Devil in My Bed (18 page)

She wriggled free of one strap and dragged her chemise down for him. He dove upon her like a hawk. A dark moan ripped from his throat at the taste of her, the feel of her tender nipple hardening is his mouth. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling, painful, but it only fanned the flames of burning want.

Taking her waist in his hands, he lifted her, arching her up to meet his mouth. She cried out in surprise and agreement. Her hands slid to his shoulders to brace herself. She tried to wrap her legs about him but gave a wordless gasp of frustration when her skirts interfered.

He slid his hands down beneath her petticoats, running hot hands up her stocking-covered calves to her bare thighs and the thin batiste barrier of her pantaloons. Bunching the muslin layers high about her waist, he moved over her, pressing his rock hard cock, still trapped within his trousers, into her damp and vulnerable center.

Don’t think, don’t look back, never dare look forward. Simply be here, now, with this man because something inside you knows that here is precisely where you are supposed to be.

Even if you cannot stay.

The darkness closed upon them, keeping their secret with only the faint glow from the coals to guide seeking hands and lips and tongues. Suddenly he could not bear to be parted from her, even by the distance of mere fabric between them.

Rising from her, he tore at his cravat and waistcoat, flinging them into the darkest corners of the room.

She laughed, that sweet, warm, thrilling sound, and tugged at his shirt, pulling the long tail from his trousers while he struggled with his fashionably tight boots. Her hands burned his skin when they slid beneath the linen from behind him, caressing his taut stomach and outlining the hardened plates of his chest.

“Must I cut those damned boots off you?” Her hot breath in his ear only worsened matters, for his hands began to shake with lust. If he didn’t release himself from his trousers soon, he would do himself an injury!

With a strangled roar he yanked his boots free and stood to unbutton his trousers. When he turned he realized that she sat on her heels on the carpet completely naked, the faint glow from the fire outlining every curve of hip and shoulder, gilding the sides of her breasts and belly, shadowing the heaven that lay between her thighs.

Buttons flew, pinging against the wall and floor like heralds announcing that his swollen cock was free at last.

Then he was pulling her down to the carpet once more.

He was lost.

Lost in her.

Lost in the silkiness of her skin, in the scented fall of her hair, warmed by the fire. She had peeled away her gown and chemise to reveal a woman new to him—a treasure he’d never had the eyes and mind and heart to see before. So much more to this fey creature of light and dark, of secrets and sunshine. To taste of her skin here was different than here, or there. She was a feast lay before him and he was a starving traveler who had only ever heard of such bounty.

He’d been so cavalier with her before, years ago. He’d held this wondrous being in his arms and slaked his lust and thought himself fulfilled. What a fool he’d been, what a blind and selfish boor. Had he but known what he was truly walking away from he would have never put so much as a foot from the door.

She was his now. The confession of her love was a balm on that old ache, that mere wound of pride. She had gazed into his eyes and told him she loved him—and he believed her. Secretive she might be, whole parts of her hidden away, but he’d never known her to lie outright. What she did give him he would take, and he would believe in it.

As if to prove it, she gave herself to him as she had never done before. This sweet melding of skin on skin, of limbs entangled, of mingled tastes and touches and sighs—this was all new, fresh and sweet and heartachingly eager.

This was definitely his favorite Madeleine.

Aidan slid down Madeleine’s body, tasting her all over, from her lips to the dip of her navel to the sweet folds of her vagina and on down, rolling his tongue past the sensitive spot behind her knee, kissing the delicate bone of her ankle. She stretched out before him, one wrist carelessly tossed over her eyes, the other hand lax upon her ribs, just below the full, rounded mound of her breast. It was an artless pose, a moment of freedom and trust, and one he’d rarely seen. Madeleine of the secrets, Madeleine who hid behind the castle walls of her beauty, still and wary behind those mysterious dark eyes—that woman was nowhere to be seen.

Moving forward on his knees, he pressed hers apart, coming between them. She sighed and reached for him, her eyes opening with a smile.

He put her hands away, laying them gently back upon her stomach. “Let me.”

Was that a blush, even now? She closed her eyes, bowing to his will, but could not keep from turning her face away from the fire, masking herself with darkness.

It didn’t matter. He’d seen behind the mask now. He would not forget that soft and willing pose.

She tasted of the sea, salty and sweet and his alone. This, he knew, was not done to her before him. This was his gift to her, the sweet abandon that only his tongue could bring her. As he dipped and circled, tasting and nibbling and gathering her nectar on his tongue, she began to quiver before him. As her thighs tightened in pleasure, he pressed them wide again, gently dominating the moment of her orgasm.

Come to me. Come.

Madeleine forgot her shyness, forgot herself and her lies and her past. There was only his hot tongue and warm fingers and the shimmering, aching pleasure that arched her back and made her breath short.

She writhed before him, hearing her own gasping cries from a great distance. She was past embarrassment at the sounds of her own arousal—in fact, it only served to heighten it, to double it, knowing that he wanted her high animal cries, that he wanted to hear her call his name when she fell apart for him.

At the last moment, just when she thought her pleasure could go no higher, he thrust a single long finger deep into her as he sucked gently on her clitoris. Startled, she reached for him, digging her hands into his thick, soft hair as she tossed her head back and gasped out his name.

Then it found her—that sweeping tide of exquisite pleasure that never ceased to amaze her. Tossed high like a bit of driftwood on the wild seas, she fell down, down, swirling, gasping, rolled helplessly by the waves as her body shuddered around the last, potent plunge of his finger deep within her.

Then he was upon her, as if his control neared to breaking. He groaned as he covered her limp, perspiring body with his hot, urgent one. “Oh, Maddie . . . open for me,” he gasped.

Still breathless, she slid one hand down between them to guide him in. He felt so large and hot in her hand. How could she have forgotten the rigid breadth of him?

Laughing a little at her own clumsiness, she wrapped her fingers about him, squeezing him experimentally. He shuddered. “Maddie . . .”

He didn’t beg, not quite, but power rushed through her, nonetheless. She, who so recently had been helpless in his hands, now held the reins. Brave now in her revealed love, in her new knowledge of this man, in the spirit of this one last night in his arms, she angled her mouth up to his ear—and bit his earlobe sharply. He made a choked sound of protest.

She put her lips to his ear. “My Lord Blankenship,” she whispered hotly. “You will not be gentle, you will not be careful, you will not be controlled.”

He tried to draw back. She tangled her fingers into his hair, never releasing her grip on his thick erection with her other hand. “Is that understood, my lord?”

She moved her hand so that the blunt head of him slid between the slippery lips of her. She held him there, making him ride her slit, up and down, yet entering no further. The wicked pleasure of it, of stimulating herself with his aching flesh, almost made her lose her train of thought . . .

But she wanted him, the devil inside the man, the lonely, hidden, secretly wild, secretly passionate, secretly abandoned man she’d only glimpsed before. And she wanted him now.

“Yes!” he gasped at last. “God, Maddie, have mercy!”

She released him then, keeping her other hand in his hair and sliding her knees up to his hips. Still he hesitated.

“Aidan—”

He plunged. She cried out as his thick cock nearly split her in two. She’d thought herself ready but it had been so long—

The sharp instant of pain disappeared, leaving her at the mercy of the demon she had created. He was a whirlwind of lust, a hot, abandoned storm of it. She was helpless before the power of him unfettered.

He wrapped her tightly in his arms and took her hard, thrusting deep and fast, withdrawing slowly, making her ache, then thrusting again. He wrapped one fist in her hair and pulled her head back to reveal her neck to his hot seeking mouth.

She rode the storm, winding her arms about his back, clinging with her legs as he impaled her again and again, gasping, sweating, moaning her name into her neck.

She could not resist the tide when it came again, this time as violently as a hurricane sea. His thick cock invaded her, spreading her, pounding deep until she ached from it. The pleasure/pain of his unrestrained ravishment, the wildness of him, his unmasked passion for her, the thrill of knowing it was her he wanted, he needed so powerfully—

She orgasmed again, her body tightening helplessly about him as she rode his cock, storm tossed and half thrilled, half alarmed, and entirely, completely in love with this new, raw, wicked Aidan.

He took her mouth with his when she came, breathing in her cries as she throbbed around him, shuddering in his arms. He groaned, a deep, hoarse sound as he plunged one last time deep within her, spilling into her as he held her tightly.

They lay there, locked together, shaking and slick with sweat and juices from each other, gasping in unison.

Madeleine knew for a fact that, despite all probability, she had not died from the intensity of her orgasm, for her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that she could hardly hear her own harsh breathing.

Aidan’s head was dropped into her neck, where he gasped as breathlessly as she. She lifted one limp hand and slipped her fingers into his damp hair. “Are you sure . . . these walls . . . are made of . . .

stone?”

A harsh bark of laughter tore from his throat. They could scarcely find air in their lungs to laugh, but they did somehow anyway, until what strength they had left was lost to weak, panting chuckles.

At last, he lifted his head to gaze down at her. The coals were too dim to see his expression, but she knew him. He was worried. She lifted her hand to his lips, forestalling the words of concern. “I’m fine. I wanted you that way. Yes, I’m going to be a little sore. No, I don’t care one whit. I loved every moment of it. If I had the strength of a kitten, I’d make you do it again. So if you say you regret one single, tiny thing, I’m going to bite you again. Is that understood?”

He kissed the fingertips that lay upon his lips. “Yesh, dear,” he mumbled against them. “No regretsh.”

“Good.” She shifted experimentally beneath him. “Now, I think I’ve carpet burns from my shoulders to my—to your knees. This sort of thing is all well and good for the young folk,” she said primly, “but I think I’d like to find the bed now.”

He rose from her after a soft, lingering touch of his lips to hers. She heard him move about the room for a moment. Testing her strength, she sat up and assessed her slightly bruised condition. With him out of sight in the shadows, she felt safe to grimace silently at the throbbing ache between her thighs. She was sorely out of practice at lovemaking and she would pay the price for days—and pay it gladly.

He knelt beside her in the dark. She could tell he had a dampened cloth by the way it dripped upon her thigh.

“Shall I?” he offered.

She reached for it. “Thank you. I’ve got it.”

She probably ought to have let him care for her, but she didn’t want him to know how very sore she was. As it was, she could barely suppress a hiss of pain when she dabbed at herself.

He brought one of his dressing gowns to her. “I couldn’t find yours,” he told her.

She wrapped herself in the costly velvet that smelled so wonderfully of him and vowed to herself to take it with her when she left. Icy pain stabbed her heart at the thought.

If she left . . .

Aidan, how can I stand to leave you now? How can I tear myself away?

How can I stay?

As he helped her into bed so gently it made tears well up in her eyes, she knew it would be hours before she could fall asleep.

Yet when he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her into the warm, naked arc of his body, she let out one long sigh and tumbled into an exhausted, deep, instant sleep.

* * *

The man outside watched as Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen closed down for the night.

Other clubs, some of which were little more than gambling hells, were still well lighted, still had traffic in and out of the door, still attracted small groups of young men who were done with their evenings’

entertainment and wanted to find a bed while they could still see.

Not Brown’s. The place was like a cemetery, only one whose members had yet to be informed.

The night was chilly and damp, a fog rising from the river to blur the edges of London and cast a veil over the filth. The man who watched didn’t care for the damp, but discomfort did not stir him from his post.

While the city came to a halt, he watched. While the fog crept slowly in, he watched.

What was she doing in there? How had she gotten past the door? Clever minx. She’d convinced that earl that she was worth saving and found herself a hole to hide in.

It wouldn’t matter. He could be very patient when he wished to be. After all, what more enticing thing had he to do than wait?

And watch.

Uncle Colin’s rooms had a view of the street, which Melody thought was nice because the garden was boring. People walked by and they were far below. It was funny when she could see them get shorter as they got closer, until they were only a hat or bonnet, and then they got longer again as they passed by.