Just One Kiss (17 page)

"No matter," he murmured. "It's me you're with now." His fingers beneath her chin, he lifted her face to his. Elizabeth's eyes flew wide as she gleaned his intent, but then it was too late.

His mouth was on hers, not the forceful stamp of possession she'd expected, but hot and sweet. The sound of protest she might have made was never to be. It was drowned in the heat of his kiss. And if his intention was to drive all thought of Nathaniel from her mind, he succeeded beyond measure.

Nathaniel had never kissed her like this, she thought dimly, over and over, until her senses were awhirl and she could scarcely think. She was only vaguely aware of deft fingertips untying the belt of her dressing gown and sliding within. Her body seemed to ache—Lord, but she was secretly mortified!—especially there where her nipples grew taut and tingly. And there was a strange questing deep in the pit of her belly.

Over and over he fed on her lips, as if he were starving and she were his feast. Pleasure swirled in a dark mist all around her. If he had demanded and taken as he said he might, she'd have fought him kicking and screaming. But instead he cajoled and persisted, with only the artful pressure of his lips against hers, and she was powerless against such devastating persuasion.

His tongue skirmished boldly with hers. A low moan escaped, a sound of yearning, for what, she knew not. By the time he raised his head, she could only cling to him feebly, weak-kneed and dizzy.

Only now she was naked.

Her gown and robe lay pooled in a heap about her feet. She stood mutely, aware that he had retreated a step, aware that eyes the color of pewter scoured every bare inch of her flesh—no part of her was overlooked. Hot shame scalded her veins. She quivered beneath his unrelenting gaze, certain her face—indeed, her entire body—was the color of flames. Her arms came up to shield her breasts, an age-old gesture of defense she couldn't suppress.

He didn't allow it. His hands encircled her wrists as if she were caught in a clasp of steel, keeping them at her sides. Soft, masculine laughter rushed past her ear. "No, Elizabeth. There'll be no maidenly protests tonight."

Deep in the recesses of her brain, she knew there would be no stopping him; it was pointless even to try.

And Morgan knew it too.

Raw heat twisted inside him, shooting down to his loins, swelling his manhood. She was even lovelier than he remembered, her skin as lustrous as the pearls he'd given her. Long and slender limbs lent her an air of fragility, yet no woman had ever fired his desire as she did now. Her breasts were small but high and delectably round, tipped by nipples the color of ripe summer berries. Her waist seemed incredibly narrow, but her hips flared round and feminine. Between the span of her belly, a triangle of golden hair guarded the gates to paradise. Filled with a raging need, he swept her high into his arms and laid her on the bed.

Every muscle of her body tightened as he stretched out beside her. Then she was pulled close and tight against his length. His mouth claimed hers once more, hot and ardent. Only now he was not content with sampling just her lips.

One lean, dark hand closed around the fullness of her breast. Elizabeth tore her mouth away from his, stunned to the core at his boldness. She was wholly unprepared for the sight that met her eyes—her swelling softness fit his palm as if she were made solely for him.

In shock she watched his thumb trace a slow circle around the crest of her breast, a wanton, tormenting caress. Her nipples grew pebbly hard and achingly engorged. A strangled breath escaped; she hardly knew it came from her lips.

But there was more.

His mouth stole slowly down the arch of her throat, tasting… and seeking. For a timeless moment he was poised above the turgid peak of her breast. Her breath grew shallow and quick. His tongue touched her first, a delicate foray that went through her like a bolt of lightning. His lips grazed the swollen tip, the merest touch. Then his mouth closed around one pink, straining nipple… He sucked first one, then the other.

Elizabeth bit back a cry. Her fingers dug into the sleek flesh of his shoulders, but she didn't stop him. Sweet heaven, she couldn't. All else was forgotten. Her anger with him. All the reasons she hadn't wanted this to happen. But nothing existed save the exquisite torture he wrought on her body. Shameful as it was—crazy as it was—she was filled with a quivering excitement unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

It was no different for Morgan.

Never had desire raged so keenly within him, so deeply that he was robbed of all sanity, of all but the need to bury his rod hard and deep within her. His blood on fire, his hand drifted lower, tangling in her golden fleece before delving still further.

His fingers probed with daring intimacy. A lone finger sought and found her secret channel. She started with surprise. Her nails bit into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth. Lord, but she was small… A voice within whispered she was an innocent. No. She couldn't be. Oh, she was gently bred, to be sure. But she'd fallen for Nat, and he couldn't imagine that Nat would have let her be.

His hand left her. Rising, he shrugged off his robe and tossed it aside.

Unencumbered, his manhood sprang free.

Elizabeth caught the hard smile that curved his lips as she turned her head. Her mouth grew dry at the sight of him. His chest was wide and matted with curly dark hair. His hips were incredibly narrow, his belly flat as a board.

Her gaze strayed lower.

She stifled a gasp, for his arousal was thick and rigid and distended, framed within a dark, curling jungle. She couldn't look away as he came down beside her once more.

Her limbs were trembling, not with excitement but with a very real fear. Her lips parted, and then his mouth was sealed on hers once more. His chest pinned hers, wide and heavy. She could feel the press of his manhood against her thigh, like an iron probe, scalding hot. As he shifted to lever himself atop her, panic burst anew in her brain.

Somehow she managed to tear her mouth free. "Please. Please do not!" It wasn't a denial, but a frantic, desperate appeal.

He paid no heed.

"Please! I must tell you—"

"Not now." His whisper, low and hot, rushed by her ear.

"But I've never—"

"Hush," he said thickly. His fingers laced through hers, borne to the mattress beside her head. The weight of his thighs kept hers parted wide, open and vulnerable.

One burning thrust and he was deep—deep!—within her.

It happened too fast, before she could stop it. Her eyes flew open. She cried out at the sudden, tearing pain. She pushed at him, but he was like a rock above her, immovable as stone. "Please," she said tremulously. "Please!"

Above her, Morgan went utterly still, his features twisted into a grimace that might have been pain.

She pounded at his shoulders. "What have you done?" she choked out. "What have you done?"

"Elizabeth! Don't move!"

But Elizabeth was beyond hearing. Her writhing only made her aware of how deeply embedded inside her he was. Finally, in sheer and utter defeat, she ceased her struggles.

His shaft left her, but the burning pain did not. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her face to the wall. She scarcely noticed as he awkwardly covered her nakedness with the sheet, then rose to put on his robe.

The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Dammit, Elizabeth! You should have told me."

Elizabeth stiffened. After all this, he dared to berate her? She twisted around and looked at him then, clutching the sheet to her naked breasts. "I did try!" she cried. "But you refused to listen."

"If I had known—"

"You'd have what? Let me be?" A high-pitched note of hysteria entered her voice. "It would have made no difference and you know it!"

Morgan drew a deep, unsteady breath. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. "Elizabeth—"

She shrank away. "Don't," she said brokenly. "Please don't. Just-just leave me alone."

His expression froze. All trace of emotion vanished in the blink of an eye. The hand extended toward her closed into a fist at his side. "Certainly." One fluid movement brought him to his feet.

He left her huddled into a ball, quietly weeping.

By morning the brandy decanter in the library was empty.

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Elizabeth rose the next morning feeling tired, achy and sore. The memory of last night flooded her being. Was this why women were reluctant to discuss such delicate matters? She went hot all over, the events of last night a scorching—and all too vivid—remembrance.

Her throat tightened oddly. For a time, there had been a promise of provocative pleasure, tantalizing and elusive. Recalling the way Morgan had touched her—
where
he had touched her—brought a heated flush to her entire body.

But it had been ruined by the thrusting pressure of him deep inside her, a part of her, as no man had ever done before… She would never be able to look in the mirror again. She would never be able to face
him
without thinking of all that had happened.

Yet in the end she did. When she happened to see him, she was always nervous and ill at ease. He was reserved and formal.

And his bed had been unoccupied almost every night since—Elizabeth was almost certain of it.

Then one evening Simmons told her Morgan wished to meet with her in his study. After the old man had left, she grappled almost frantically for an excuse to avert this meeting. Unfortunately, she could find none.

She approached his study reluctantly, uncertain why he should want to see her, and even more apprehensive. Every part of her was aflutter with nerves.

Just as she knocked, a vision flashed before her—her supine body, stretched out on the carpet before his desk, Morgan's long frame atop her… Where it came from, she didn't know, for it was positively scandalous and wholly outrageous. In fact, it was so ridiculous, a bit of her trepidation fled. A man would hardly be about such husbandly pursuits in his study—let alone on the carpet!

Her knock was surprisingly firm. At his summons, she opened the door.

Seated at his desk, he looked up as she entered. Their eyes met for what was surely the most agonizing moment in her life. His features were noncommittal; he was apparently not at all beset by the awkwardness that plagued her.

He beckoned her forward. "Elizabeth. Please sit down." He indicated the chair across from him.

Once she was seated, he began, "I've been remiss in not discussing this with you earlier, but I'm afraid it slipped my mind until Simmons reminded me of it. At any rate, I'd like the handling of funds for household matters to be in your hands. Therefore, I've established an account at my bank which should prove adequate."

His manner was politely formal. "And should you need it, I also keep a sizable amount of cash in this drawer." He indicated the drawer adjacent to his left leg. "It's in a small metal box at the very back. The key is under the rose porcelain vase on the mantel." He gestured toward the fireplace. "Should you need additional funds for any reason, please don't hesitate to inform me."

Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and murmured her thanks.

"I've also set up another fund for your personal use. If it meets with your approval, I'll continue to deposit a weekly allowance in the account." He named a figure that seemed outrageously high.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Truly, it's not necessary!" she said quickly. "I can think of nothing I need. Indeed, I already have much more than I need."

A dark brow hiked upward. "It's not a question of need, Elizabeth. I'm well acquainted with a woman's penchant for fripperies, so there's no point in depriving yourself." His tone grew rather stiff. "Besides, I'm fully capable of keeping you in the manner to which you've been accustomed."

Elizabeth lowered her gaze, feeling as if she'd just been thoroughly chastised. And why did she have the feeling he viewed her as greedy and grasping? Yet if she protested further, she might well risk offending him.

"Then I thank you for your generosity," she told him softly.

He acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head, then arose. Elizabeth's gaze followed him upward. Her breath caught as he rounded the corner of his desk and came nearer. All at once he appeared bigger than ever, his shoulders broad as the horizon. To her utter mortification, she found herself recalling how he'd looked without benefit of clothing—his body tall and spare, sleek, long muscles coated with curly dark hair.

He perched on the edge of his desk. His legs stretched outward, arms folded across his chest, he fixed her with a look. But his nearness was disturbing. She had to stop herself from swiftly drawing back her slippers beneath her chair. When his gaze settled for a disturbingly long moment on her lips, everything within her leaped wildly.

But his tone was purely matter-of-fact when he spoke. "I'd like to give a dinner party the week after next," he went on. "My attorney and banker will be among the guests, along with a man named James Brubaker. Mr. Brubaker is a designer of clipper ships. It's my belief he'll be much sought after in the future, and I'm very much interested in a joint venture with him."

Elizabeth listened intently. This was the first time Morgan had shared any aspect of his work with her. She couldn't help but be pleased; perhaps he'd finally begun to trust her.

She nodded. "Brubaker would design ships and you would build them?"

"Exactly." He paused. "Will you see to the dinner preparations?"

"Of course," she said promptly.

"There is just one more thing. Brubaker is from Liverpool, and I thought he might enjoy the company of one of his own countrymen."

Elizabeth's smile froze. Her enthusiasm vanished. "I see. And that's to be my task?"

A half smile curled one corner of his mouth. "I ask no more than what an aristocratic English lady is surely taught—to be charming and amiable and gracious."

All of Elizabeth's pleasure withered. A lady. Why must he always make it sound like an insult?