Beyond Innocence (31 page)

Edward had to smile at this. That had bothered her, had it? Seeing the smile,
Florence
crossed her arms and looked as dangerous as a peach-sweet vicar's daughter could. He knew it was time to smooth her ruffled pride. "I didn't give her your horse; I allowed her to ride it. Mostly because she assumed I intended to, and I could not for the life of me explain why I'd made such an extravagant purchase for
my brother's fiancee."

This, at last, was the right thing to say.
Florence
hung her head and scuffed her slipper through the dust. "You truly did buy Buttercup for me?"

"Yes, I truly did."

"And you hung that painting in my room, the one you knew I loved."

"Yes."

"I suppose you really aren't an ogre." Her head ducked lower, muffling the admission. "I suppose
I'll miss you, too."

She was crying again. His own eyes stung as he folded her against him. No doubt it was reckless, but he didn't care. "Hush." He pressed his lips to her hair. "No one's going to miss anyone. You're going to marry Freddie and stay right here."

She shook her head against his dampened shirt. "I can't make him marry me. Not if he doesn't want to."

"I'm sure he wants to." Of their own will, his lips found the baby-smooth skin of her temple.
Florence
's arms clutched his back.

"He doesn't. You liked kissing me better than he did."

"I'm sure that's not true," he murmured, though he wasn't certain what he denied. His mouth had drifted to the tender pink lobe of her ear. He tried to convince himself not to bite it.

"It is true," she insisted. "I know he's a gentleman, Edward, but could something be wrong with Freddie?"

That focused his attention. He straightened and drew back in their embrace. "There's nothing wrong
with Freddie.
Absolutely nothing."

"Then it has to be me. I'm not woman enough to make him want me."

"Oh, Lord," Edward groaned. "You're woman enough and then some."

She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't want me. Not at the very end."

"I wanted you. Just as I've wanted you since we met."

"But you stopped!"

"And nearly killed myself in the process."
He pulled her hips to his, to the shocking thrust of his arousal. "Feel that,
Florence
. Feel how hard I am. How long and thick. You do that to me. Just by breathing.
Just by slipping into my mind.
I'm a bloody stag in rut, sweetheart, so don't you tell me you're not
woman enough."

A new flush joined the blotches from her tears. The tip
sf her nose was pink and her lashes stuck together. Even so, as thought her the most delectable creature he'd ever seen. Her hips wriggled in his hold, a devastating little squirm. If ihe needed further proof of his claims, she certainly got it. His cock leapt like a spawning salmon and his breath fled from his lungs. His fingers tightened on her bottom, whether to stop her movement or squeeze her closer he couldn't have said. Whatever his intent, she
stilled at the increasingly forceful pulsing of his sex. Her gaze met his.

"I want to know," she said, the words all breath and fire. "I know it's wrong of me, but it can't hurt Freddie now. If I'm not going to have a husband, I want to know how it feels to be desired."

For a moment, she thought he would faint. The color drained from his face and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, their blue blazed like flame. She expected an argument, or a polite evasion
such as Freddie had offered. Instead he stared at her, blinked,
then
crashed his mouth down over hers.

After that, it was her turn to feel weak.

"Oh,
Florence
," he said between deep, devouring kisses. "Don't make me do this."

But she couldn't think of one good reason to stop him. She'd lost everything: her dreams, her future,
even her reputation would be ruined when the news of her broken engagement spread. Why shouldn't she, just once, reach for what she truly wanted? Not that she could have stopped Edward. His embrace overwhelmed her, not merely his strength or his size but the blatant ownership of his touch. His hands
slid over her, squeezing, rubbing, as if every inch of her were his to claim. He gave no thought to what might embarrass her. He touched her everywhere he wished.

With a low groan, he lifted her off her feet and pressed her back to the wall. Her legs had no place to go but around his waist. He pushed his body between them, eager to rub the hardest part of him against the neediest part of her.

"Wait," she said when he finally let her draw breath. Panting hard, he dropped his forehead to hers.
"Forgive me. I shouldn't have moved so quickly.
Or been so rough."
He had misunderstood her. Ignoring the apology, she found the pearl studs that fastened his shirtfront and began to slip them through their holes. His breathing changed course. "What," he asked, "are you doing?"

"I'm touching you the way you wouldn't let me before. I need proof of what I do to you. I need it in my hands."

"You need proof?" The question was strangled. She nodded shyly and hoped he wouldn't stop her. He shuddered.
"Proof."
He allowed her legs to slide down his sides. He took one step back from her, then another, and then his hands took over the task of divesting his clothes. "Allow me," he said, low and strained.

With a curse of impatience, he shrugged off his satin waistcoat.

Anticipation curled through her like the smoke that hookah must have trailed so long ago. She felt as if more than his body were about to be unveiled. His eyes glittered in the lamplight, color staining his cheeks, brightening his full seducer's lips. He looked beautiful and strange, the victim of a thrall: her thrall. She had asked and he complied. Under his big, capable hands, his shirtfront parted over his chest. He pulled the crisp white garment over his head, his muscles shifting under smooth, sun-browned skin. Her breath seemed trapped in her throat. His shoulders were broad, his nipples two sharp-tipped bronze coins. His build was half laborer, half marble David. But he was so much more exciting than a statue. The sheer cloud of sable hair that trailed invitingly down his center, the warmth of his skin, the way his ribs expanded with his breaths made her feel as if she'd give her very soul to touch his flesh.

"More?" he asked, his fingers resting lightly at the top of his trousers. The swell beneath made a prisoner of her gaze. It was a living, pulsing thing: the object of her unending fascination.

And he obviously feared she might not want to see it.

"Please," she said, the word choked. "May I do it? I've seen wanting to touch you ever since I lost my nerve at the Vances' ball."

His laugh was half gasp. "And here I was thinking I'd scared the wits out of you."

"No," she murmured. "Not even when I wished you would."

His arms fell to his sides. She reached.
Stepped closer.
Hdw extraordinary it was to know that all this
time they'd been thinking of each other, and that he, too, had desired her touch. His belly moved in and out as she struggled with the
metal clasp. The buttons were easier. The pressure bead them nearly pushed them free. Mindful of his rigidly vollen organ, she eased his linens around its jut. His head ropped back
as she pulled the gathered cloth to his ankles. Her fingers brushed the hair on his legs, a prickle of goose-bumps sweeping in their wake.

"
Florence
," he moaned, the sound beating like his heart.

She looked up at him from the floor: at his hairy chest and his beautiful limbs, at his towering maleness and the odd little sack that dangled underneath. It had pulled up higher than before and she wondered what that meant. He was watching her reaction now, his gaze searingly intense. Despite the attention, she could not drag her eyes from the part of him that was so changed, so gloriously upright. She remembered how smooth it had felt and yet the veins that twined its pulsing girth did not look smooth at all. Its head reared almost to his waist, seeming to loom in threat above her, as if angry at her presumption.

"What do I call it?" she whispered.

"This?" He gripped the column in his fist, pulling slowly towards the gleaming crimson tip. The flesh that sheathed it moved, looser than
she' d
expected. Her body jumped inside as if his hand were touching her. His longest finger curled over the tiny slit. "This is my penis.
My cock."

"Cock," she whispered, trying the hard, crisp word. The thing leapt as if it recognized its name. Her
hand ventured towards the hanging sack.
"And this?"

"Ballocks," he said, and released his grip.

She scooted closer, steadying her balance by holding his knees. She was not going to let fear get the
better of her tonight. "May I kiss them? May I kiss all of you as you kissed me?"

For the space of a breath, he did not answer. She feared she had once again overstepped the bounds of what was done. Then his fingertip stroked gently down her cheek. "You may kiss whatever you like.
I said you could have proof."

But she did not kiss him first. First she simply pressed her face to his groin, turning her cheeks back and forth, taking his textures through her skin, his scent, his vital, leaping pulse. He sighed at the slow, catlike caress,
then
tensed when her tongue came out to taste.

"Yes," he gasped. "Lick me. Lick me as if I were sweet."

"You are sweet." She found a spot that made him shiver.
"And big."

He lengthened at the words, noticeably, as if the claim were darkly magic.

"Not too big," he whispered. "Not too."

His words tempted her to laugh. He wanted to be big. He liked that she thought he was. She knew this with an instinct that was born into her sex.
The bigger the sword, the more powerful the man who wielded it.
The more powerful the man, the safer the people he loved.

"I don't know." She touched the strange papery skin of his sack. "I think perhaps I ought to be afraid."

He could only gasp at that because she'd slid her mouth around the ripe, ruddy head. It was sweet,
and smooth, the smoothest of all. She curled her tongue over the satiny curve and
sucked,
a peculiarly childish delight. The little slit was interesting, too. He had touched it himself and she thought it must feel good. When she tried it, he moaned, pain and pleasure mixing in the sound. His hips flexed and the hot blunt tip strove against the pressure of her tongue. Faintly, deliciously, she tasted salt.

His fingers tangled in her hair, then lifted her away.

"Enough." He pulled her to her feet. "You don't know what you're doing."

For an instant, his words stung. "Then teach me," she said.

But he kissed her instead, a slow, thorough plunder. Her knees failed and she was carried, floating really, to be set on a soft pile of pillows that smelled of old perfume. Her clothes peeled away beneath his expert hands: dress, petticoats,
corset
. She was embarrassed to be so bare before his eyes, as if he'd stripped away her armor.

"No," he said when she tried to cover her secrets. "Don't deny me the pleasure you wanted for yourself."

He certainly seemed to like her naked body. His hands slid over her, his mouth. The tips of her breasts earned kisses that made her moan. When he saw the marks left by her stays, he rubbed them until the
red began to fade.

But he did not remove her boots.

"Are you afraid to see my naked feet?" she teased, her confidence restored by his admiration.

"Perhaps," he said, with a small, shuttered smile.

The shock as he pressed their naked fronts together drove the question from her mind.

"Oh," she said, squirming rapturously against him.
"Oh, my!"

He laughed,
then
growled against her neck. "You were made for this,
Florence
.
Made for love."