Magnate (19 page)

He stretched out next to her and kissed her, hard, as if dying for the taste of her. Their teeth clashed, mouths attacking one another in desperation. He loomed over her, bearing down while she strained up, trying to get closer. The rustle of silk barely permeated her brain before air washed over her stocking-clad legs. She should be shocked, but instead nearly moaned in relief. Sensation gathered in every pore, every cell, creating a restlessness that demanded relief.

Higher went the layers until they pooled at her waist. He pushed her thighs apart, then his hand cupped her mound over the cotton drawers. Without even realizing, she rocked her hips into the heel of his palm. The delicious friction sparked more fierce desire up through her belly, along her spine, and she had to break away from his mouth to release a moan.

He dropped his face into her throat. “So hot,” he murmured. “So unafraid. God knows why I'm even surprised.”

Her hips began moving once again, seeking. Oh, she needed . . . She didn't know what she needed, but everything was building inside her. “Emmett, please,” she whispered, her fingers wrapping around his shoulders to pull him closer.

“You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say those words.” His fingers shifted, parting the fabric of her drawers until he reached the feminine heart of her. His touch glided easily through the moisture pooled there. Should there be so much of it?

Embarrassment washed over her, and she turned her head away, even as he traced her entrance. “No, don't hide,” he said. “I want to see your face while I pleasure you.”

Before she could ask what he planned to do, he dragged his rough finger along the sensitive skin, up to the bud at the top of her cleft. He rolled it, stroking her, and Lizzie's back bowed off the floor, her toes curling. She closed her eyes, unable to focus on anything but what he was doing with his wonderful, marvelous hands. “That's it, my beautiful,” he murmured. “Enjoy what I'm doing to you.”

His lips nibbled her neck, below her ear, and then he continued to whisper low, husky words of encouragement. How lovely she was, how intelligent, how perfect . . . Lizzie's muscles soon clenched, her body racing higher and higher as he continued to touch her, drive her to the peak. The deep timbre of his voice, his hot breath on her skin, the catch in his breathing every time she moaned . . .

Then he slid a finger inside her, filling her, and excitement built until her body could not contain all the buzzing giddiness—and she exploded in a burst of white-hot energy, a thousand pieces scattering into the air. She dug her nails into the heft of his shoulders, holding on as she convulsed and gasped his name, the incredible sensation overtaking her.

Before she floated down, Emmett positioned himself between her legs, his knees pressing her thighs wide. He shrugged out of his topcoat, threw it aside, and then his fingers flew down his trouser buttons, undoing them, allowing him to reach into his underclothes to withdraw his erection. One hand propped by her shoulder, the other held himself steady as he lined up at the entrance to her passage. Lizzie felt the hard heat of the smooth tip just before he started inside, slowly, until one mighty thrust rendered the proof of her virginity. She sucked in a lungful of air at the uncomfortable stretch, and instinctually tried to twist away from him. Away from this horrible feeling.

“Wait, Elizabeth.” Emmett's eyes were closed, his teeth clenched. “Just wait, please. It will get better. I shoudn't 'a taken you so fast, but it'll get better, I swear.”

She heard the guttural consonants, the mispronunciation that sounded so unlike his polished, cultured voice. He sounded like his friend, Kelly, and she wondered how long it had taken her husband to lose the traces of Five Points from his speech.

The soreness between her legs began receding. Emmett towered above her, suspended, as he waited for her to adjust. In his shirtsleeves and vest, he looked impossibly large. “Has the pain eased?” he gritted out. “May I keep going?”

“Are you not . . . in?”

He gave a dry rasp of a chuckle. “Almost, sweetheart.” He folded himself over her then, coming down onto his elbows, and captured her mouth in a blistering kiss. She could taste his urgency, his need for her, and ribbons of desire unfurled in her groin once again. Her limbs relaxed, and she melted under him. “That's it,” he murmured against her mouth, and rocked his hips to press deeper, the broad head of his penis sliding along her innermost flesh. Strange, this invasion . . . but not unwelcome or unpleasant. He did not stop, just kept up a steady advance until their bodies were flush.

When he retreated and snapped his hips forward, the sweet drag of him inside her was unlike anything she'd imagined. They each groaned into the other's mouth. Two more quick thrusts, and she threw her head back with a cry. She'd never guessed, hadn't dreamed their coupling could feel this intensely good.

He levered up over her, supporting himself on powerful arms. She had never seen him so untamed, so out of control. Dark hair fell onto his forehead, sweat beading his brow. The angles of his face were taut, stark in the firelight, the divot in his chin more pronounced. He was breathtakingly handsome.

“I want to be gentle with you, but God help me . . .” He began pumping in earnest, hips churning into her pelvis, rubbing the swollen nubbin of flesh between them. Unable to speak, she held onto his arms, anchoring herself as waves of bliss surged through her limbs. He didn't need to be gentle. She craved this heat, this animalistic response from him, where primitive, raw lust broke free from his ironclad restraint.

“Wrap your legs around my hips. Let me in deeper.”

Lizzie did as directed, and then he withdrew, returned, and hit a spot that made her gasp. Dear God, how did he . . . He did it again, and the storm began building, pleasure gathering where their bodies were joined. His hips pounded into her now, the force driving her across the carpet. Her muscles tightened, her body drawing into herself, clenching, until she snapped, the orgasm rushing over her. She shouted, nails digging into his back, dimly aware of his grunts, the way his hips stuttered.

He stiffened and groaned loudly, the tendons in his throat straining as he spent inside her womb. “Goddammit,” she heard him breathe before he collapsed on top of her.

* * *

Never had Emmett felt worse.

He had just fucked his wife like an animal in heat. No gentility. No finesse. No tender words—or even a bed. Hadn't properly prepared or stretched her first. He'd taken her virginity on the floor of his damned office, not even bothering to remove her drawers.

Christ.

What must she think of him? He could only imagine how horrified she must be, how appalled. His cock was still hard inside her, pulsing in utter contentment, while Emmett could feel nothing but loathing for the way he'd treated her.

The room was deathly quiet. The only sounds were the flakes hitting the panes of glass outside. This had been a horrible idea. Why hadn't he kept his hands—and everything else—away from her?

Knowing he was probably crushing her, he began to pull away, not meeting her eyes. Calling on years of practice, he hid his emotions, building up an icy indifference where disapproval and disappointment could not touch him. He slid out of the warm clasp of her easily, the skin of his cock so oversensitive that he shivered.

A cloth. He needed to get a cloth and clean her. That was what a normal husband would do, wasn't it? He drew back on his knees, tucked himself back in his combination, and buttoned his trousers. Before he could get up, a small hand wrapped around his forearm.

“Emmett, wait,” she said, rising up on her elbows. “What is wrong?”

He blew out a long breath.
You just took your wife's virginity. You're supposed to be reassuring her, you shit-sack.
She was spread out on the floor, her blond hair mussed from his fingers, clothing askew. She'd never looked more beautiful. “Nothing is wrong. I want to get a cloth to clean you up.”

“You seem unhappy with me.”

He shook his head. “Not with you. With myself.”

She gave him a hard stare. “Why?”

Instead of answering, he strode to the water closet. He turned on the hot tap and found a clean cloth. The water remained lukewarm, even after a few minutes, which didn't surprise him since the water heater ran on gas. No doubt the poles holding the gas lines had fallen down by now.

He wet the cloth and returned to where Elizabeth lay on the floor. She watched him curiously, as if he were a stock hiccup to reason out. Ignoring her shrewd gaze, he dropped to his haunches by her hip and gently removed her sweat-dampened drawers. A small amount of blood smeared her inner thighs, and he cleaned her as carefully as he could manage with his clumsy hands. When she had been sufficiently tended to, he returned the cloth to the sink. He felt sticky and sweaty, a sensation he intensely hated, but changing his clothes would have to wait. So he washed as best he could.

When he came back, she hadn't moved, so he lowered himself to the carpet and found his drink. “I apologize,” he said before finishing the warm champagne in his glass. He nearly gagged, but it was no less than he deserved.

“Apologize for what, exactly?” She sat up and reached for her own glass.

He made a vague gesture to the carpet. “Not doing this properly. Your first time should have been . . . gentler.”

Her brows rose dramatically. “Granted, I had no idea what to expect, but that seemed absolutely perfect to me.”

“Perfect? You must be joking. On a floor. Nearly fully clothed. I can only imagine what you are thinking of me.”

“Actually, I am thinking,” she said with a small twist of her lips, “that I want you to do that again.”

He blinked at her even as some of the tension left his shoulders. “What?”

“Did you not enjoy it?” Uncertainty deepened the lines of her face. “I thought that you . . .”

“I had an orgasm, yes. But there was never a question of whether I would enjoy sleeping with you.”

Even more lines appeared, and her gray eyes turned troubled. “Because every woman is the same?”

Jesus, he was mangling this. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “No. You are different from every other woman I've ever met. I've wanted you naked since the moment you read that ticker tape in my office.”

“You have?” A broad grin broke out on her face. She hitched her skirts, rolled onto her knees, then shuffled forward until she reached him. “I didn't understand my reaction the first time I saw you,” she was saying as she began to unbutton his vest. “You were entirely too handsome.”

“You weren't afraid of me? Afraid of my size?”

She cocked her head and studied him. “Absolutely not. I was afraid of what you made me feel. After all, I didn't even know you. Why should I have such an immediate, visceral reaction to the sight of you?”

That admission struck him squarely in the chest. Tossing the crystal aside, he wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her on top of him, falling to the floor at the same time as he took her mouth. He ravaged her, kissed her with everything he could not express, cupping her buttock with one hand while the other buried in her silky hair. She held nothing back, her tongue meeting his, the two of them struggling for dominance in this pleasurable game.

He was hard and heavy already, a feat he hadn't expected so soon after spending, but Elizabeth affected him like none other. Still, he would do this properly.

Forcing himself away from her sinfully tempting mouth, he kissed her jaw. “I want to see every inch of you.” He palmed her small, round breast over her clothing, pleased when she arched into his hand. “May I undress you?”

He held his breath while awaiting her answer. If she refused, he very well might beg.

She nodded and slid off him. He rose and offered her a hand, aiding her to her feet. The row of buttons on her lilac shirtwaist beckoned, tiny buttons much too delicate for his large, anxious fingers. His mistresses had always worn garments factoring for a man's impatience. Undressing his wife would no doubt be a test of his fortitude.

He began forcing the buttons through the holes. Anticipation churned in his gut, his skin tight and hot, and he considering rending the fabric. If they were at home, he wouldn't hesitate, but he did not want to ruin her one available garment during the storm.

The release of each button revealed further glimpses of her underthings. Silk and lace covered unblemished, creamy skin. He traced his fingers over the hard edges of her collarbones, watched her shiver. He didn't stop, but forced himself to slow down. The first time he removed her clothing, the first time he saw her entirely naked needed to be forged into his memory forever.

Buttons undone, he pushed the sides open and over her shoulders, revealing a white cotton corset cover fashioned with bows and more buttons. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he unwrapped her, and when he reached her pale pink corset, she was breathing fast, the motion forcing up the small mounds of her breasts. Ever lovin' hell, the woman was perfection.

“So lovely,” he murmured before bending his head to place reverent kisses along the edge of the heavy fabric. She clutched at him, and the proof of her desire lit a match to the fever inside his blood. He had to have more of her, had to taste her. He held the weight of her corseted breast, plumped the soft flesh to expose it, then he rained kisses over the creamy slopes. After a long moment, he pulled back to drag in air, his cock aching, harder than it had ever been. Christ, the threads of his control were unraveling quickly, and she was still more than half dressed.

He stepped behind her, appreciated the curve of her delicate shoulders. At her waist he found the ties of her outer skirt, pulled the loops free. The ruffled petticoat came next, dropping to the floor on top of the skirt. He ran his fingers along her spine, over the lacings of her corset, enjoyed the gasp she gave as a result. Grasping her hand, he helped her step out of the skirts, moved them to the side with his foot.