London's Most Wanted Rake (11 page)

That was when Alina had known with abject clarity she could have all the sex she wanted with Channing Deveril, but she could never have him. Not only because she was a widow with a scandalous Continental past, but because his heart could not be engaged, at least not by her. This time, she hoped to manage better, however. This time, she knew the limits. She could have all the earth-shattering, mind-bending sex she wanted, but nothing more.

The dance ended and he returned her to the group of people she’d been talking with before the dance. Not a word had passed between them about Seymour and the rest of the night loomed long before her.
Nothing is free
. This was how he was going to make her pay for keeping her secret.

The intervening dances were distractions, merely ways to count down until Channing claimed her once more, putting her night of waiting to rest at last. Surely
now
he would say something?

The last dance was to be a waltz, too, and, for special effect, Lady Lionel had the room dimmed, leaving only a few select candles burning to give the room a decidedly romantic feel. The effect was quite divine, Alina thought, as Channing led her out on to the dance floor.

Channing moved her into position, his hand at her back, her hand at his shoulder. His voice was low in her ear and she could hear the smile in it and the undercurrent of desire. ‘For a hostess with a mediocre reputation, Lady Lionel has outdone herself. First the egg hunt, now this.’

Her own response was a little less friendly in nature. She wasn’t ready to capitulate to his warm charm just yet after what he’d put her through this evening. She opted to get the issue out in the open. ‘Too bad you’re going to ruin it.’ It truly was because it was positively heavenly to be danced through the turn by Channing.

‘Exactly how am I going to do that?’ Channing executed a sharp swirl to avoid a collision in the dark. The motion brought her up against him, creating an intimate awareness of his body, of his thighs where they brushed her skirts.

‘You’re going to ask me about Seymour.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You are, too. You were staring daggers before dinner.’ Perhaps she’d imagined too much. Perhaps he really didn’t care about her business with Seymour beyond curiosity’s sake. Why would he? He was here with her on a job, just as he had been at the Christmas party. That had been her mistake then, too, assuming that it was more than a job.

He laughed softly. ‘I assure you, I am not going to ask.’

Now her curiosity was piqued. ‘Why not?’

He bent his lips to the spot below her ear, his breath light against her skin. ‘Because, Alina, I don’t want to ruin it.’ He swung her into another turn and brought her up close against him, his voice husky with the desire she’d heard earlier. ‘I have every intention of being in your room within the hour.’

And because that sounded much more promising than any argument over her business with Roland Seymour, Alina said, ‘I do, too.’

Chapter Eleven

I
t might have been her room, but the seduction was all his. He seduced her with chocolate and a second bottle of Moët. There was no better aphrodisiac in the world than champagne and chocolate, if you were Alina Marliss, unless it was the sight of Channing Deveril naked in the candlelight, pouring that champagne. But it would have been remiss of her to assume he would make the night a repeat of what had gone before. That was a mistake only an amateur would make and Channing was no amateur. They’d already eaten bon bons together in the summerhouse and drunk Moët in the nude, which was why doing it again was such a tantalising prelude to the unknown. Alina smiled to herself, a low, simmering heat unfurling in her belly. She understood; this was his pay back for not being told about Seymour. She’d made him suffer a bit this evening with curiosity and now he was doing the same, just the same as he had on the dance floor, making her wonder what would come next. But this was not her husband’s fear-based wonder, this was wonder driven by titillation and there was a vast difference.

When her glass of Moët was almost gone, he rose from their chairs by the fire and issued his first command. ‘Take off your clothes.’

Ah, so it was to be that sort of game tonight, Alina thought as he moved to another part of the room, his back to her. He wasn’t going to watch as she disrobed. Of course not. That might derail the game, derail his control as the game master. She could hear him assembling supplies as she stripped out of her robe and underthings.

‘Shall I sit?’ she asked, fully willing to play whatever game he had in mind. Channing returned with a tray full of items. He made a great show of studying her, naked in the firelight, and then studying the chair.

‘Yes, I think so,’ he mused aloud. ‘The chair is perfect.’

‘Perfect for what?’ she enquired, taking her seat. She was more than a little aroused already just being naked in front of him and knowing that he watched her.

He knelt before her, the table and tray within easy arm’s reach.
‘Pour le petit mort avec chocolat.
’ He spread her thighs, running warm hands along their insides and drawing them wide to the legs of the chair. It was arousing to be so vulnerable, so open to him.

He reached for the tray and took off a roll of cloth. ‘Silk,’ he murmured huskily, unwinding a long strip. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bind it too tight, just tight enough.’

Tight enough to hold her, tight enough to keep her from coming to her own aid. Alina’s throat went dry, the prospect incredibly titillating as he bound her legs to the chair, her hands to the arm rests. He pulled at the bonds in an experimental tug, giving her a wickedly satisfied look when they held.

Her eyes followed his hands back to the tray. He picked up a bowl and a paint brush. A paint brush? His eyes held hers. ‘Now, I shall paint you. You shall be my study in chocolate.’

She could smell it now, the scent of melted chocolate, a most erotic scent on its own, but even more so when mixed with the salty, musky scent of sex. It was the smell of her, she realised. And of him. The smell of consent and excitement; a very different smell from fear. She knew. In the dim light of the fire, she could see the liquid bead of his own arousal lingering on the head of his phallus. There would be pleasure waiting at the end of this and the journey was part of that pleasure.

Channing rose up between her legs so that the two of them were close, so very close when he dipped the brush and drew it down her torso in a long stroke, leaving a warm trail of chocolate in its wake. Lord, it felt delicious on her skin, quite literally a sweet caress.

He painted her chest with curving whorls about her nipples, her breasts, her belly and then the sweetness became something more as the brush moved between her thighs, painting them, painting her private furrow in strokes that made it weep. Her desire rose, hot and demanding. There was nothing she could do but endure it. She understood at last just how helpless she was to resist any of the pleasure. None the less, she arched and bucked, feeble as the efforts were, in an attempt to give herself release, to no avail. She tried to calm her fevered body with the reminder that he would eventually bring her release.

But Channing had no intentions of letting the game end there. He meant for her to know tonight was his. She’d been the master last night, but only because he’d allowed it. He dipped a finger into the bowl and licked it with a wicked stroke of his tongue.

‘It’s time,’ he murmured mysteriously. ‘Perhaps you’d like something to drink first.’ He rose and stepped back, ensuring that he could see her. He took himself in his hand, drawing his hand slowly along his length, and Alina understood.
Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine...

Alina groaned, an arousal upon her so intense she thought
le petit mort
was far too small a concept for what she felt and it was clear Channing wasn’t done, not even close to it.

He returned to her, kneeling once more and lowering his mouth to the flat of her belly, then to the silvery hillock between her legs, his breath warm against her skin as he spoke hot, decadent words. ‘Sweet heavens, your pelt turns me on, Alina.’ They were worship words and she’d treasured the first time he’d said as much. He’d told her then it was the North Star, that he’d never seen hair like that down there. Pure platinum silk, he called it, combed to smoothness, edges trimmed into a triangle of perfection, one of the many reminders that she was a woman who knew how to take care of herself in all ways.

He trailed a finger inside her cleft. She was wet for him; he would see it. She watched the pupils of his eyes dilate to black at the evidence.
Ah, bien,
this game was just as scintillating for him as it was for her. ‘Taste me, taste us,’ he whispered, dragging his finger across the top of his cock and then through the chocolate left in the bowl. He brought his finger to her mouth and she licked, running her tongue down the length of it. Surely, he would bring her off
now
. The chocolate was beginning to cool on her skin.

‘Do you like licking?’ he asked, but it was a rhetorical question only. ‘Then you will like what comes next.’ He rose on his knees and took her nipple in his mouth, his intentions clear. Oh, yes, there was no mistaking this was both pleasure and payback. After having painted her with chocolate, he was now going to lick it off her body, inch by inch.

‘You’re killing me, Channing,’ she managed to say as he flicked his tongue over the dip of her navel. Had she ever been so well ravaged? Ever rendered so out of control of her own body? Had she ever
liked
it so much?

‘Just wait,’ he whispered, lapping at the chocolate on her thigh. ‘The best is yet to come.’

Let it come soon,
Alina thought,
before I explode from wanting, death by paint brush.
Although part of her was in no hurry to have this naughty seduction come to a head, as it were.

She gripped the arm rests, thankful in the exquisite moment for the bonds that held her in place. Without them, she might have slipped to the floor, completely undone. In the next, she wished she had her hands, wished she could bury them in his hair, wished she had an anchor in this storm of desire sweeping her. She wished she had use of her legs, wished she could squeeze them together, wished
le petit mort
would take her.

She got her last wish. Channing gave a final pull, the suction of his mouth, the light rake of his teeth over her nub, pushing her forward towards oblivion until she was there at last and he let her go, let the consuming tremor take her, a cry ripping from her throat and she was consumed.

She didn’t recall when he untied her bonds, only that once she recovered herself she discovered she was free.

‘How do you feel?’ Channing sat across from her, sipping Moët casually from his glass as if nothing extraordinary had transpired in the last hour.

‘Fine.’ She watched Channing as he poured her a glass. She
did
feel fine and drowsy now that the crisis had passed, leaving her with that boneless sense of repletion.

‘Glad to hear it.’ He smiled over the rim of his glass. ‘I have a little something I need you to do for me.’

‘What might that be?’ Alina asked, but she had a fairly good idea. A man couldn’t pleasure a woman like that and not want a little something for himself. And she’d be happy to regain a little control.

Channing grinned and played with the stem of his glass. ‘You know, Amery told me you were too much for him. I’m starting to see why.’

‘I never slept with Amery,’ she reminded him. She was doubly glad she hadn’t. She and Channing had certainly had other lovers, but it was better to not know explicitly who they were, better that they didn’t have faces. Their past was haunted enough as it was.

‘I know. I can’t imagine what you would have done to the poor boy if you had,’ Channing teased, but she could see that it was a relief to him, too. Amery was his co-worker, his friend, and she suspected that whatever she was to him or had been, she belonged to a very private part of his life he didn’t share with others.

‘I’m glad you’re man enough for the task.’ She smiled coyly, setting aside her glass and rising, her nudity blatantly displayed. He devoured the sight of her with his eyes, rising, too, and she could feel her desire for him stirring afresh as if the release she’d experienced minutes ago had not happened at all.

‘Come to bed, Alina, and I’ll show you what I’m made of.’ Channing didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he swept her up in his arms and headed straight for the bed. She’d meant to take charge of this encounter, but any thought she had of regaining control was illusion only. This would be hard and fast, something that would give them both relief.

Channing drew her down on top of him. She reached to turn the lamp down, but he grasped her wrist. ‘Leave it on.’ His voice was husky, the request firm. He would brook no argument on this. Channing grinned, ‘I want to see you fall apart on top of me.’

She might be on top, but he was still definitely in charge. ‘I want to see all of you.’

That’s what she was afraid of. They’d been naked together before, but never where there was full light. There’d always been dimness, darkness, to obscure her hidden flaws. She would have to work hard to keep him distracted, to keep him from thinking too much. She raised her hips over his phallus and slid down on him, her hair falling over her shoulders, her breasts, as she took him. She moved on him once, twice, then bent to take his mouth, but Channing restrained her.

‘If you lay on me, I can’t see you. Sit up,’ he commanded gently. ‘That’s better. I can touch you, cup you and you can sheathe me.’ He reached for her then, his hands taking her breasts from underneath, his fingers circling her nipples. She thought she might be safe. But she knew the minute she wasn’t, knew the minute the palm of his hand found the imperfection under her breast

A question flitted across his brow. ‘What’s this?’ He rolled her beneath him in a fluid motion. She thought of making a final stretch for the lamp, but it was too late. To turn the lamp down now would be tantamount to admitting there was something to see.

‘It’s nothing,’ she murmured, but Channing would see for himself. He lifted her breast and studied the mark, the line between his brows creasing.

At length his eyes met hers. ‘How did this happen?’

Alina shrugged. It was powerful and alluring to have Channing above her, his body braced over her on his elbows, but this was business she didn’t want him in at all, even more than she didn’t want him in the business about Seymour. He knew nothing of her marriage.

Channing pressed forward in the wake of her silence. ‘I’ll tell you what it looks like to me and then you can decide if you want to disabuse me of the notion.’ His voice was harsh, angry even. ‘This looks like a burn mark. There’s an image here or the remnants of an image. It’s faded over time, but the skin is still puckered and a shadow of the image remains. At the time, it must have hurt. I can only think of one way someone gets such a specific mark in such a concealed place.’ He paused, his gaze penetrating. ‘It’s not a mark anyone would give themselves.’

His blue eyes were hard, full of unconcealed anger. ‘If this was not your husband’s doing, you should speak now. You’d do his memory a disservice if you allowed me to think ill of the dead.’

She met his eyes with a hard stare of her own. ‘He didn’t want me to forget that I belonged to him.’

‘Then it’s a good thing he’s dead already or else I’d have to kill him.’

Alina did reach for the light then. Not so Channing couldn’t see her, but so she couldn’t see him. When he looked at her like that, it was easy to pretend things could be different between them, like they’d been at Fontainebleau when anything had been possible. ‘I don’t need a champion, Channing. Besides, it’s in the past. You can’t do anything about it.’

Channing gathered her against him, her buttocks to the curve of his groin, his voice in her ear as the darkness cocooned them. ‘You’re wrong, everyone needs a champion. Even you, Alina.’

She fell asleep that way, cushioned against him, warm and safe in the pretence that tonight she could let him be hers.

* * *

Alina woke early. Something was wrong. For starters, the sun was up and Channing was still in her bed, snoring lightly. That did bring a smile to her face. London’s finest lover snored. Nothing horrendous, mind; however, it did put a different construction on all that perfection one associated with him. Perfection. Champions. That’s what was wrong. She remembered now.
He was going to be her champion.
Alina groaned. It had been a lovely pretence she’d fallen asleep to.

The problem with pretence was that it wasn’t real. Pretence didn’t last. In the light of day, it faded from a potent fantasy concocted in the dark to uncomfortable wishes in the light. Hers was no different. Channing knew about the brand. It had stirred an emotional reaction in him. In turn, his response had triggered one in her as well. She’d felt safe, secure, treasured even. But it was all a pretence.