Wicked Becomes You (28 page)

She sat very still as he let silence fall. His words were heartfelt. They sounded a death knell in her heart.

God above. Her bad taste in men was endless.

Finally, she managed a smile. “But how good you are to your family, despite it. The twins adore you. You’ve never denied them anything, Alex.”

“It’s easier not to deny them,” he said with blunt precision. “They ask only small things because they are afraid, I think, to ask for more. Which speaks well of their perception but not so well of me. And perhaps it also speaks ill of me that I humor them because I am afraid that if I did not deliver on their requests—holidays, and gifts, and the occasional appearance at their dinners—they might grow angry enough to demand the larger things. My company. A presence in their children’s lives. Commitment.”

He spelled a vision that exactly matched her fantasies. “Would that be so awful?” she whispered. “Do you not . . . lose something by holding yourself so apart? Will you not come to regret it, ever?”

“Ah.” He gave the barest ghost of a smile. “And there is the question I have never allowed myself to ask. I tell myself I want nothing more than what I have. But”—his smile sharpened into something distinctly unpleasant—“it comes to me now that this is
exactly
the philosophy I railed against as a boy. I accused them of entombing me to keep me from the tomb. Trapping me in that sad little house on the coast because it was safer than the risk of sending me to school, of letting me actually
live.
”

He looked directly at her. “Avoiding a risk because it might cost,” he said. His eyes searched hers, intent. “It’s a sad calculation to make for love’s sake, isn’t it? It means putting love in service to fear.
That
is what I always objected to. And yet here I am, doing the same. I think it’s high time I stopped.”

Slowly, she nodded. “And this . . . is why you’re helping Gerard?”

He laughed, a short, startled sound, and then tipped his head, studying her with those beautiful eyes of his. “I wasn’t speaking of Gerard,” he said. “Far from it.”

She frowned. And then a frisson went through her, and she slowly sat back from him. If he was no longer discussing Gerard . . .

“At any rate,” he said, “it’s a hard habit to break. I developed a policy, once my lungs righted themselves. You will have noticed it, throughout the years: I vowed not to depend on anyone. To take great pains, in fact, to avoid any situation in which that might be required of me. Richard . . .” He smiled a little, a painful smile. “Richard was an exception. And it did not encourage me to try again.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

“You do more than know,” he said gently. “You do the same.”

The comment startled her. She tried out a puzzled smile. And then, because his regard remained on her, unblinking, she said, “No, Alex. You’re wrong. I’ve depended on so many people in my life. Goodness—I thought to wed, twice! I have never turned away from anyone.”

“Of course you do. You’re doing so right now. You’re lying even to yourself.” Lightly, so lightly, he pressed his knuckles to the space between her breasts. “Who are you in the dark, Gwen?”

That touch, so light it was barely a breath of sensation, seemed to pierce her like an anchor. She stared at him, this wicked man, traveler of the world, her brother’s hero and her brother’s downfall—and her own downfall, so she’d hoped. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, although the strange lick of fear that moved through her betrayed it for a lie.

“Gwendolyn Elizabeth Maudsley,” he said softly, rolling the syllables in his low, smooth voice. “She is your secret, I think. She is the person you keep hidden from the world. I wonder, do you even know her yourself? Not when you walked to the altar, but in the night—some night when you’re all alone—will you look into the mirror with honesty?”

Her heartbeat was quickening. He was right. A month ago, this question would have made no sense, because she would not have let it make sense. And certainly she would not have been able to answer it as she did now:

“Yes,” she said.

A smile touched the edge of his mouth. “And who will you see?” he murmured. “Would Elma know her? Would Belinda? Would Richard have done?”

No. They would not. But . . .

You would know her
, she thought.
You, Alex.

The revelation flashed through her, bright and hot and transformative as fire. Perhaps he saw its effect, for his knuckles skated up to brush her collarbone, light as a feather, warm as a breath. His eyes followed the motion, an arrested expression on his face, which her fevered brain interpreted as tenderness, awe, the look of a man who felt amazed by the privilege to touch her.

Alone in the dark, she realized, she became the woman she was with Alex.

I trust only you and the dark always to look at me so honestly.

The idea unfurled through her like a slow, sweet poison, collapsing her thoughts and better intentions, dissolving her nerves and fear and longing into a hot, formless appetite for the whole hot press of his body against hers, atop hers. Into hers.

“There’s nothing in you to be ashamed of,” he murmured. “Never let the world tell you otherwise.
Never
let it trap you into hiding again. That would grieve me, Gwen . . . inexpressibly.”

She caught his hand in her own. His pulse hammered beneath her thumb, news that gladdened her in a fierce, elemental way. He was not unmoved. He was not unmoved in the slightest. “Alex,” she said.

“Gwendolyn Elizabeth Maudsley,” he said, and kissed her.

In the darkness behind her eyes, the world contracted to this: the sheets that crackled with starch as she restlessly stirred; the light scrape of his teeth, the quest of his lips and tongue; the brush of his chest against hers. She groped blindly up his back, feeling across the muscled expanse, the sharpness of one shoulder blade, the path of his spine, which swept her hand into the small of his back, the perfect place to press him closer to her. His body came fully against hers, and with a start she remembered the rest of him, so much taller and broader and harder, pressed against her now, over and around her. Her breasts ached; she shifted restlessly against him, and his hands slid down to her sides, over and over, steady and soothing until his knuckles brushed the sides of her breasts, a touch light enough to be accidental, but not soothing at all.

Her eyes opened just in time to catch the flutter and lift of his own long lashes. They stared at each other. The silence seemed too full to break. His eyes were the shade of high alpine lakes, the color of water in spaces close to the sky; so close that she could see the flecks of gold scattered through them, secrets that so few people would ever know.

Her impulse was to shove off his jacket. To strip away his shirt. Her brain bade her press herself against him, to act quickly before he changed his mind again.

Her instincts held her still. She did not move. Some defiant impulse made her turn her face away. If he wanted her, he would have to prove it.

He smoothed his hand over her hair, pushing it away from her face, and kissed her jaw. His mouth moved down her throat, and he licked her once, where her throat joined her collarbone. A shuddering breath escaped her. She wanted to move. Her fingers curled into her palm.

His hands slid around her waist. He pulled her up and she set her face into the darkness of his throat, breathing him, her fists at her sides as his clever hands unlaced her gown.

The corset gave his fingers brief pause. “My God,” he said. “What is this?”

A giggle escaped her, scratchy and startled. “The Pretty Housemaid.”

He gave her a look through his lashes, extreme skepticism, his brow quirked. But when it came off so quickly, he leaned into her ear and growled, “Always wear that corset,” and then he was lifting away her chemise.

She was naked. Utterly bare. She felt the blush move across her skin; the air seemed painfully cool in comparison, brushing like another touch across her breasts. He went still, briefly, and then she felt the hot rush of his exhalation across her shoulder.

“Gwen,” he said. The softest thread of sound. “You are . . .”

When he did not go on, the possibilities began to penetrate her daze. She was—naked, yes, but what else? Too round? Too full? Too long in the waist? “I’m what?” she whispered.

His hands moved slowly over her waist, one finger tracing a slow line to her navel, up her abdomen, to her collarbone. “You’re the palette from some pre-Raphaelite’s dream,” he murmured. “Cream and strawberry and scarlet. You are . . . beyond my imagination. It’s a wonder you can be touched at all.”

She stared at him. His words were so far removed from her worries that for a moment, they did not seem to address her concerns in the least. And the next moment, as they turned in her brain, they seemed to reassemble her expectations entirely. Round, full, long-waisted, what matter?

His lips dipped to her skin now, tracing the same path that his finger had made, slowly wending upward. As his mouth reached hers again, he cupped her skull in one broad palm and laid her back onto the bed, kissing her as he lowered her onto the pillows. She had accused him—as a show for Barrington’s guests, but with a ferocity that had felt, suddenly, all too genuine—of treating her like a wind-up doll. His hand at her head brought the comment back to mind. She crossed her arms over her breasts and immediately he drew them apart, placing them gently but firmly at either side of her torso.

For some reason, his decisiveness made her breathless. She tested it by looking away.

One long finger touched her jaw, nudging her face back toward his.

He met her eyes and smiled just a little: a knowing smile. A shock went through her, hot and delicious. He understood exactly the game she was playing.

He held her eyes as he lowered his head. And then, as his mouth closed on her nipple, her own lashes fluttered shut. With his free hand, he brushed a delicate path down her side, his thumb finding the crease between legs and torso, tracing it lightly, over and over, as the languid pleasure in her began to sharpen and solidify. His fingers slipped lower, drawing intentions on her inner thigh, turning to scratch lightly down the length of her leg. Her control broke; with no conscious design, she bent her knee, rubbing the sole of her foot against his clothed calf.

His mouth let go of her nipple with a wet, sucking sound. “Gwen,” he said, his voice soft and rough.

Her foot froze. Traitorous foot. She kept her eyes closed, struggling to control the ragged pattern of her breathing. For some reason, it felt very important not to admit that she had moved of her own volition. Not yet. She wanted him to work for her attention.

His tongue flicked delicately over her nipple. She shuddered despite herself. He bit down very lightly, and her entire torso arched of its own volition toward his mouth.

His hand moved beneath her back, gathering her toward him as he suckled her. His free hand delved between her thighs, finding the hot, wet place between her legs and rubbing gently. Yes.
Yes
, this was what she had wanted. She opened her eyes. He was poised over her, the bulk of his weight supported by his arms, the rise of his biceps clearly delineated by the thin lawn of his white shirt.
Take it off
, she wanted to say.

He glanced up and met her eyes. “Open your legs,” he murmured.

A hot blush washed over her. She swallowed. She would have pretended not to hear him, but the pressure of his hand abruptly increased, causing her whole body to contract on a startled wave of pleasure. Her head fell back, and a soft noise filled her ears.

Oh, good Lord! The noise had come from her.

“Gwen,” he said, and there was a note of laughter in the word that disarmed her as nothing else could have. She looked back to him and he took her hand, lifting it to his mouth, planting a kiss in her palm before placing her fingers against his cheek.

The feel of his hot, rough skin fractured her control. She had no idea why she’d delayed, what her aim had been; everything she wanted was here, being offered to her with his smiles and body and the intent, burning focus of his eyes. She pushed herself up, groping for the buttons of his waistcoat, unclipping the suspenders, stripping away his shirt—freeing his chest of all encumbrances.

She rose on her knees to press her breasts to his bare chest—a full-bodied, electric shock; he made a noise deep in his throat, and she felt the vibration register through her flesh. She burrowed closer yet so their thighs touched; she put her arms around him and drew him close, closer, her grip so tight that it awoke a reflexive panic deep within her; one did not hold anybody so tight unless one feared he might try to get away. But, “Shh,” Alex was saying into her ear, “shh,” and now he was kissing his way down her body, his mouth hot against her belly, tracing a path downward. Without warning, he ran his tongue along her seam,
and the breath hissed out of her; he tipped her back and she sank as limply as a deflating balloon.

His hands gripped her thighs firmly as he laid her bare. His mouth settled between her legs, and she almost could not—bear—the feeling of his tongue; it made her aware, too aware, of that part of her, her quim as he called it. He slowly licked her, delicately charting the outlines of parts of her that she did not even know or understand. The spot that had given her such pleasure the night before throbbed now, and he tongued it, again and again, until strange little noises slipped out of her, pleading noises; she would have thrashed had his hands not held her down so firmly. Again and again he abraded her, and then he released her thigh to press his thumb firmly against the spot as his tongue moved lower, pushed into her.

The pleasure did not creep up, this time; it crashed onto and through her so forcefully that a split second of fear accompanied it. As she gasped and seized, his fingers replaced his mouth. They pushed slowly and steadily into her, a slight, burning pressure that made her cry out and buck harder. She barely felt his kisses to her thigh; and then his mouth was working its way back up her body again; he was gathering her to him tightly, pulling her against his body as she calmed.

Shame and grudges and complicated designs and anxiety seemed like the languages of a foreign land now; the long, liquid, loose feeling in her had burned away everything but the most elemental and important knowledge. She curled her leg up over his and felt the solid jut of his erection; she rocked against it, and he gasped.
Yes
. She could make him cry out, too. She reached between them for his trousers; his hands brushed hers, but if he meant to stop her, she gave him no chance. She rolled on top of him and shoved his arms away, laying them out at his sides as he had done to hers. She met his eyes.

“Be still,” she whispered.

He was breathing hard, and a sheen of sweat showed on his forehead. But as he met her eyes, the barest whisper of a smile moved his lips. “
Oui, mademoiselle.
”

She unfastened his trousers and bared him completely. His hips were lean, his musculature cut as though by a blade. He looked like one of those Greek statues in the British Museum that she had always made such a show of ignoring—only he was hotter, and larger, and his eyes were watching her. She reached out to touch the line that started at his hip bone, a faint groove where the muscles of his upper and lower body met, and he made a faint sound, between a gasp and a hiss. She watched her finger trace the line toward his manhood.
Oh, really, Gwen
. Toward his
cock
, which was straight and large and far thicker than she had expected, and also . . . well, she supposed she had thought it would look like white marble. Her hand paused.

His breathing paused.

She cupped her hand around it and closed her fingers.

Soft, she thought with wonder. Soft but so hard, beneath. She bent to kiss it.

A hoarse oath came from him. He caught her beneath the arms and pulled her up. “Later,” he said breathlessly when she started to ask where she’d erred. A hard kiss silenced her. He rolled her onto her back and came on top of her.
Oh
, she thought, a silent and formless revelation that glittered through her like fireworks. He felt right atop her. He felt like he was hers. He was kissing her now with intention, with an enthusiasm so fierce and focused that it carried an edge of desperation, and this, too, seemed like a miracle—that her touch seemed as necessary to him as his did to her.

His hunger was contagious. It kindled hers again as well. She wrapped her arms around him and lifted her legs. Desire built low in her belly, a pressure that wanted puncturing, release. He broke away to reach down her body again, to touch her quim, but the pleasure he’d given her that way now seemed like a delay. She took his hand and brought it to her mouth, looking into his eyes as she kissed his palm as he’d done to hers. Then she lifted her hips against him, angling so his cock brushed against the place he’d wanted to touch.

He turned his hand in hers, lifting hers to his lips and taking her index finger into his mouth. Below, the head of his cock found her entrance. As he sucked her finger into his mouth, he gave a slow, smooth push below. The force of his exhalation washed down her hand, her forearm.

He pushed again, harder this time, and she caught her breath. The premonition of pain was suddenly upon her.

The sound made him go still. He took a deep breath. Then another.

She pulled her hand free of his mouth. If he was struggling with notions of honor, she had no tolerance for it. She
was
wicked. She grabbed his arse, so smooth and hard, and dug in her nails as she lifted her hips again.

His hand speared through her hair and tightened. “Be
still
,” he said through his teeth.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

“God save you if you think I would,” he said hoarsely. “Just a . . . moment.”

She waited, breathing hard. A shudder moved through him. And then he pushed again

She bit her lip. No, this
definitely
would not be comfortable.

“Gwen,” he murmured. He kissed her, harshly, his fingers tightening in her hair to a shade short of painful, and pushed again.

She inhaled in startlement.

He was inside her.

It did not hurt so much after all.

His lips molded hers as he settled into a slow, rocking movement. She kissed him back, too astonished to do much more, too rattled by this bizarre sensation, his tongue inside her mouth and his, yes, his cock inside her down below. The soreness was subsiding. It felt very queer; her fingers twitched atop his back like startled birds as new sensations registered, the slide of his abdomen across hers, the jab of his hip bones into her stomach. This was more complicated than what had come before; it was very athletic, for him. She had no idea what to do. Was she meant to move? Would he mind if she simply lay here?