Her Mad Baron (17 page)

He gave another tiny crooked smile. “Addiction to opiates and other unpleasant substances. I will break the hold on me even if I’m left drooling. In the meantime, I am self-absorbed, ill-tempered, and thoroughly selfish.”

“I don’t believe you.” She managed to eat a whole bite of the sandwich, though now it sat on her stomach like lead.

“I am not the only one who sees this change,” he said, lightly. “But what no one else knows is that there is only one thing I crave more than the opiate.”

She put down the sandwich. “Oh.” There was no need to ask what it was he wanted. His hungry gaze fixed on her, his hands clutching her hips held the answer.

Florrie moistened her lips. “And if I say go back to your chair and act the gentleman?”

Without releasing his hold on her, he twisted to look at the chair as if observing a curiosity. “If you said such a thing, I’d return to my seat and discuss the weather until you requested me to ring for the carriage. We will consider it good practice of social niceties for us both.” He turned to her again, fully focused on her body and face. “Why? Are you likely to say that?”

His hands moved along her body, up her sides and his thumbs were under her breasts, stroking up.

She squirmed slightly, opened her mouth to speak, and was shocked to discover he’d managed to slide his whole body close to hers, and now could cover her lips with his.

He was larger than she remembered, bulkier. His body and mouth and hands filled every one of her senses and, oh, damn, made them sing with frightened pleasure, her favorite kind.

She tried to open her legs wider, but his weight on her gown and petticoats pinned her.

He must have interpreted her squirming as resistance for he pulled away at once and got to his feet, bringing her eye-level with his elegant trousers—and what lay beneath the black wool.

Panting, he backed away.

She stood.

His eyes widened, and he reached for her cheek, a gentle stroke. Her eyes closed, and she bent to that touch.

“Florrie, you’re undoing me,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“You’re doing far worse to me, Lord Felston,” she said, and stepped into his arms.

“Good,” he breathed against her hair and proceeded to gobble her up like the wicked witch in the stories, pulling her into his evil house and self.

He began with kisses on her forehead, cheek and mouth, stopping to remove her hat. He apparently knew women’s hats, knew his way around hat pins, and he carefully placed the straw hat on the chair she’d abandoned.

Then he went back to kisses, careful delicate kisses that turned huge, sloppy and hungry. The ache in her belly and between her legs thrummed hard and grew more persistent with every kiss and touch. He must have remembered her body well, because he knew just where to touch her.

That couldn’t be after one muddled night together? How could he know she loved having her neck nuzzled, her throat kissed, and her back stroked just like so? Perhaps other women liked this touch too. He knew women, then.

She should have been ashamed to be so easily led, but she was caught up in the moment—returning his kisses, her hands around his middle, under his jacket to better feel his hard back. Imitating his liberties with her body.

They moved and swayed as if in a tiny dance together. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her in a hug. It might not have been true affection, only lust, but it warmed her anyway and made her burrow close to his shoulder and draw in his scent.

Florrie, the employee of a sundries shop, noticed the superior brand of lemon verbena and that the texture of his clothing was of finer quality than the menswear she commonly encountered. Underneath those details lay the far more intriguing, elusive flavor of him.

She recalled it, and so did something primitive far inside her that stirred at that smell from that night with him—and what he’d done to her. The memory of him flooded her whole body.

His starched evening shirtfront was stiff against her cheek. Another memory hit her, of his skin warm and alive under her fingers and mouth and on top of her body. His skin had seemed lit by the strange chemicals that had been inside her, but surely she hadn’t invented the texture and flavor. She craved them both. Now.

He growled as she shivered in his arms and their small dance stumbled slightly. He caught her before she fell, and he hauled her even harder against his body. She had been absorbed by other details and failed to notice the very large one that pushed against her.

More kisses but now, as she experimented with her mouth, she moved her body, trying to discern the hard lump at her lower belly without letting him realize her bawdy curiosity.

He must have been quite sensitive for he groaned and pushed that part of him against her as if encouraging her. Heavens, her legs went weak again as he cupped her bottom, pulled her to him from chest to knees, and began to move.

There was still kissing and hands still slid over clothed bodies, but there’d been a shift to something more urgent and directed. She knew directed toward what, too.

The knowledge should have stopped her, but instead, it spurred her on and caused a prickling ache to swell inside her.

The one-time episode, this very man inside her body, was set apart from her real world. Now it threatened to become real again. He’d take off his clothes and hers, and they’d lie down together again. This time they’d be free from the noxious drugs—she was, anyway.

Free to walk away.

Free to allow sense rather than lust to rule the day.

She put her hands on his broad shoulders and pushed him, intending to take a steadying breath and think. Stop the headlong rush.

Instead when she faced him, she found herself admiring the glossy hair, the handsome face. Weren’t addicts hollow-cheeked and haggard? He’d never seemed so, even when he was a prisoner.

Now his eyes glittered and his cheeks were flushed as if he had a fever. She wondered if those too-bright eyes were evidence of his desire for her or symptoms of the medication he took for his disturbed mind.

His mouth parted, but no words came out. Perhaps he concentrated on getting his breathing calmed—or perhaps he fought the urge to grab at her and take possession.

Oh, there it came, the wave of wanting that created the horrible and interesting quiver.

“Nathaniel,” she said.

He rubbed a hand slowly over his head, mussing the already disheveled hair. “Mm?”

“Are you feeling ill?”

He blinked. “No. I want you, and I’m not used to such—such vast desire.”

“You’re not used to not getting what you want, you mean.”

“No. I meant exactly what I said.” His smile looked genuine now, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You do think badly of me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’ll remedy that.”

“With kisses and-and so on? What about long conversations about books, music, art? Your favorite time of year? Your favorite dish?”

“Of course. And I want to learn about you, too.” With each word he inched closer. “What you want from life. How you climb a wall.”

He poised his mouth less than an inch from hers. “I already know the small noise you make when you want me to touch you.”

She had whimpered, deep in her throat.

He kissed her, a light brush of the mouth that sank deeper to something heady and wild again.

Pulling back from her lips, he whispered, the words puffing against her mouth, “You said you didn’t want to be with a cold man. Let me show you how warm I can be.”

Had she said he was cold? When? She hated it when people recalled her own words better than she did—particularly a person like Lord Felston who was too potent and dangerous. That he paid such close attention to her words increased that wobbly sensation.

She again felt the whimper in her throat rather than heard it.

He held her and touched her with confidence. Even her clothes seemed to present no challenge to him, and he worked easily unbuttoning and untying. He knew where her clothes were fastened as if he’d done a study of it as they sat by the fire.

It happened quickly. She waited for her good sense to rise to the surface of the lust befuddling her, struggle past the kisses, and protest.

She didn’t struggle or protest.

They rolled on the cool floor, the scratching rug, kissing and touching.

He kissed her breasts, sucked her nipples, and the shocking wet heat and pressure of his mouth traveled straight to her womb.

When had he abandoned his jacket and waistcoat? She didn’t care. Now they worked together on the buttons of his shirt. She pushed the braces from his shoulders but was distracted by the sight of his arms as he yanked off the shirt and then the last layer, the thin undergarments, gone to reveal his chest. She kissed the bare, tender skin of his arms, his chest, and delicately licked his flat nipples.

A guttural moan from him made her slide her body against his. The hair on his chest prickled her breasts, sensitive and damp from his mouth.

So much to taste with her tongue and feel with her hands, but she was impatient for more and writhed against him.

She slid her hand into his trousers but was stymied by the fastenings. He pulled back, undid his flies, and shoved down his trousers. Only the thin linen of his drawers covered him and did nothing to hide the hard, hot length of him.

Pressing close, she must have slung her leg over his hip again, but this time she didn’t pull away when she noticed. He knew the worst of her already.

His fingers slid between her legs, only a short agonizing touch that created the anticipation. More. She spread her legs wider, but instead of using his hand, he shoved off his undergarments, and shockingly naked, he inserted his whole body between her thighs.

His stiff penis rubbed over her swollen flesh but didn’t enter her, and she groaned in impatience and shifted under his weight.

But her shifting and his rubbing helped the ache grow more interesting. She moved with more purpose, enjoying the heat and friction. When the waves hit her, she gave a cry as much of surprise as release.

With a grunt he moved away, slipped his hand between their bodies and then rocked forward. Inside. Ah she had missed that. Only a trace of pain remained, leaving mostly the thick ache that still created shivers and waves, and when he thrust again, so deep, the swollen shivers started again.

“Yes,” she told him, clutching him around the middle with her calves and ankles.

Harder, she wanted to say, but that would have been too hard, too much. Perfect, she decided as he pushed rhythmically into her again and again. She reached around with her hands and felt his bottom flexing as he thrust, and thought again, a man.
Inside me. This man.

“Yes,” she said again. He kissed her and reached down to pull her leg higher. Now he went so deep she felt pierced straight through. She had to move and writhe as his pushes went deeper.

The pressure grew again, she thought, and she waited for the growing and flowering of pleasure, astonished.

But then he pulled out quickly, and he pushed as he slid along her belly. His penis swelled, and the warmth spread over her skin.

She felt bereft and lonely, but glad of his weight and heat on her. He planted small kisses on her face and neck, down her breast. She was too languid to pull away.

He did at last. He sat up and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of the trousers that lay in a rumpled pile near them. She lay like a starfish, arms and legs spread as he carefully wiped off his spendings. Her attendant, she thought, and smiled over at him. He wasn’t looking at her face so he didn’t smile back.

The heat of the lovemaking and the glow of the fire gave his skin a sheen of perspiration even though the night was cool.

She twisted her head to look over at him. He lay down on his belly next to her, their bodies not quite touching. His eyes were grave and no particular color in the firelight reflected in them.

“Now you are thoroughly compromised.” He rested his head on his crooked arm. “You have no choice and must marry me.”

He sounded so grave and certain, no humor in his voice.

Sudden anger flared through her. “Good God, is that why you pushed for this? So I would be entrapped?”

He narrowed his eyes. “No, of course not. And I shan’t smear your name if that’s your fear.”

He was right; she felt fear, and not the pleasant sort. She wasn’t sure what she was afraid of—beyond her own passions making her do silly and unfortunate things. “No, of course you wouldn’t,” she said, and sat up, feeling entirely silly. He was a wealthy young baron, an attractive man, who must have flocks of suitable women after him. “You don’t need to entrap anyone, particularly a-a shop girl. Please forgive me for my irrational response.”

Except for their nakedness and the ache in her body, the moments of intimacy might never have taken place. The fire crackled as they sat awkwardly on the scratchy rug. He got to his feet. Silently and quickly, he pulled on his own clothes as if embarrassed to be caught in such disarray.

He watched her stand and gather her clothes. His eyes were distant again, his face unreadable.