Folly (5 page)

Pennington, thankfully a quick thinker, swooped Eleanor into
his arms. “Lady Ulster has fainted,” he said, marching from the room. “I shall
see her to her chambers.”

Eleanor obliged him, going limp and trying to appear as
fainted as she could. She heard Uncle Andrew’s distracted response. “Good,
good. Very good.”

No doubt he was inordinately relieved they’d been so
accommodating as to leave him to his research in peace.

Ethan carried Eleanor directly to his room, fully prepared
to defend his actions, but they saw no one, not even a footman in the hall. Of
course, he was moving fairly quickly. Hell. He had her in his arms, the most
beautiful woman in the world. A woman he’d wanted—and hated wanting—from the
instant he’d set eyes on her.

If he was being honest with himself—and now he could,
because there was no reason left to lie—he’d dreamed about this moment. But it
had always been just that. A dream. And a damn frustrating one to boot.

He’d dreamed of taking Ulster’s wife, punishing her for
husband’s sins, making her beg and plead and weep for mercy, for his cock. He
had, in the deep cloak of night, pleasured himself to visions of Eleanor tied
to his bed or bent over the divan, languishing beneath the lash. But mostly,
whimpering with pleasure beneath him.

But now, Ulster was dead. Eleanor was in his arms,
compliant. Wanting him. Wanting him to fuck her. It was no longer a fantasy or
a vague imagining. She was warm and heavy in his embrace, and he was minutes
away from finally having her.

The anticipation was excruciating.

Still, when he reached his room, he didn’t toss her on the
bed and mount her, as the beast inside him urged. No. He wanted this to last.
He wanted this to linger.

Gently, he set her on her feet in the center of the room and
headed for the table by the window bearing an assortment of decanters. He
poured himself a drink and then threw himself into the armchair by the fire,
facing her, reveling in the fact she was here. In his room, his lair.

She stood silently, quivering slightly.

Exultation—that of a predator who had finally captured his
prey—lashed through him.

“Take down your hair.”

She did so, pulling out the pins, one after the other until
the heavy mass cascaded down her slender back. He stared at it, transfixed. He
wanted nothing more than to wrap it around his fist and bring it to his nose
and draw in her scent. But first…

“Remove your dress.”

She blushed and showed him her back. “I cannot.”

Rage and bitter disappointment flashed through him. “My
lady, we have a bargain. You must do as I say.”

She glanced back at him, over her shoulder, and shot him a
shy smile, a tentative offering. She lifted her hair, revealing a long line of
tiny buttons running from her neckline to her hips. “I cannot take off my
dress. You will have to unbutton me.”

Scalding lust replaced his rage in an instant. He was rock
hard in a breath.

He swallowed a sudden pool of drool in his mouth. Bounding
from his chair, he bolted across the room to her side.

The buttons were tiny and, truth be told, his fingers shook,
but he managed—somehow—to undo them. He stroked the creamy vee of skin he
revealed with the first few. A thrill shot through him, straight to his balls,
when she quivered at his touch.

He was possessed, suddenly, of the urge to hold one side of
the garment in each fist and rip. But he didn’t. For one thing, that would end
this too quickly and he didn’t want to end this quickly. Instead, he satisfied
his roiling hunger by nibbling on the back of her neck, licking and sucking on
her nape as he blindly fumbled for the next button. And the next. When the gown
opened far enough, he turned her and, slowly, drawing his palms over her
shoulders, nudged the dress off. He swallowed as, bit by bit, her graceful
shoulders were revealed. Then her chest.

Damn. She wore a chemise.

But her breasts, swollen and pert, were visible through the
sheer material. Her nipples, puckered and fat, taunted him. Unable to resist,
he thumbed a taut peak. She moaned, which brought his gaze up to her face.

God. She was beautiful, her lashes fanning her cheeks like
sooty moons, her lips slightly parted and damp, her nostrils flared.

“Do you like that?” he whispered.

She colored. A red tide crept up her cheeks giving her a
rosy glow.

Had he ever thought her cold? How had he ever decided she
was reserved?

“Yes, Ethan.”

He could tell she was aroused. It was evident in her short,
hard gasps, the trembling in her form, the rising scent of lust. It nearly drove
him mad.

But he returned to his chair and sat, facing her once more.
A whole room away.

It nearly killed him.

Her eyes flew open at his withdrawal. He nodded curtly in
her direction. “There. You’re unbuttoned. Finish the job yourself.” Because,
God, he wanted to watch her undress. For him.

She swallowed and nodded and let the dress fall to the
floor.

He ground his teeth, bit his tongue, curled his hand in to a
fist around the arm of the chair. Anything to keep him from flying across the
room, taking her in his arms and planting himself inside her.

No. He sat there in the plush chair and watched as she
revealed herself to him. For once her dress fell, she lifted her chemise. His
heart thudded in his chest—in his cock—as her creamy belly, her abdomen and finally,
her breasts were bared.

God. She was beautiful.

She pulled the chemise all the way off and let it fall to
the floor. Let her gaze fall as well. She peeped up at him, standing there
utterly bare.

Dear. God.

At the sight of that silken triangle damp with dew, his
heart stuttered.

She was naked.

In his room.

Eleanor.

“Turn around.” As much as he wanted to inspect the lush
globes of her ass, he needed some time. Some time to retain his sanity, his
control. For if he looked at her much longer, stared into her witching eyes, he
would lose control. And while she was aroused, he knew she wasn’t ready. Not
ready enough. His cock was enormous, and as long as a pike.

An unused candelabrum sat on the table by his chair. He
plucked one candle from a branch and fingered it. Perfect.

“Ethan?” She had turned, wreathed in the light of the
licking fire in the hearth, and was watching him with a perplexed expression.

“Come here.”

She stepped toward him. Dainty shadows danced over her skin.

“Closer.”

When she stopped before him, he handed her the candle. It
was a fine creation, made of beeswax and scented with lemon. “What do you want
me to do with this?”

He shot her a hooded glance. “Don’t you know?”

Her brow rumpled and she shook her head, tipping the candle
this way and that.

“I want you to fuck yourself with it.”

The candle fell to the floor. “What?”

“Come now, Eleanor. Surely you’ve fucked yourself with a
candle?”

Her cheeks went red, her lips trembled and she shook her
head. “No.”

He didn’t know why he pursued this. He could tell the
prospect distressed her. Perhaps it was his deep need for revenge against
Ulster, or perhaps it was simply the desire to see her engaged in such a lewd
pursuit, but he pressed her. “Pick it up, Eleanor. Slip it inside your cunt.”

“My c—”

“Cunt. Say it.”

“C-cunt.”

“That’s right. That’s good. Now, slip it inside.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Remember our bargain.”

She swallowed heavily and stared at him, trembling. And just
when he was about to give in, to release her from the bawdy request, she picked
up the candle.

Every muscle in his body went taut. His eyes burned. He
couldn’t bear to blink.

She studied it for a bit, as though trying to figure it out.
Then she placed one foot on the ottoman before him, opening herself completely
to his gaze, and lowered the candle. He watched, his breath scalding in his
lungs, as she slipped it in, past her lips, and farther, into her cunt.

She threw back her head and moaned.

“D-deeper.”

She complied and the taper, bit by bit, disappeared. The
sight was riveting. When it was almost all the way in, when she grasped only
the tip, she shuddered. The candle bobbled and a fierce hunger racked him.

Hell.

“Now pull it out.”

She did, easing the candle back out of her cunt, shivering
and groaning at the sensation. It emerged with a slight stain, proof of her
fertility, proof another man’s seed had not taken root inside her.

The purpose of copulation, at its basest level, was
procreation. Somewhere, deep inside him, Ethan’s primal self howled with
satisfaction at the sight.

He wanted her.

Needed her.

Had to have her.

Now.

He stood and grabbed at the candle, jerking it out with a
wet plop. She cried out but he ignored the protest, yanking her body against
his. Too late, he realized he had not prepared. He had not undressed and was
suddenly annoyed with his clothing. He only had time, only had patience for his
trousers. He ripped the placket open, backed her against the wall, lifted her
leg and entered her.

Her heat, her dampness, the tight grip of her cunt blinded
him.

She cried out again but clung to him, trembling inside an
out.

He pulled out and buried himself in her again, in that warm
wet cavern, trembling with delight. She was divine. It was like coming home.
Her embrace was familiar, welcoming, expressly unique. He nested his nose in
the crook of her neck and drew in her scent.

And he froze.

The tantalizing memory of another woman, another night,
drifted through his brain, took root. Recognition, certainty flooded him.
Slowly, he lifted his head and stared at her, her nose, the tip of her chin,
those unforgettable lustrous orbs.

Exultation flooded him.

His eyes had not recognized his Mignon, but his body knew
her. His body had identified her right away.

He groaned as she, impatient with his pause, tightened her
muscles around him. And for the moment, this revelation, this epiphany, wafted
away into the mists of his insanity. She clutched at him again, this time with
a twist, and he growled. He lifted her leg higher and wedged himself deeper.

“Yes,” she cried. Then she bit his neck.

Ethan lost all sanity.

He fucked her, hard and fast, yanking out and plunging into
her cunt again and again in rapid succession. The tension within her rose. Her
moans became tighter, shorter, and then rose to wails. He knew she was coming,
sensed the imminence of her crisis, and he increased his strokes. He cupped her
breast, tweaked her nipple and reveled in her response—an excruciating squeeze
that sucked at his cock more tightly than any mouth. A pressure rose in his
balls, his cock started to swell and weep.

And then she came.

Ah. She came. Scratching, mewling, scrabbling against him, a
wild creature in the throes of ecstasy. She drew him in deeper with her spasms.
Tighter, harder, sweeter, she squeezed him, stroked him, rode him.

He exploded. Imploded. Erupted. A delirious burn scored him,
a hot wild rush as his semen gushed from him into her. He thrust deeper, toward
the mouth of her womanhood, letting the hot tide ride its way into her womb,
willing it to take hold, infuse her, make her forever his.

Afterward, he held her there against the wall, catching his
breath, regaining his foothold in this world. Then he kicked off his trousers,
lifted her gently and carried her to the bed. He wet a cloth in the bowl on the
night table and wiped her clean. He curled up beside her and, covering them
both with a blanket, rested.

He hardly cared that he was still wearing his dinner shirt
and meticulously tied cravat.

Sometime later—he wasn’t sure if it had been several hours
or several days—Eleanor stirred. Ethan caught her around the waist as she tried
to leave the bed. The fire had burned down to embers, so he could only see
shadows. But he could tell what she was doing. She was leaving.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

She froze at his dark tone. “To my room.”

“I’m not finished with you yet.”

Perhaps it was his imagination but she seemed to pale. The
trembling, though, he was certain of. He lifted the covers and urged her back
beside him. She lay there, stiff as a board, with her arms by her sides, her
hands fisted shut.

Dear God. She was quaking like a leaf.

“What’s wrong?” A sudden chagrin gripped at his gut as he
recalled what he had asked her to do with the candle. Now, at this moment, with
the fist of lust released, he realized how mortifying the request must have
been for her. As arousing at it had been for him to watch, doubtless, she
thought him a wicked satyr.

“N-nothing.”

“Eleanor. You’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to stop.” In this, she held her breath.
It didn’t help. She trembled even more.

“Eleanor.” He gave her a little shake. Her eyes flew open.
They were lit with something akin to horror. A skirling, barbed thought
flickered through his mind. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No.” A tiny peep. Her tone called the word a lie.

Another thought, dark and deep, surfaced. “Did…did I hurt
you?” God. He’d lost all control when he’d entered her, when he’d drawn in her
scent and recognized her as his Mignon, as his mate. That he could have hurt
her… Hell. The thought made him feel so small.

She stared at him. Her fear replaced by confusion. “What?”

“Did I hurt you? Was I too rough? There. Against the wall?”
God. He’d taken her against the wall. Her first time with him and he’d taken
her against the wall.

“No. It was…” She trailed off but her expression said it
all. That and the knowing smile. So she had enjoyed their tryst. That left one
thing.