A Dangerous Love (35 page)

“I want you as my wife, darling.” He dragged his fingers through her damp hair, dislodging pins until it fell down about her shoulders. “I want you to be my companion by day and my bedmate by night. I want you to bear my children—”

She drew back to stare at him wide-eyed. Children?

“You didn’t even think of that, did you? Well, I did.” Laying his hand on her stomach, he rotated it in a slow circle. “Our child might even now be growing in your belly—it only takes once. Can you tell me you don’t want any child of mine?”

The candle above them lit his face with an unholy glow. He slipped his hand inside her wrapped gown to cup her breast, and since she wore no che
mise, it was her naked flesh he held in his hand. “Can you tell me that the thought of suckling our son or daughter at this breast doesn’t please you as it does me?” The raw ache in his voice echoed in her heart. “You can’t, can you?”

She wanted to protest, to say he was wrong, but she couldn’t even lie about it. She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t.

When the silence stretched out meaningfully, his eyes flashed wild and fierce. “I thought not.”

“Oh, but Griff—”

He muffled her protest with a hot, needy kiss. With slow, deep strokes, he explored her mouth, his tongue mating with hers so deliciously that he elicited a groan from her. His hand inside her gown tenderly caressed her breast, and she leaned into him, twining her arms about his neck.

Curse him for knowing so well how to tempt her. Her body was already softening, readying itself for him. As he fondled her breasts, they came alive, the nipples tightening into little knots beneath his ardent touches. It was only when he started fumbling for the ties of her gown that she found the strength to tear her mouth away.

“It will be all right, Rosalind, I swear,” he whispered. His breath wafted over her cheek, scented with wine and spiked with his heat. “Only give me a chance to prove it to you. Let me remind you how good it is between us, how right.”

She stared up into his face, and felt despair seize her. She needed no reminding of how good their lovemaking was. Every moment of the sweet desire and bliss was fixed in her memory.

But lovemaking was no longer enough. No matter how drunk he made her with passion, she would always have the sober morning and the real
ization that he could never love her, that his only true love was his business. She couldn’t marry him in the face of that cold truth.

As if sensing her thoughts, he cupped her face in his hands with a look of hungry desperation. “Stay with me now,” he whispered. “Let me make love to you, my sweet Rosalind. I need you. I want you.”

She hesitated. She needed and wanted him, too, but she could not marry him. And the longer she stayed with him, the harder it would be to refuse.

Her throat tightened as she realized what she must do. Later tonight, she would have to escape Swan Park, before he could wear her down with all his temptations. She would take her meager savings and go to London.

But before she left him forever, she would have one more time with him, one more hour of wondrous bliss. One more chance to show him what love really was, so that he would remember once she’d left him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Then she gave herself into his embrace.

Chapter 20

O, we all acknowledge our faults, now; ’tis the mode of the day: but the acknowledgment passes for current payment; and therefore we never amend them
.

Fanny Burney, English novelist, diarist, and sometime playwright
, Camilla

G
riff could not believe it—he’d won her at last. Even though this time had come harder, he’d won her for good.

Yet even as they both worked feverishly at the fastenings of their clothing, untying and unbuttoning and loosening, a nagging fear hovered at the back of his brain. Was she truly his if only passion kept her?

Why not? Passion was a powerful force indeed, as his body already attested, crying out its need to take her, to be inside her, to bury all his apprehension in the welcoming warmth of her loins. What did it matter how he got her? In time she would for
give him the rest of it. He would keep her in bed until she did.

He ignored his screaming conscience, unwilling even to think of losing her. He wouldn’t lose her, damn it, not over this. He would make everything up to her in time, and tonight he’d start by making every inch of her burn. Thankfully, this afternoon had tapped enough of his need to allow a less frenzied lovemaking. He intended to use every minute in heightening and satisfying her desire. She wouldn’t regret her decision. He’d make sure of it.

He shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, then his shirt, but as he was reaching for his trouser buttons, he froze at the sight of her pushing her gown off her shoulders. With a smile as seductive as Eve’s, she let it slide down her luscious body to fall on the floor in a heap of periwinkle silk.

His heart stopped. Beneath it lay blond lace garters and white hose and naught else—no chemise, no petticoats, no drawers. Rosalind in all her dazzling glory, kissed by candlelight, scented with rosewater, and all his, every gorgeous inch. It nearly brought him to his knees. By God, how would he keep from ravishing her instantly?

As he stood mute, with his cock doing a mindless dance at the sight of her, her skin pinkened and she nodded to where his fingers had halted at his trouser buttons. “Well?”

“Not yet.” If he peeled them off now, he’d surely fall on her like a starving madman, which was not what he’d planned. “Come with me, darling.”

Warily, she let him guide her over to the settee.

“Sit down,” he urged, and she did as he bade.

“What are you—” She broke off when he knelt on the floor and parted her legs. “Oh.”

With an almost painful hunger gripping his loins, he widened her thighs and spread the fleecy folds in
their juncture to gaze on the dewy female flesh he wished to kiss. Then he glanced up into her face. “You liked it when I did this before, didn’t you? On the swing?”

Her cheeks were rosy, her eyelids lowered modestly, but she nodded.

Leaning forward, he murmured, “This time will be even better, I promise.” Then he covered her soft petals with his mouth.

By God, he loved to taste her heated honeypot. Her woman’s scent drove him insane. He entered her with his tongue, ignoring the demands of his erection to focus on building her own demand. He wanted her begging for him, turning to him and only him for satisfaction. He sensed that he held her only by the thinnest tether, and that wasn’t enough for him.

Still, he didn’t know how long he’d last. He could devour her whole right now, and it wouldn’t satisfy his hunger. Nothing could ever satisfy his hunger for Rosalind except more of Rosalind.

More, he thought, using his fingers and lips and tongue to excite her. More, more, his need chanted. Soon his brazen temptress was clasping his head, pressing him against her, swiveling her hips forward to allow him better access. He caressed her velvet skin and drove into her with his tongue until he felt the tension rising in her, felt her shake beneath his mouth. When at last she cried out and surged against him, he thought he’d explode in his trousers.

He’d never known that pleasing a woman could affect a man so deeply. But then he’d never made love to woman like Rosalind, who put her whole heart into it, who enjoyed the pleasure unabashed. It left him in awe. And rampantly aroused.

When she’d come to her senses enough to look at him through eyes still dazed with satisfaction, he said urgently, “My turn.”

While she watched heavy-lidded, he stood and tore off his trousers, then his drawers, popping off buttons in his haste. Dragging her to a stand, he embraced her a moment, kissing her, fondling her breasts as she swayed into him, still dizzy with her own pleasure.

Then he sat down on the settee and drew her toward him. He’d intended to have her straddle his lap, but before he could maneuver her there, she dropped to her knees at his feet. “What are you doing?” he growled.

“You said it was your turn,” she whispered, gazing up at him bewildered. “Isn’t this what you meant? Can’t a woman do to a man what you did to me with your mouth?”

While he gaped at her, she leaned forward and kissed his cock on the very tip. The damned thing nearly shot its seed right then, and it took all his control to haul her up onto his lap instead of shoving his flesh into her darling mouth.

“But Griff,” she said, staring at him in perfect innocence as he positioned her astride his lap, “do women not—”

“Sometimes, yes,” he said hoarsely. “But tonight that would bring our lovemaking to a quick end, so we’d best save that variation for another time.”

“Another time,” she echoed with a hint of regret.

He groaned. Would she ever stop amazing him? Nobody but the most experienced whore had ever offered her mouth to him like that, so
her
offering it was an astounding gift. He shouldn’t be surprised, however, that his inquisitive darling would show interest in all the delights of love, even ones most women found disgusting. Indeed, she was already staring down at his rigid member with obvious curiosity.

“What I meant by ‘my turn,’” he rasped, “is that
I want to sheathe my ‘sword’ inside you now.” Under her avid look, his cock behaved…well…damned cocky. He filled his hands with her ample breasts, tugging eagerly at the satiny nipples.

Her face flushed as she lifted her eyes to his. “While we’re…like this?”

“Oh, yes. You might find it interesting.” God knows he was finding it fascinating to have her honeypot so deliciously exposed on his bare thighs. “Can you guess what to do or shall I show you?”

A purely feline smile curved up her lush lips. “I think I can guess.” With an uncanny instinct, she raised herself up and slid down on him so slowly, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

“God, Rosalind…yes…oh, my darling…” He grabbed her hips and shifted her until she fit against him as tightly as the position would allow.

She clutched at his shoulders and stared down into his face. “Now what?”

“Now you make love to me…as I made love to you this afternoon,” he managed to explain, though the intense pleasure of being inside her honeyed body muddled all his thoughts.

“You mean like this?” she asked, rising up and coming back down on him, glove-tight and hot and glorious.

He was too far gone to do more than nod and thrust his hips up to urge her into continuing the motion.

But she was a quick study, his Athena, riding him into battle with her copper-tinged hair for a banner and her generous bosom for a breastplate. Now that he’d given her the chance to take control, she seized it like the battle goddess she was, flaunting her sensual power, her body clamping around his cock with an urgency that matched his own. By God, she would kill him for sure. And he hoped she did it often.

She gazed down at him, eyes alight, her hair a glorious tangle of damp curls about her face and shoulders. “Is this considered…very naughty?”

“Very,” he bit out. “But we bastards…are a naughty lot…and we like our women naughty.” He dragged her head down to kiss her, twining her hair about his hand.

With his other hand he caressed her breast. He loved her magnificent breasts. Merely touching them made him ache to taste them, so he broke off the kiss to fasten his mouth around one large, plum-hued nipple. When she gasped, he tugged hard at the sweet tip with his teeth and was rewarded this time with her long groan of pleasure.

He thrust up into her faster, and she quickened her pace in instant response to his rhythm. She rode him hard, his Amazon, sheathing him in hot silk, sucking him into her as if to steal his strength. He’d relinquish it willingly as long as she used it always for this, ever for this.

Soon the drive to fulfillment became too much to withstand. He was near to exploding, so he felt for the tiny nub nestled between her legs, stroking it to make sure she found her release, too. Then they finished the battle together, the drumbeat rhythm of their joining erupting into a climax so shattering they both uttered a cry as they succumbed to the victory, and he spent himself inside her.

As she collapsed against him, he clutched her tightly, possessed by a fierce joy unlike any he’d ever known. She was his,
his
, damn it. He’d never let her go.

He stroked her tousled hair from her face and pressed a kiss to her temple. He’d never thought to find such a wonder in Warwickshire. He only wished Swanlea had invited him sooner, for he begrudged every day he’d lived without her.

Sated and pleasantly tired, he lay down on the settee and pulled her on top of him. With a sigh, she settled her body on his. Though she wasn’t exactly light, he liked having her weight on him, liked having her heavy breasts crushed to his chest, and her head tucked against his shoulder.

Rosalind, however, could hardly bear to have him holding her so intimately, knowing that she’d soon be leaving him. But when she tried to move off, he murmured, “Stay here a while, darling. I want to hold you.” A hint of humor tinged his voice. “Besides, if you move, you’ll stir up my St. Peter again.”

She propped her chin on his chest and stared into his roguish face. “You have a very willful St. Peter, Mr. Knighton. Can’t you control the thing?”

He grinned and suggestively thrust his barely subdued St. Peter up between her legs. “Apparently not. Besides, I see no reason to control it when your honeypot is so handy.”

“H-Honeypot?” she choked out, fighting back a blush. “Don’t tell me there are terms for a woman’s privates, too.”

“Probably as many as for a man’s.”

“Are any of
those
terms by Shakespeare?” she asked dryly. Really, men could be such children sometimes.

He chuckled. “Actually, yes. There’s one you’d probably like—Venus’s glove. You can generally tell what’s meant from the context of the passage. Especially now that you know exactly how all your private parts work.”

This was what she’d miss most about Griff. He never found her outrageous or shocking. Well, hardly ever. Even when he did, it seemed to excite rather than appall him. Dropping her gaze, she traced a figure on his chest with one finger, melancholy at the thought that she’d soon leave him.