Lady Wild (15 page)

In one swift and stunningly efficient movement, Andrew reached down, took the hem of her nightgown and whipped it up then off her body.

She didn’t have time to truly register that she was naked in his bed. Not under his glorious assault. His tongue delved into her mouth, tasting, stealing her breath, stealing her thoughts with his passion.

Arching up against him, she let out a soft cry as her breasts brushed his hot, muscled body.

He pressed her down into the mattress and broke their kiss.

His face was tense, his chest pumping with each struggling breath. “This. . .is what you want?”

She moaned in protest, trying to tug him back toward her.

He resisted. “There’s no going back after this.”

She paused, realizing that her consent meant a great deal to him. In contrast to their wild movements just before, she gently took his face in her hands. “I never want to go back again. I want you, Andrew.”

As soon as she uttered those words, a growl tore past his lips. He took her hands in one of his, then pinned them to the mattress in one of his palms.

Slowly, he kissed down her throat, then bit just hard enough to cause the slightest pain.

She cried out, unsure how she could enjoy something so strange.

In apology, he gently kissed the tender flesh. Languorously, he kissed her breasts, tracing her nipples with his tongue, teasing her, torturing her with his slow marauding.

She pulled against his grip to no avail.

Just when she thought she could take no more, he descended his mouth, gentle against her belly.

It was all so incredible that she didn’t quite understand why he kept kissing lower, until all of a sudden intense pleasure rippled from between her thighs.

Straining, she lifted her head up from the bed and stared down at him.

Andrew’s black hair caressed her thighs. And his mouth? His mouth was firmly pressed over her most intimate place, a place she rarely touched herself. It should have been horrifying, since it was such a private place. Instead, the vision of his mouth working over her, and the feel of his tongue tracing her, was the most shockingly wonderful thing she’d ever set eyes to.

With each flick of his tongue, she felt herself coming undone. Surely she was going to unravel. Moaning, she dropped her head back to the bed and tossed it back and forth. “Andrew?”

He didn’t answer, but increased the pace and pressure of his tongue. He sucked ever so slightly, and her entire world exploded into white, unrelenting pleasure. Wave after wave of it unfurled over her, and she barely realized he’d let go her hands.

Pushing her thighs apart, Andrew teased the head of his sex against her opening. It was enough to bring her back to some level of reality. She arched against him. Suddenly, she knew she was missing something, and he was about to give it to her. “Now, Andrew!”

At her command, he gripped her hips, then rocked against her.

She winced at the pressure, but she was so ready for him, she barely felt the pain as he thrust deep into her body. With each thrust, that wild-fire built again inside her. Hotter and hotter, until she was sure she was going to be consumed.

A look of complete surrender changed his face from the hard mask she knew to one of utter vulnerability. He leaned forward, seized her face with his hands and kissed her.

The press of his body and the power of his kiss fanned that fire into an inferno, and once again, pleasure exploded deep within her.

She cried out against his mouth and wrapped her arms and legs around him. In this moment, she wanted to claim him and never let him go.

But she couldn’t. Even as the pleasure swept through her, she knew that pleasure was all she could let it be.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Once you’ve embraced passion,

one can never go back to the mundane,

no matter how painful the price.

-Ophelia’s Notebook

Andrew’s body shook with an ecstasy that verged on pain as he thrust into Ophelia’s body one last time. My God, it had never been like that before.

It was the only thought he was capable of at present.

Never in all his life had a woman pushed him to such a wild, completely exposed place.

He lowered himself over her body, resting on his forearms. Christ, he’d wanted to bite her, to take her so fiercely it could never be mistaken to whom she belonged.

“Andrew?” she whispered. “Are you well?”

A soft yet pained laugh rumbled from his lips. “Yes. My God. Yes.”

Softly, she slid her hands along his back, and he groaned, loving the feel. Had anyone ever touched him with such tenderness in his bed?
Genuine
tenderness? If so, he couldn’t recall it. Carefully, he adjusted to his side, not wanting to hurt her with his weight.

He cradled her against him, holding her in his arms, trying not to think about the strange, aching feeling in his chest. It was so mysterious, this beautiful, painful sensation. All he wanted was to hold her in his arms and never let her go.

A dangerous thought occurred to him.

Maybe he didn’t have to.

He stroked her cheek, then slipped his hand back into her long hair. Could anything ever be more beautiful than this moment with her?

He swallowed. His thoughts were so at odds with his usual line of thinking, he was half-afraid he’d lost his mind. “Ophelia?”

She nestled against him. “Mmm?”

“Will you marry me?” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he could hardly believe he’d said them. But it was his own voice he’d heard. And as that fatal phrase hovered in the air, he knew he didn’t wish to take it back, not matter how out of character.

She tensed against him.

The long silence that followed sank in, gutting him.

It had been a rash and impulsive query. Still, he hadn’t expected quite such a response. “Ophelia?” he prompted at last.

Letting out a long, slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world, she continued to hold herself taut. “Yes?”

“I’ve ruined this for you, haven’t I?” It had been her first night of passion, and he’d made it quite banal. But, damn it, most women longed for the words he’d uttered. They did everything they could to encourage a man to utter them.

Ophelia was
not
most women. How could he have forgotten? Even for a moment?

“I never thought you’d ask such a thing,” she admitted. Once again, silence filled the fire-lit chamber. Pulling back, she raised herself up onto one arm, looking down on him. “I do not wish a husband, Andrew.”

He closed his eyes, fighting off the sudden image of himself, Ophelia, and. . .dare he admit, a child? For one unbelievable moment, he’d risked the promise of a family. “You wish to be alone?”

“I’m not afraid to be alone, if that’s what you mean,” she said gently. She reached out and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. “But you are?”

He grimaced and turned his head to the side, unwilling to meet her gaze full-on. Staring into the fireplace across the room, he said flatly, “How can I be afraid of the only thing I’ve ever known?”
“Surely not,” she scoffed.

Anger coursed through him suddenly. Did she think she was the only one that life was unkind to? God, it was selfish of him, but suddenly he longed to shake her. To make her see that suffering happened all around, that not everyone was loved by someone as she was, and that one had best take happiness in hand when one had the chance.

Not just pleasure. Pleasure wasn’t enough.

He could have cursed himself. He’d been preaching pleasure to her as life. Not family. Not love. He’d had enough empty pleasure for a lifetime. And he
was
tired of being alone. “I’ve never once known the love you’ve known from your mother,” he gritted.

“But your parents—”

“Sent me off to school when I was five years old, like so many other parents do their children.” His chest tightened with traitorous emotion. “Before that, I had an army of nannies. I saw my mother and father twice a year for over a decade.”

It was impossible to meet Ophelia’s gaze. If he had, he might have done something ridiculous, like let tears slip down his cheeks. Something he hadn’t done since he was in leading strings.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“They traveled all the time, and I never knew them. Oh, I received disapproving letters, lecturing me on my behavior at school.” He swallowed, his throat squeezing. “They both died of fevers on one of their tours of India. I never got to say good-bye. I never got to comfort my mother as she lay dying. Most likely, she wouldn’t have wanted me to. In fact, only her portrait convinces me that I am correct in my recollection of her countenance. I have been alone all my life, Ophelia.”

“And now you don’t wish it?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“Fear of being alone isn’t a good reason to wed.”
“I’d take care of you. I’d—”
“Don’t.” She pulled away. “I’ve had my fill of men who were supposed to take care of me. They’ve failed. My father couldn’t help dying, but when he did, he left us in poor hands. My brother’s hands. And he cast us out. So forgive me if I would prefer to take care of myself. Even my mother is abandoning me, though she has no choice in the matter.” She shook her head firmly, her face a mere silhouette. “I’m sorry, Andrew, but I will not be giving myself into anyone’s keeping.”

He wanted to argue, but the cold, bitter anger in her voice stopped him. He wouldn’t convince her. Not tonight. Possibly not ever.

“I want to enjoy this time with you, Andrew. Please let me?”

Let her?
What was he supposed to do? Kick her out of his bed if she refused to marry him? She was doing exactly as he’d originally planned for her. She was embracing passion. And he’d never felt more alone. Or more the fool. Because he was a man in love.

“Whatever you wish, Ophelia,” he said. And he meant it, with all his saddened heart.

“What the blazes were you thinking, Stark?”

The note of disdain in the Marquis of Vane’s voice did nothing to alleviate Andrew’s dark mood. And, frankly, he was suddenly wishing that Vane had stayed in the country and not fulfilled his damned promise. He never should have agreed to meet the man at their club. Not after their last meeting. “You told me to ask for her hand.”
“And she made it damned clear she wouldn’t have you at the ball.” Vane leaned back in the lush, wing-backed chair. “I never took you for a fool.”
Andrew stared at the cheerily burning fire in the marble hearth, silently cursing its warmth, before he found the wherewithal to reply, “If you must know, neither did I until about sunrise this morning. Now I’d say I might be the king of fools. They do say love will make one do preposterous things.”
Vane leaned forward, the leather chair creaking ever so slightly. His black eyes turned hard. “Love?” he spat. “Love is not a thing that occurs between anyone but family. Between a man and a woman?” His upper lip curled in disgust. “There is lust, destruction, and heartbreak.”
The poison dripping from Vane’s words penetrated Andrew’s own self-pity. What the hell had happened to make the man so damned emphatic? Andrew cleared his throat, raised his hand, and caught the eye of a silver-haired porter. They were going to need copious amounts of liquor.

Drinking the last of his brandy in a quick swallow, he bought a moment before saying, “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“I would. And further,” Vane said, those dark eyes of his half-dead. “
Love
will destroy your life and the lives of those close to you.”

Somehow Andrew didn’t think Vane was speaking of one of his own amours. His anger was too sinister, too full of fury. The Vane he’d known would have just shrugged off a failed love affair. And he couldn’t for the life of him imagine Vane asking a woman to marry him. “I suppose asking you for advice—”

“Get rid of her. Bed her, if you will. She’s made it clear she has no wish to protect her reputation.” Vane smoothed a broad hand over his black brocade waistcoat. “But if she has a hold over your heart? Run.”

“What’s made you such a cold bastard, Vane?” Andrew whispered.