The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (92 page)

“I am relieved, My Lord.”

He reached for her left hand. Their bare skin touched. Hand to hand. The tips of his fingers slid over hers, once, slowly, over the wedding ring she still wore. “Do you miss him?”

“Yes.” She spoke over the lump in her throat.

“I miss him, too. His letters.” He slipped his arms around her waist and, as he pulled her close, he made a low sound in the back of his throat. Because he was a young and healthy man. Because he desired her.

The tension in her eased. She put her hands on his chest and slid them down to the first button of his coat. Her wedding band glittered on her finger. She unfastened the button.

His eyelids closed part-way. “Mm. What wickedness is this?”

“Wickedness?” She darted a look at him before she started on the next button. “You are in your private quarters, My Lord. Surely you can be comfortable here without thinking yourself wicked.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He shrugged off his coat when she was done, but her hands followed the collar until the fine wool was sliding past his shoulders and down his arms until she could reach no further. He leaned away to drop his coat on the chair.

“I think, Philippa, that I am still not as comfortable as I might be. Tell me, what ought we to do about that?”

She couldn’t help smiling. His waistcoat soon joined his coat. And there he stood, in his trousers, shirt and braces, and he was simply too beautiful for words.

“It strikes me,” he said, still smiling that familiar smile of his, “that you must be uncomfortable, too. And here—” he gave a quick look around “—I think we may both be as comfortable as we like.”

Philippa held up her hands. “I’ve already removed my gloves. And my shawl.”

“Very bold.” He ran his index fingers from the tops of her shoulders downwards, along the neckline of her gown. “But I worry that this lovely gown of yours restricts you too much to be at ease. Does it?”

“Perhaps you’re right, My Lord.”

“Mm,” he said. He moved behind her and began unfastening the hooks and ties of her gown. Before long, he was lowering the dress and she stepped out of her best evening gown. Her corset was next. Then petticoat. When he was done, he set his hands on her shoulders and his mouth by her ear to whisper, “Is that better?”

She could only nod. She was now wearing only her shift and, of course, her dancing slippers and stockings. Alec stayed behind her and put his hands around her waist. She dissolved against his chest.

“What a slender woman you are, Philippa.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

“No.” His hands slid up, his fingers slanted towards the floor. His hands stopped just beneath her bosom. She held her breath, longing for him to touch her yet enjoying the building warmth. She was liquid inside, a pool of desire when she’d once thought she was no longer capable of that sort of reaction.

His fingers brushed the bottom curve of her breasts.

Philippa faced him. He was looking at her as if he wanted to eat her alive. She pushed his braces off his shoulders. Alex shrugged, and they fell to his sides. She undid his neckcloth, then the buttons on the placket of his shirt. He reached between them and pulled it over his head, turning a little to let it drop away from where they stood.

“What a splendid animal you are,” she whispered. “So sleek. So well made.” His body was the product of youthful vigour and lack of indolence. She touched his chest, sliding a finger over his nipple.

“More,” he said on an intake of breath. He cupped the back of her neck and drew her towards him. She kissed him there, flicking her tongue over his nipple. One, then the other.

He gathered handfuls of her shift, and drew it up and over her head. She stood before Alec wearing nothing but her shoes and stockings. He stayed completely still, eyes on her body, lingering on her breasts. “So lovely.”

With her eyes on his, she touched her breasts. The effect on him was gratifying. The wide-open eyes, the swift intake of breath. “Your hands,” she said, “need to be here.”

His attention fixed on her hands, on her fingers. He took a step forwards and his hands came between them, one then the other, pushing away hers. And then his fingers covered her and she pressed forwards and raised her face to the ceiling, eyes closed because she didn’t think she could look at him and keep back the tears at the same time. She knew him so well. He would never do anything to hurt her.

“Like this?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you want.”

Slowly, she lowered her head and, when she opened her eyes, he was looking at her with that same reverence that made her throat close up. “To feel.” She covered his hands with hers. “To be alive the way I am right now. Like this.”

Alec swept her up in his arms and carried her the ten steps to the bed. He spread himself over her, one hand above her shoulder, letting the weight of his hips press against her pelvis. His hair fell over his forehead and his lashes were black against his cheeks. He was looking at her body, her breasts, her stomach. He stroked his hand down her body, from her shoulders to her back and toes. “Jesus, Philippa. You’re so lovely.”

“The lights,” she said.

He looked up. “What of them?”

“Don’t you mean to turn them down?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.” He curled a hand around her upper thigh, pulling up so that her knee bent and his palm spread flat around the back of her leg. His other arm bore his weight and when she set her fingertips to his upper arm, she traced the shape of the muscles. “I want to see you. I want to put my mouth places that will make you scream my name, and I want to watch when you come apart in my arms.”

Alec dropped his head and then his mouth was on her breast, his weight a little heavier on her now. She twined her legs around his, arching into the pressure of his mouth. Her body felt too full, the sensations too intense to bear. His fingers pulled at her garter and, after fumbling a bit, released one to slide her stocking down her leg. When he’d done that, he shifted his weight to his other arm and his mouth to her other breast. Her other garter was soon gone, her slipper and stocking tossed off the bed. She heard the sound of her shoe hitting the floor.

She moaned when he pulled away. “No,” she said. “Stay.”

“I want to look at you.” His voice sounded thick and, when she managed to open her eyes, he was doing exactly that — kneeling between her legs, pushing her bent knees apart. “Does this make you feel alive? Tell me.”

“Oh, yes,” she said on a breath.

He kissed his way down her stomach, to her belly and then his mouth was between her legs and she simply hadn’t expected he would be willing to do such a thing. He wrung her out. Completely and utterly.

Philippa let her body vanish into her arousal, the cresting pleasure and the damnable way he would bring her to the edge of climax and then stop.

She lost her mind.

“Alec.” Her body bowed off the bed. His name was a groan, a long low note of all the pleasure that wound her body tighter and tighter. The silvery tremble of her approaching climax filled her. “Now.”

She shouted, and she didn’t care at all what he’d think of that. The spiral of pleasure peaked and she fell and fell and fell. When she came back to her body, he’d pulled himself over her and was grinning at her.

“Good?” His mouth twitched.

She touched his back with her fingertips, drawing them down the sides of his spine as far as she could reach. Until she touched his trousers. “You are still dressed,” she said when she could trust herself to speak. “Why is that?”

“An excellent question.” He pushed away to sit on the edge of the mattress. She turned on to her side, watching him. Her marriage had been a passionate one, but William had never displayed himself in this unselfconscious, uninhibited way. Her husband had come to her room at night, and never without letting her know that he would. In the dark, he slid between the covers with her, and they made love with tender quietness.

Alec’s skin fitted close to his body. When he moved, his muscles flexed and bulged. He wasn’t slender like William had been. She touched the top of his spine.

“Look at you,” she whispered.

He turned his head towards her while he was pulling off one shoe. He smiled. “I’d rather look at you.”

“What is it you do that keeps you in such health?” She moved behind him, knelt and slipped her hands around his waist.

“Boxing.” He dropped his other shoe and reached for the sagging waist of his trousers. As he pushed them off along with his small clothes, his erection was free to the air and her sight.

He was naked at last. Gloriously, splendidly naked. She reached around and touched his hardness. Alec tensed. He reached to curl his palms around the backs of her arms. With a moan, he let his head fall against her shoulder. He put one heel on the mattress, letting his thigh fall open. “Philippa, yes. More of that, too.”

His skin was warm, and she held him like this, stroking him, touching him until, all in one motion, he slid an arm around her and then covered her with his body.

Dane was aroused beyond anything, but there was something more he was feeling, and he wasn’t sure what it was, other than it had to do with Philippa. Obviously. And then, perhaps not so obviously.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he said. “How perfect? Exquisite?”

He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder. At this exact moment he elected to think more about the curves of her body, the shape of her breasts, the texture of her skin, than his emotional state. He’d made love often enough without his heart being involved at all. This was different. She was Philippa, and she took his breath.

Philippa set her hands on his shoulders, her palms curving over on to his back. Her eyes were closed, her mouth parted. He shifted himself into place, and she knew exactly what it meant that he nudged aside her thighs. He knew what it meant that her hips shifted underneath him, that inviting tilt of her pelvis, the slight bend of her knees.

“Now?” he whispered. He was grateful to sound both calm and amorous when in fact he was hardly anything of the first and the second was a trite description of the emotion that made his chest tight. He hadn’t ever
needed
a woman the way he needed to possess Philippa, and that frightened him.

She slid her hands along his sides to his hips. Her fingers dipped in and out of the small of his back and then around to cup his backside. Every caress of her hands made him harder yet. “Yes, Alec,” she said. “Please. Now.”

Her hands urged him forwards, and he slid inside her. He almost lost his mind. This moment, this moment was purely about sensation, but there was also the sound of her slow intake of breath, which shook him to his core. It enchanted him that she would make a sound like that.

He wanted — no, needed — her to find pleasure in his arms. He needed to see to her every satisfaction. He needed everything to be perfect. And then he just wanted to keep doing this, because this felt so good. She felt so good. His Philippa.

Dane groaned as the warmth of her body enveloped him. This was Philippa who was sending him crashing over the edge. She wasn’t passively accepting him, something he’d worried might happen. She raised her knees so that her thighs slid up to his hips, and she rocked her pelvis into his. They were naked, both of them, and what they were doing was more than fucking. The quiver of incipient orgasm pooled at the base of his spine.

Since the moment this evening when he’d realized there was more than an intellectual spark between them, something physical that hadn’t existed before, he’d been anticipating this moment. He sank down, pressing his forearms to the mattress above her shoulders. Her breasts were warm against his chest, her hips matched the rolling, rocking motion of his, her body utterly feminine, soft where he was hard, curved exactly so.

“Alec.” Her voice was low and smooth, and she made him feel like he was the only man ever to satisfy her.

He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize the carnal element of this encounter, but he understood for the first time in his life the difference between taking a woman to bed for the physical pleasure alone and what he was doing at that moment. To be honest, he was worried about what that meant; knowing he was making love to Philippa and that she might not be making love to him.

He said, “Look at me, Philippa.”

She did and he could see the faraway look in her eyes. He panicked at what that signified. She might not feel as he did. For Christ’s sake, she was going to marry bloody Captain Bancroft. He fell into her eyes, into those green depths, and he knew himself and her well enough to understand he wasn’t going to come away from this intact.

He thrust again and again, and she held him and matched him. He kept remembering all the times he’d seen her, talked to her, laughed with her or simply sat at her side without needing to say anything. Or sat alone in his London apartments reading or rereading one of her letters or writing one to her. Never once had he thought she was someone he could have. Not once had he thought she was the woman he was destined to love. All this time, he hadn’t known. He’d never guessed.

Why hadn’t he?

He pulled out and turned her over, and she understood right away what he wanted because she went to her hands and knees. God, yes.

Dane cupped her hips, and he shouted when he was inside her again, because it was even better this time than the first. They were close to the head of the bed, and he shifted them again until she had her hands on the wall above the bed frame. He was on his knees behind her, one hand holding her breast, the other around her hips with his fingers between her legs, making sure she came to climax.

Her response was, quite soon, a long, low moan. He kissed the back of her neck, moving inside her, and felt the tremor of her impending orgasm around him. He stopped.