Thunder and Roses (39 page)

Blithe with anticipation, he cleared the table in less than a minute. “The other garter is next, I assume?”

She gave him a teasing smile. “So it is.” She perched on the edge of the chair and lifted her skirt so she could repeat her performance, but this time the garter didn’t cooperate. After a minute of fussing, she glanced up with a frown. “The ribbon has knotted and I can’t get it undone. Will you help?”

He felt like a trout who was being tickled by a master. Any moment he was going to end up gasping on the stream bank, but he didn’t care. He knelt in front of her chair and set her bare foot on his thigh. Then he slowly skimmed his hands up the contours of her leg until he reached the garter above her knee.

The ribbon was well and truly knotted, and his fingers felt equally knotted as he fumbled to untie it. Her inner thigh was warm and silky smooth, and she trembled when he touched the pale skin. So did he.

By the time he managed to undo the knot, her skirts had inched halfway up her thigh and they were both breathing unevenly. He unwound the ribbon from her leg, then handed it to her. “Here you are.”

“Let me tie it with the other,” she said huskily. He lifted his arm and she tied the garter around his wrist.

Their gazes caught and held. She had a sultry, deliciously available expression, and he wondered if this would be the right time to collect his kiss for the day.

She spared him the decision by leaning forward and pressing her lips to his in a hot, open-mouthed kiss. She tasted like sweet, wild honey.

He had been sitting on his heels, but he straightened up, which brought him forward between her legs. Her skirts crushed between them as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She smoothed his hair over and over, leaning into his embrace until suddenly she spilled off the edge of the chair and slid down the front of him. They ended up tangled in each other’s arms, both of them laughing at the awkwardness of their position.

As laughter died, he felt the heat of her loins against his. He was about to kiss her again when she glanced up and said, “Are you ready for the next game?”

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “I’m ready for a different game.”

“Don’t you want to see how this one turns out?” She accompanied her question with the smile that Eve had used to ravish Adam.

He gave a ragged laugh and managed to pry himself away from her. Not only was she allowing her natural sensuality free rein, but she instinctively understood how delay increased the ultimate gratification. He admired her wisdom—but he wouldn’t have minded if she had less of it.

After getting to his feet, he helped her up. “I’m ready, if you remember whose turn it is to start.”

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Mine, I think.”

The person who started usually won, as Clare did this time. Nicholas’s undershirt was the next garment to go.

As he pulled it over his head, her fingers clenched around her cue stick. Gaze fixed to his bare chest, she said, “We can’t go on much longer —we’re both running out of clothing.”

“Getting close,” he agreed cheerfully.

It was his turn to start. A bad carom gave the initiative to Clare, but she was also unlucky. The table changed hands twice more before she finally lost.
                             

She gave him a provocative sideways glance. “I’m going to need help again. As you said, gowns like this can’t be taken off without assistance.”

“It will be my pleasure,” he said with complete truth.

The back of her gown was secured with a complicated arrangement of hooks and ties. A good thing he’d had experience at helping ladies out of gowns, or the rest of the night might have been wasted while he puzzled it out.

When the fastenings were undone, he gently pushed the gown off her shoulders. The rose fabric rippled as it fell to her elbows, exposing her creamy shoulders. Completely unable to resist, he leaned forward and kissed her nape through delicate tendrils of dark hair.

As she exhaled with a small, breathless shiver, he transferred his attention to the sensitive edge of her ear, then the side of her throat and the smooth curve of her shoulder. At the same time he drew her gown lower, past her waist, over her hips, until it dropped to the floor around her bare feet.

She turned to him, clad only in petticoat, stays, and shift. Her pupils had dilated until her eyes looked almost black. He thought she would move into his arms, but she touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, then said, “My turn to go first.”

Since her hair was coming down, he removed the rest of the pins before continuing. Shimmering locks cascaded over her shoulders, then swirled and danced around her hips as she picked up her cue stick. She potted five balls in a row, then missed an easy shot on the last one when hair fell across her face.

Nicholas breathed deeply several times to steady himself, then took his turn. More by luck than skill, he won the game. “Do you need help taking off your petticoat?” he asked hopefully.

She laughed and shook her head. “No, but if you win another game, I’ll need help with my stays.” She undid the tape that secured the petticoat around her waist, then pulled the garment over her head with a lithe wriggle. The lace-trimmed hem fluttered prettily around her.

Beneath the petticoat she wore only a knee-length, faintly translucent shift and short stays. He had trouble wrenching his gaze from her to the table. It occurred to him that every other time he had been with a female so scantily attired he had ended by making love to her. He devoutly hoped that the result wouldn’t differ this time.

He managed to sink his first ball. Clare was watching from the other side of the table. As he lined up his second shot, she folded her arms on top of the cushion, then leaned on top of them. Her breasts were as round and perfect as the ivory billiard balls, and they appeared about to bounce onto the table.

Irresistibly distracted, he accidentally stabbed his cue into the baize, completely missing the ball. “You little witch,” he said, laughing. “That was a rotten trick.”

Unrepentant, she said, “I wouldn’t have missed my last stroke if you hadn’t let my hair down.”

With a smile like a cat in a
creampot
, she proceeded to pot all her balls, then straightened and waited for him to take off his breeches.

His gaze on hers, he undid the buttons, then peeled the garment off, leaving him wearing only a pair of knee-length linen drawers. The game was very nearly over. But he would be damned if he would let himself lose before she was down to her shift.

She started the next game and sank three balls before the cue ball skidded on a balding patch of baize.

This was Nicholas’s chance. Concentrating as he seldom had in his life, he made his first shot, then his second. His aim was a bit off when he went for the third, but the cue ball clipped the object ball well enough to sink it.

Three more to go. He wiped his hands on his discarded shirt, then bent over and potted the fourth. With a final burst of bravado, he managed to sink his last two balls with one stroke.

Trying to control his anticipation, he restlessly rolled her blue balls into various pockets. “Time for the stays, Clarissima.”

Hips gently swaying, she walked over to him, then turned her back so he could unlace her. Since her trim figure didn’t require a full-length corset, she wore the more comfortable short stays which ended at the waist. Made of quilted white dimity, the stays provided a smooth line under gowns and supported her breasts enticingly.

Though he’d undone his share of stays, his fingers were clumsy as he pulled the laces through the eyelets. It didn’t help that her shift was so sheer that he could clearly see the curving lines of her legs and hips.

When the stays were undone, he pulled the narrow straps off her shoulders, then slipped his hands under her arms and cupped her breasts. Under the flimsy fabric of the shift, her nipples instantly hardened. As he stroked the firm nubs with his thumbs, she sucked her breath in. Then, very deliberately, she pressed back so that the contours of her body
molded
against him.

His control snapped. Catching her around the waist, he swooped her up and set her on the edge of the billiard table so that their faces were level. His kiss was devouring, and she returned it in full measure. Intoxicated, he moved between her legs and caressed the outside of her thighs, drawing the hem of her shift upward.

Then, to his unutterable shock, her hand moved down his torso. He almost shattered when her fingers curved hesitantly around his heated flesh.

Blindly he swept her back so that she was lying full-length on the table. As he moved above her, he had no conscious thought beyond removing the frail garments that separated them.

“Enough, Nicholas!” Her voice rose. “Stop right now!”

He paused and tried to focus his dazed eyes on her face. Hoarsely he said, “Christ, Clarissima, not this time.” His hand crept up her thigh. “Let me just show you …”

A tumult of emotions showed in her face, but there was no doubt in her voice. “No more! Today’s kissing is over.”

He felt paralyzed, unable to proceed, unable to move away. In the taut silence, the striking of the drawing room clock was clearly audible. One, two, three …

Twelve. Triumphantly he said, “Midnight. It’s another day, Clarissima, and another kiss.”

Then he bent and pressed his hungry mouth to her breast.

21
             

 
It had taken every shred of Clare’s determination to tell Nicholas to stop, and her resistance crumbled when his heated mouth made magic on her breast. She arched against him, no longer able to remember why she had wanted this to end, for she had no will beyond desire.

He pulled the strap of her shift off her shoulder and began kissing her other breast, this time on her naked flesh rather than through sheer fabric. Feverishly she stroked his bare back, her hand digging into the flexing muscles. His fingers traced a burning path to the secret place between her thighs. When he touched her intimately, she moaned and rolled her head back and forth, for she had no words for the fierceness of her response.

Deftly he caressed the moist folds, spreading and opening her. Then she felt a hard, blunt pressure, slow but inexorable. Instinctively she knew that he offered the completion her body craved, and she moved upward against him, welcoming the weight of his body.

Then pain struck, tearing her so fiercely that desire vanished. Feeling that she was being ripped apart, she pushed frantically at his shoulders. “Stop!”

He froze, his weight supported above her, his face ravaged as he stared at her. The hard shaft that pressed against her throbbed menacingly as if determined to thrust forward of its own will.

As pain and panic pushed her beyond thoughts of morality and revenge, she begged, “Please—no more.”

For a moment the outcome hovered in the balance. Then, the tendons in his arms standing out like steel bands, he lifted himself off her, swearing viciously under his breath.

Relief was instantly followed by shattered confusion. Dear God, how could she have allowed this to happen? She pressed her wrist against her mouth, trying to contain the bitter shame that swept through her. Sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind.

Knowing that she was a hair’s breadth away from hysteria, she pushed herself to a sitting position and pulled her shift down to cover as much of her body as possible. Nicholas had folded onto the floor, his head bent forward so that his face was invisible. His hands were locked around the opposite wrists and he was shaking as badly as she was.

She looked away, guilt stabbing her as sharply as physical pain had a few moments earlier. Even at her most angry, this was not what she had intended. She had wanted to teach a lesson, not ravage both of them.

After inhaling deeply, Nicholas said with bitter humor, “Your imitation of a pious schoolmistress isn’t bad, but you’re a `damn` sight more convincing as a teasing bitch.”