Where The Heart Leads (28 page)

When a particularly artful drift of his fingertips down her belly made her quiver, he murmured, “You like that.”

She didn’t bother to nod. He didn’t even check for her answer—his words had been a statement of fact. Being passive for any length of time felt strange, yet in this case…worship, he’d said, and in a curious way there was reverence involved, even if he could have said “take you,” or “claim you,” and been equally accurate.

The way he interacted with her fascinated and intrigued her.

He worked his way steadily down her body. Initially he would reach beneath the bedclothes to caress and fondle, then he would push the covers down, revealing the area on which he was presently concentrating to his gaze. He would study, examine, assess—then he would lower his head and taste.

The covers fell progressively lower, exposing more and more of her to his detailed examination. He didn’t ask permission, not even wordlessly, just continued his exploration as if he had an unquestioned right.

As if she’d ceded it to him.

Had she?

She honestly wasn’t sure—and was even less sure that she cared.

His hands…she’d earlier labeled his touch magic. Closing her eyes as beneath the covers one hard palm swept down over her hip, she struggled against a shiver. She wasn’t cold—in the aftermath of his attentions, her flesh glowed—but the drift of sensations his fingers sent spreading beneath her skin was exquisite, sliding over her nerves, leaving them sensitized and eager—so eager—for more.

To feel more.

It was a type of tactile stimulation she’d never experienced before, one that seemed to open her pores to absorbing so much more, to heightening her senses so that his next touch, however light, registered as so much more.

So much more laden with feeling, with meaning. With intent.

She drank it all in as beneath the covers his hand moved down and his fingers flirted teasingly with the curls at the apex of her thighs.
A moment later, his fingers slid lower still, and pressed between her thighs to stroke, fondle, caress.

Eventually the covers slid to her knees.

What followed was rather more than she’d bargained for—more intense, progressively more intimate—but she was unable to call a halt, not even demand a pause to catch her breath…because she didn’t have breath left to do so, not once her tightening lungs had seized.

As they did when, the covers long gone, he parted her thighs, setting her legs well apart so he could, as he had everywhere else, examine her, then with his fingers explore, stroking, caressing—noting in a gravelly rumble what she liked, distracting her with the sound, then focusing her mind with his words—just as he demonstrated again.

She was long beyond protesting when he bent his head to sample her. To taste her, to lick and lightly suckle, until she was wild.

Until, writhing and heated, she sobbed and begged. And this time, she knew what for.

Like an emperor granting a slave her wish, he gave it to her, his wicked tongue sending her soaring over that bright edge and into pleasured oblivion.

An oblivion more pleasured, more deeply sated, than she’d previously known. She sank beneath the wave of satiation, welcomed it, and let it wash through her.

Barnaby watched her face—watched as her climax washed through her and wiped all her tension away. With a sigh she let go, sank back against the pillows, her tensed muscles unraveling, her expression relaxed, her features blank, except for her lips, which, as he watched, lightly curved.

Inwardly smiling, he drew back onto his knees, grasped her hips, and turned her over.

She flopped over readily, slumping on her stomach, settling her cheek on the pillow. Lips curving in anticipation, he eased her feet apart, and knelt between.

He started with her ankles, lifting each to explore, caress, then nibble. He didn’t touch her soles in case she was ticklish; the last thing he wished at this point was to jerk her to full awareness too fast.

The swell of her calves, the backs of her knees, the long upward sweep of her thighs, he paid dutiful homage to all, and she sighed and let him.

Let him trace the globes of her bottom, kiss and lick his way over their swell and the indentations at the base of her spine. He spread his fingers across the back of her waist, then ran his hands upward, with his lips and tongue tracing the line of her spine, pausing to examine her shoulder blades, until eventually he reached her nape.

Pressing aside the hair he’d earlier released, he touched, caressed, then set his lips to the sensitive skin, and lowered his body to hers.

Covering her.

He nipped, then set his teeth to the tendon at the side of her throat as he pressed his hands into the mattress, sliding them beneath her so he could fill them with her breasts. Closing his hands, he kneaded, then found her nipples and tweaked.

His erection, hot and as hard as iron, rested, throbbing, between the globes of her luscious bottom. From the tension that had flooded her, infusing her limbs as he released her right breast and reached down to lift her right leg, grasping her knee, drawing it up and wide, opening her to him, she’d guessed what he intended even though he doubted she knew exactly how—he could imagine her brain buzzing with questions, ones she thankfully had neither breath nor time to pose.

He made sure of the latter, releasing her knee, drawing back and reaching between them to position the blunt head of his erection at her entrance. Immediately he eased into her—just a little, just enough to answer her first questions.

Shifting so that his weight was more on one arm and he was no longer squashing her into the bed, he returned his hand to its position at her breast, claiming it anew. His weight kept her pinned, kept her other breast pressed to his other palm. Lowering his head, he caught her earlobe and nipped, then pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath as he flexed his spine—and slowly, deliberately slowly, savoring every inch, sank into her.

Beneath him she shuddered. Her eyes were closed; concentration had claimed her features.

He pushed deeper, feeling her body give and let him in, then embrace him. She closed around him tightly, wrapping his erection in slick, scalding heat.

His breath tangled in his lungs, strangled in his throat.

Then she moved beneath him, pressing back, instinctively seeking more. Opening a fraction more for him.

He seized the invitation and thrust deep, hard, and heard her whimper—not in pain but in pleasure. The sound slid through him, sank in and set its claws, fraying his reins so he had to stop and close his eyes and hold his breath, until he had some measure of control again.

When he did, he slowly withdrew, then thrust powerfully in again.

Again she caught her breath on a sob.

His lips cruising just beneath her ear, he murmured, “You like that, too.”

Her only answer was a tiny but blatantly demanding wriggle of her bottom.

He laughed, a short guttural sound, and obliged. Drawing back again, he settled to ride her—slowly, each thrust measured both for power and depth, exquisitely tuned to enhance her pleasure. She writhed and begged, tried to urge him to go faster; he didn’t listen, just adhered to his plan, all the time wielding an absolute control he knew better than to let her weaken.

He would much rather have had her on her knees before him, naked, her lush derriere pressed to his groin as he thrust into her welcoming heat, but that, he’d realized, would be going too fast.

She might well have welcomed the novel position, and he was starting to suspect she was unlikely to be shocked—not to the point of retreating—no matter how forcefully he took her, but he had to remember his purpose, his plan. He couldn’t answer her questions all at once; he had to leave the heavier-gauge ammunition in his locker, at least for now.

Just as well—God only knew what she might provoke if she tried to take the reins from him in any more dominant position. Even now, although he had her trapped and more or less at his mercy, she fought him for control, squirming beneath him, and when that didn’t work, using the muscles of her sheath to distract and control him.

He gritted his teeth and increased the pace, using his weight to subdue her and thrusting deep, kneading her breasts as he did—until she climaxed on a scream—the first he’d wrung from her.

The sound snapped his reins; on a groan he buried himself to the hilt within her, again and again, until release poured through him
on a searing tide, and swept him, his conscious mind, before it, flooding him with bone-deep pleasure as he let go and pumped his seed into her.

Racked, shattered, he collapsed on top of her, too weak, too exhausted, too sated to move.

As soon as he could summon the requisite strength, he rolled to the side, holding her to him, resettling her against him, her back to his chest.

His hands now loose about her breasts, he could track the swell of her ribs as she fought to regain her breath.

After a moment, she lifted one arm, reached back, and ran her hand down his flank, a gentle, patting, stroking motion that testified to her thoughts—her thanks.

He nuzzled her nape in response, his own form of wordless thanks.

But as soon as he’d caught his breath, he murmured, “So that’s what you could enjoy whenever the mood strikes you.”

Her answering chuckle was the definition of sultry. “Whenever? Surely I’d need you to achieve the desired result.”

“True.” That was precisely what he wanted her to realize. Lifting his head, he set his lips to her ear. “But as I’m here…”

With one hand he resumed fondling her breast, while he skated the other down, splaying it across her lower belly and pressing lightly as he moved suggestively behind her—reminding her that he was still inside her. Recalling the pleasure she’d derived from that.

As if she needed reminding. Suppressing an altogether unnecessary shudder—he patently didn’t need further encouraging—Penelope was finding it hard to believe that she’d lived so long without comprehending that pleasure this deep, this warm and satisfying, existed. That with the right male, she could indulge to this extent, to where glory seemed to sing through her veins. That the simple joy of intimacy could be so intense.

With the right male; presumably that was why she’d never before felt inclined to explore in this direction. Barnaby Adair was different—to her, different in so many ways. She didn’t think him weak or unintelligent, not even less intelligent than herself—and she felt a secret thrill at his size relative to her. He was so much bigger, hard,
stronger, yet they seemed to fit together, not just intimately but in other ways, too; she’d grown used to having him, a wall of masculinity, hovering at her shoulder.

Which was quite a turnaround, given her usual reaction to large hovering males.

“It’s rather remarkable, when you consider it”—his voice, relaxed and deep, floated past her ear; she sensed he was speaking as much to himself as to her—“that we deal so well together.” His fingers drifted across her breast. “Not just in bed but beyond it—in society, and even through our investigations.”

He paused, then went on, his tone pondering, “I actually enjoy talking with you—and that, I have to confess, isn’t the norm. Your mind doesn’t revolve about fashions, or weddings, or babies—not that I imagine you never think of those things, but you don’t feel compelled to discuss such matters with me, and instead have other ideas, other concerns, ones I can share.”

Penelope stared unseeing across the room, conscious not just of the warmth of his body cradling hers, of his hand idly stroking her breast, but of that other warmth that dervied from shared thoughts, shared endeavors.

“You’re not, thank heaven, shocked by my work.” He paused, then went on, “Then again, I’m not shocked by yours.”

She chuckled, then said, “We do seem to be rather complementary.”

He shifted behind her, reminding her of that. “As you say.”

She laughed at his dry tone, but her thoughts—driven by his—claimed her. They did seem to have a natural meeting of minds, one she—and it seemed he, too—had found with no other. They were from the same select social circle, one whose strictures neither he nor she felt overly bound by, yet that similar background made it easier for them to understand each other, how the other would react in any situation.

A slow swell of warm pleasure rolled up and through her, and she realized he was moving, very gently, within her. Realized he’d got his second wind, so to speak.

She glanced at the window; even though it appeared fuzzy, the light had faded even more. Ignoring the passion already wreathing through her, she forced herself to say, “I have to leave. We don’t have time.”

Her disappointment colored her tone.

In response, his hands tightened, holding her in place; he withdrew, but then thrust more forcefully in again, surprising a shivering gasp from her.

“We have time.” He withdrew and thrust again, hands gripping more definitely, anchoring her before him. “And
then
you can leave.”

A lick of delight slid up her spine. Her lips curved, but she forced out a sigh. “If you insist.”

He did, delighting her thoroughly once again before he allowed her up, allowed her to dress, then escorted her home to Mount Street.

Smythe appeared in Grimsby’s rooms late on Sunday night. Grimsby looked up—and Smythe was there, filling the doorway to his private chamber.

“Gawd almighty!” Trapped in his ancient armchair, Grimsby clapped a hand to his heart. “Give a bloke some warning, or you’ll likely be the death of me.”

Smythe’s lips twitched; walking in, he snagged an old straight-backed chair, swung it around so the back was facing Grimsby, then sat. “So—what’s the problem?”

Grimsby pulled a face. He’d left a message at the Prince’s Dog tavern, the only known way to contact Smythe. He had no idea when Smythe would get the message, much less when he would comply. “We’ve a spot of bother.” Shifting to reach into the pocket of his old coat, Grimsby hauled out the printed notice and handed it to Smythe. “Rozzers have got the word out.”

Smythe took the notice and read it. When he reached the announcement of the reward, his brows rose.