A Rake's Midnight Kiss (34 page)

He struggled to imprint this moment on his memory. The warm autumn sunlight limning her with gold. The flaxen tumble of hair. The soft skin under his palm. The faint scent of flowers and Genevieve.

He’d never forget her. He’d love her till he died.

She made a strangled sound, then shifted. Not away but forward. A drift of hay, a scrabble of limbs, a twist of her body and two arms lashed around him as if expecting protest.

Protest? Not in this life. He was in heaven.

“My darling…” he choked out and caught her against him.

G
enevieve was in trouble. Worse trouble than the madness of again surrendering to this man. Even when she’d been so angry with him that she’d wanted to shoot him where he stood, leaving Richard last night had been like hacking off a limb. Now that he held her, she felt whole again. It didn’t matter that he’d lied. It didn’t matter that he stayed for his own purposes and his purposes promised grief for Genevieve Barrett.

Those things should matter, but when he wrapped his arms around her as if he’d readily defy the world for her sake, she couldn’t make them matter. She was a lost cause.

She was about to become more lost.

Frantically she stretched up, rising awkwardly on her knees. She mashed her mouth against his. Last night when she’d marched away, she’d told herself she never wanted to kiss him again. That proud resolution crumbled to dust mere hours later. He tried to jerk free, but she grabbed his shoulders to keep him near.

“Genevieve, you don’t want this. You hate me, remember?”

“I hate you,” she growled, straining against the hands holding her away.

This close, his features were out of focus, making it impossible to read his expression. But she could smell his arousal. Before last night, she couldn’t have identified that hot scent, but now, she recognized that his hunger matched hers.

His voice was hoarse. “I’m that odious rascal Richard Harmsworth. I’m the man you wished to Hades last night.”

“I still wish you to Hades.” She did, as long as he took her with him.

“Then why are you touching me?” His voice vibrated with wild despair as his hands kneaded her arms.

“Don’t you want me to touch you?”

“I don’t want you to hate me more than you do.”

He’d resisted last night—at least at first. Then, as now, he’d struggled to act with honor. The thought shuddered through her, made her realize that he wasn’t a complete swine. Of course he wasn’t. He’d saved her from Lord Neville, and she was almost sure he’d done it with no ulterior motive. Then he’d tried to return her safely to the vicarage.

The chink of light in his dark, dark soul made her more determined than ever. “You talk too much.”

Triumph surged as his resistance faltered. Not that he’d pushed back very hard. He groaned, then kissed her as if he’d die if he stopped. His mouth was searing, heavy, ruthless. None of last night’s control. He seized her in his arms and rolled her over into the soft hay. Dust flew around them, catching shafts of sunlight until it was like being trapped inside the Harmsworth Jewel.

She closed her eyes in elation. How heady to have this powerful, sophisticated man mad for her. His weight
anchored her, placed her in the world as nothing else did. Her misery receded. Her anger too. With Richard, with Lord Neville, with her father.

His shaking hands brushed aside her bodice. He plucked at her nipples, shooting hot arousal to her belly, making her moan. He rose above her, shoving her skirts up and stroking her thighs.

Her hands were busy too. Rediscovering the hard pads of muscle on his back, the ladder of his spine, the sinewy shoulders. Thank heaven he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She thought she’d etched every detail into her mind, but each touch felt like exploring a new country. She bowed toward him, kissing his chest, tasting him, lingering over his nipples when he hissed in pleasure.

Daringly she ran her hand across the hard plain of his stomach to where he swelled against his trousers. Automatically her hand cupped his thickness. His response was a shuddering groan.

She opened her eyes. He angled above her, leaning to one side to keep his weight off her. His face was stark with desire. His jaw clenched hard and his eyes were black with need. Without conscious decision, she rubbed him, marveling at his heat.

He felt so large. How on earth had he fit inside her?

The memory of him pressing into her built anticipation. Clumsily she tugged at his trousers. A button ripped and rolled into the hay. Finally she found his pulsing rod. He groaned again and jerked his hips forward.

“Show me what to do,” she said in a strained voice.

His hand covered hers to demonstrate the action. He felt marvelous. Satiny skin over iron. Hot. Vital. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. With breathtaking deftness, he untied her drawers. She wriggled to help him. What point coyness? She wanted him more than she had last night.

Finally, finally, he touched her sex. She gasped at the liquid surge of need. The wild ride began. As she tilted her hips toward his hand, he withdrew.

“Richard?” she asked uncertainly.

The skin stretched tight over his face. His hair flopped across his forehead, lending him an uncharacteristically vulnerable air. “I can’t wait,” he gritted out.

“I don’t want you to.” Right now, she felt like his equal, not his dupe.

“You deserve better.” Beneath desire, she heard anguish. As though he hated himself for what he did.

“Probably.” Despite her urgency, a tremulous smile curved her lips. He was a better man than she gave him credit for. Better than he gave himself credit for, she came to understand. She ran one hand down his face, his beard bristling beneath her palm. She hoped he wouldn’t recognize the gesture’s poignant tenderness. His eyes changed, focused, lost their blind black sheen. She suspected something in him responded to her yearning.

She opened to him. “But the unfortunate truth is that you’re the one I want.”

“I won’t let you down,” he groaned, moving over her.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she taunted, trailing her hands down his bare back. She dug her fingers hard into his firm buttocks, coaxing him to initiate that dazzling dialogue of pressure and power.

Genevieve was wet and hot. Richard glided into her with delicious ease. Last night, he’d feared hurting her. Now they moved together as if created for this dance. Her muscles tightened and she arched up with a sigh that sounded like perfect happiness. That soft huff of surrender wrote itself on his heart like an inscription in stone. Last night, she’d
been miraculous. Right now, as he plunged deep, love transformed him. He’d never be the same again.

He retreated, relishing how she clung. He thrust again. Her gasps of pleasure set his blood swirling. A wave of need overwhelmed what shreds of control he retained. He closed his eyes, rose on his hands, and drove her hard. He knew he was a barbarian. But the compulsion to claim this woman in the most primitive way soared beyond kindness or consideration.

He wouldn’t last. He knew he wouldn’t. The threat of leaving her unsatisfied beat like a curse. But he couldn’t stop. Then as blackness smashed against the back of his eyes, she gave a sharp cry and convulsed.

He braced every muscle against his deepest instincts and prepared to pull out. Through the thunder in his head and the agony in his balls, he knew that he couldn’t risk a child as he had so recklessly last night. He straightened his arms to rigidity and inhaled roughly, swearing he wouldn’t lose himself, he wouldn’t lose himself.

She tilted her head back and opened her eyes, staring at him with such joy that his heart cramped. She clenched around him in a burst of heat, fingers clawing at his shoulders, bare breasts straining above her bodice. Her lips parted, revealing small white teeth and the mysterious interior of her mouth.

Her generosity sliced through his scruples like a knife through butter. He groaned in self-loathing, then again in endless satisfaction as he ceded the battle and flooded her with his essence.

He rolled onto his back, still inside her. With a sigh of repletion, he encircled her with his arms. Briefly he basked in the illusion that nothing could part them. Her breasts flattened into his chest and her hair flowed around him like
tangled silk. Sunbeams through the rafters highlighted the rich color. She was a golden girl, gold to the bone. More precious than the tawdry jewel that had lured him here. She felt as fragile and graceful as a reed, as strong and brave as a lioness.

He closed his eyes and waited for his heart’s headlong gallop to slow. Making love to Genevieve was an all-encompassing experience. She left no atom of body or soul untouched.

She stirred, disturbing his blissful doze. He firmed his grip. He didn’t want her to move. He didn’t want her to talk. Not when she was sure to remind him of the barriers separating them, rather than how sweet it was to lie together. He held the woman he loved while the unknowing world went on its way, unaware that this loft encompassed paradise.

The unknowing world…

What was he doing? He ought to be bloody horsewhipped.

“Sweetheart, wake up,” he hissed, shifting to his side. He missed the connection the instant it was broken.

“What?” she asked huskily, brushing her hair away from her face with a sensual gesture that made the rake inside him want to tumble her back into the hay. “What is it?”

“We’re in your father’s barn,” he whispered urgently.

“I know we are.” She frowned as though questioning his sanity.

“What if someone comes in? Or heard us?” A horrible presentiment struck him. “Where the hell is Williams?”

She rose on one elbow to study him. Her faint smile hinted that she discovered more of his secrets than he wanted her to. He’d also rather she pulled her bodice into place. Otherwise she risked another swiving, Williams or no Williams.

“He’s teaching George to ride,” she said calmly. “They’ll be outside at least until noon.”

That meant nothing to Richard. He’d woken, he’d seen Genevieve, and he’d lunged. He had no idea what time it was. Struggling to his feet, he closed his trousers with all the aplomb of a schoolboy.

Genevieve, what a wreck you make of this particular rake. And you don’t even know the power you wield.

Although another glance at her expression indicated that if she didn’t know yet, she would soon. The glint in her eyes looked discomfitingly like mockery. As if she found his flutterings and fussings deeply amusing. “Worried about your reputation, Sir Richard?”

“I’m worried about yours, my girl,” he snapped. He prowled across to the crumpled black rag that had once been his coat. His valet would have a fit if he saw what became of the exquisite tailoring.

Richard picked up the coat and shrugged it across his shoulders, knowing he must look like a beggar. He tugged his watch from his pocket. Relief weakened his knees. It was only half past ten.

“How sweet,” she said softly.

“Sweet?” Growling, he swung toward her.

She sat up and, luckily for his self-control, restored her bodice. He told his stirring cock that under no circumstances would he tumble her again. Not when he risked an almighty scandal.

She still watched him with that quizzical expression that made him want to smash something. “Yes, sweet.”

He stalked across to her, hands opening and closing at his sides. “I’m many things, madam. Never sweet.”

“Stop scowling and kiss me.” She caught one painfully tight fist.

Bewildered he stared down, even as his tension ebbed. He didn’t understand what was happening, but one thing was clear—she didn’t hate him anymore. “You’re not angry.”

Her lips twisted. “I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

He sighed and let her draw him down beside her. “Why the hell do you want to kiss a man who’s lied to you?”

“I’m insane.” She leaned forward in encouragement.

He caught her chin and held her still. She closed her eyes, looking like a little girl awaiting a treat. His heart filled with tenderness so profound, it hurt. Gently he explored her mouth and received in reward a drift of honey through his soul. When he raised his head, the world seemed a glorious place.