in the world was he able to inject so much sexual innuendo in his words with just his voice?

Steed…bend…sing…

Those were such innocent words but
to her
they were now beautifully depraved, her mind filled with thoughts of her soft body and his strong one entwined with each other, of her
riding
him with complete abandon, of her
bending
down closer to him so he could taste the succulence of her breasts, of her
chanting
his name as he thrust and thrust and thrust---

A whimper of distress escaped her.

Rathe heard it and he knew he had won.

He looked at the crowd. “I won’t finish the poem,” he said in a low silky voice. “I’m sure all of you know how I’m going to make it end.” He went down in one graceful leap and then the duke was walking straight to
wards
Mary, the look on his face making it explicit to everyone
who
he wanted to end the poem with.

“A duke, eh?
"
Professor Byron’s voice was frosty with contempt, making it sound like dukedoms were extremely archaic and not worth a damn in today’s modern society. He wished there was something else to say, but there was none. The man had been polite and charming when he invited himself to the professor’s table, explaining that he was an old friend of Mary. It was impossible to refuse, not with all of his other students looking at them.

And now, they sat in a triangle facing each other, and although Mary was seated more closely to him, Professor Byron could feel his hold o
n
her slipping and slipping.

“Yes, I’m a duke.” The man managed to sound courteously apologetic and arrogant at the same time, making the professor look churlish. It was as if the other man was saying,
you can harp about my dukedom as often as you want. It won’t change the fact that my blood is blue and yours is as red as all the peasants in the wor
l
d.

The professor wanted to kill him. Oh, if only he was not officially on duty today. He would plant a good one on this pretty boy’s face and show him that he, the professor, was the real man and not him.

He glanced at Mary. “May I ask how the two of you met? You make a very…unique pair.”

Mary blinked at the unexpected question. It was not like the professor to ask such personal questions.

When Rathe saw Mary’s lovely lips start to part, he went for the kill, placing his hand on her knee under the table. He knew that the people who cared to look might see what he was doing just as he was sure Professor Byron would never stoop to looking under the table even if he eventually guessed what was happening.

Rathe was fine with both.

He wanted everyone to know that he had staked a claim on Mary Ashton, and from this moment no one was allowed to make a move on her.

The heat of his hand on her knee made her tremble, stopping her throat from working. She was voiceless and thoughtless, all of her being centered on that one place where their bodies came in contact.

Professor Byron frowned. “Mary?”

She swallowed and felt at the same time his hand move up, slowly, caressingly,
inside
her dress. She quickly covered her mouth to keep herself from gasping out loud as his fingers caressed the tender skin of her legs.

Looking back at the professor, she forced herself to concentrate. “I…met him a week ago. He is a friend of Saffi March’s husband.”

His lip curled. “The rocker?”

“The rocker, yes
,
” Rathe added smoothly
,
at the same time boldly moving his fingers up to caress the silky texture of her inner thighs, “
Also known
as Sweden’s #1 Sex God.”

Envy flashed in the professor’s eyes, just as Rathe expected
.
M
en like him were the type to be in constant and furious competition with other males, driven to senseless posturing to hide their insecurities. Rathe used the professor’s momentary distraction to press his suit further, exerting pressure with his fingers so that Mary would open her legs more widely.

She resisted for a few seconds, the muscles in her legs tensing. But he was a patient and determined man, caressing and stroking her thighs until, with a look of dismay on her face, Mary’s legs finally parted, granting Rathe access.

Satisfaction coursed through him, a sweet and dark emotion that had him aching with arousal. He had the strongest urge to take Mary away then and there and be damned
with
what people said. This was the kind of crowd that was unlikely to care about reporting him to the tabloids, and even if they did
,
he had enough hold of the media to prevent the wrong photos or articles from being published. As long as he was not seen by any of his peers, then Rathe was safe, Mary was safe, and their secret would still be theirs to enjoy.

A choking sound escaped Mary as she almost doubled over on the table at the feel of Rathe’s sure fingers caressing her flesh through the lace of her panties. She threw a look of despair at him.
What do you think you’re doing?
She dared not look anywhere else. The table did not have any kind of linen to cover what was happening underneath. Although poetry night was over and the open space in the middle of the club had turned into a dance floor, anyone who still cared to look would see what was happening.

They would know that the duke was bent on seducing her, and she was letting him.

Professor Byron frowned. “Are you all right?” He reached out to touch her forehead for Mary suddenly appeared flushed.

Rathe’s face became cold when he saw the other man about to touch Mary. He swiftly deflected the other man
's hand
by cupping Mary’s chin, his arm presenting a physical barrier. He made Mary look at her, and he pretended not to notice the stormy emotions in her gaze. It was clear that she desired him, hated him, and wanted to kill him at the same time.

“You do look a bit feverish, Mary,” he drawled.

She glared at him, getting ready to give him a piece of her mind. But before she could do so, Mary felt Rathe’s fingers moving again, this time pushing her lace panties to the side so he could touch her actual flesh. The slickness of his touch, the wetness of her folds, and oh God, the beauty and heat of that simple contact shocked her into silence.

“Are you sick, Mary?” he pressed.

Mary bit her lip hard. The darn man wanted her to speak now? Conscious of how the professor was still frowning, she choked out, “No. Just…”

“Overly hot?” Rathe inquired innocently as he played with her folds while moving his thumb up so he could reach her tiny nub of pleasure.

She answered with a gasp, “Yes.”

Looking at her flushed face, there was only one way to describe the expression on it and Professor Byron finally understood why she looked like she was looking now. He had the strongest desire to look under the table and see with his own eyes that what he suspected was happening. But he could not because he was the damn professor, and he would not because it would mean that he knew he had been defeated.

“You do look unwell,” he said tightly. “I believe I must take you back to the dorm---”

“No need,” Rathe interrupted coolly. If the man thought Rathe was going to allow Mary to be in his company at this point, the man was bloody insane. “I can take her home.” He slowly withdrew his fingers and her panties moved back in place, its gartered edges making a loud snap.

The professor stiffened. Mary bit back a whimper. Rathe didn’t move or say anything, but the gleam in his eyes spoke volumes.

He took his time wiping his fingers dry with his handkerchief, Mary wanting to cry in embarrassment and need as he did while the professor could not take his gaze away from the sight even though his whole being was filled with absolute rage.

His lamb was being led away from the slaughter – the slaughter he, Professor Byron, had intended to lovingly and magnanimously instruct Mary Ashton about – but it wasn’t into safety she was being taken to. Rather, it was worse, a move that was the same a
s
leaping from the frying pan and into the fire.

“Are you absolutely sure you will be safe with this man, Ms. Ashton?” He couldn’t help trying one last time, the way his dick was protesting inside his pants making him say the words as Rathe helped her out of the seat.

Mary got to her feet,
her
legs still shaking under her. She looked at the professor and he wasn’t as gentle as he used to look anymore. Now, he simply looked pissed off, like a devious hunter cheated of his prey.

Rathe wrapped his arm around her waist, both an anchor and a chain. It kept her grounded, but it kept her locked to his side, too. She didn’t want to be this close to him, but right now she couldn’t figure out
how
to get away, with the way her body was trembling so badly just because of his proximity.

“Answer him, little pearl.”

Her head went up, the words of endearment shocking her. When their eyes met, she was even more surprised at the look on his face, like he was stunned by his own words, too. She heard herself saying, “I’m safe.”

Rathe did not let her or the professor speak any more after that. With a curt nod at the other man, he turned around to leave, taking Mary with him. They didn’t speak as Rathe led the way out. It was obvious he was itching to leave but was forcing himself to accommodate her slower pace as she hobbled with her crutches.

“W-why are you in a hurry?” His obvious impatience was getting to her, making Mary stammer. Was she being a nuisance to him? Her twisted ankle, according to the school nurse, would take three
more
days to heal.

“Be thankful I’m hurrying,” he bit out without looking at her. “It means I’m still managing to control myself and not take you in the nearest corner I can hide you in.”

She gasped, unable to believe that he really did mean what he said. He was the
Duke of Flanders.
He wasn’t supposed to be this…this uncivilized. And how depraved she was, Mary thought with a sick feeling in her stomach. She should be aghast and disgusted by his primitive side, but instead she was even more sensitive and wetter now, her body reacting to his words.

They reached his car, which stunned her somewhat because it was not a limousine but rather a conservative looking Rolls Royce. The chauffeur was also not like Bob, Staffan’s man, who was the only other billionaire’s chauffeur she knew. Although Rathe’s driver was just as imposing in his build, he was also more distinguished looking than the rock star’s right-hand man, with his silvery hair and crinkling eyes.

He tipped his hat to her in greeting before looking at Rathe. “Where to, Your Grace?”

Mary heard Rathe instructing the driver to take them to her university and then she was being ushered in, her crutches stowed away in the trunk. She shivered at the almost icy blast of the car’s air-conditioning, but the coldness was instantly swept away when Rathe pulled her towards him without warning the moment the door closed
behind
them.

And then he was kissing her.

It was a rough and sensual kiss, a no-holds-barred and take-no-prisoners kind of kiss. It left her breathless and panting for more, her hands moving up on his chest before settling on his shoulders so she could cling to him as her body fell against his hardness.

His kiss was relentless in its passion and carnality, making Mary emit the most embarrassingly raw sounds. She couldn’t believe it really was her, panting so loudly, like a wordless plea for him to never stop kissing her.

“You taste so beautifully sweet.” His voice was harsh and ragged at the same time, and then he was kissing her again, like he couldn’t help it.

She wanted to answer him, wanted to tell him his mouth tasted like forbidden fruit. This was wrong. She couldn’t explain why right now – her mind had stopped working ages ago – but she just knew it was.

Mary felt his hands moving, shaping her curves almost reverently, and the way he touched her made Mary writhe and move closer to him. She moaned against h
is
lips when her body pressed fully against his, her breasts flattening against his chest even as her nipples puckered into life.

He groaned. She moaned. They kissed.

His hands moved again, this time inwards, towards her straining breasts. And then he was cupping them, and it felt so agonizingly right Mary let go of the last of her worries and inhibitions. Did the driver know what was happening behind his back? Could people outside see through the windows? The answers to the questions didn’t matter. All that was important
was
that she was able to have more of his kisses, of his touch, of his passion.

When he finally let go of her mouth, it was to kiss his way down to h
er
neck, sucking hungrily but stopping before he could leave a mark on her swan-like neck. “Mary,” he growled as he moved back up, licking her ear.