Little Red Writing (7 page)

He tossed them carelessly onto the chair behind him, bent her knees, and pressed them back toward her, opening her wet sex to his view. She was so far gone, she wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed.

His light gray eyes met her gaze. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “You look delicious. Good enough to eat.” Her insides danced. “Have you ever had a man pleasure you with his mouth?” he asked.

She’d never had a man pleasure her. Period. Her carnal experience was limited to her encounters with Roland. They’d left her disappointed and dissatisfied. What Nicolas was doing to her was already more pleasure than she’d ever known.

Somehow, Anne summoned her voice. “No.”

“Then it’s time one did.” There was such wicked promise in his eyes, her heart lost a beat. She tensed, bracing herself for the thrill of his touch.

He tightened his grip on her knees. “Relax. All you have to do is to enjoy it.”

She nodded. “Good. Fine.
Hurry
.” She was dying. She doubted she would have objected to anything he wanted at the moment.

Amusement flickered in his eyes for an instant before they darkened with desire once more. “I’m going to savor you.” He lowered his head between her legs.

The first stroke of his tongue tore a cry from her throat. He stopped; his hand flew off her knee and covered her mouth. “You have to be quiet,” he said, tossing a quick glance at the door.

She nodded again, quivering from the inside out.

Gripping both her knees firmly once more, Nicolas lowered his hot mouth onto her needy flesh and groaned. She bit her lip and swallowed down her wail of pleasure.

His skillful tongue licked her along her dewy folds, stimulating every overwrought nerve ending along the way. He varied between soft licks and stronger strokes. She sobbed for more. Nothing in her life had ever felt this good. Her orgasm was building, fast and fierce.

His masterful sucks on her swollen bud sent her rushing to the precipice, but he stopped her from toppling into ecstasy every time by pulling away and lightly blowing cool air against her hot nub, holding her enthralled. Driving her wild.

“Nicolas,” she said, his name a plea.

He thrust his tongue inside her. She jerked. He then began sucking her juices, besieging her body with deep suctioning sensations. She squeezed her eyes shut, each pull of his mouth edging her closer and closer to the release she was frantic for.

He pulled back.

Her eyes flew open, dazed and desperate. She was on the brink!

“You taste so good,” he said and licked her essence off his lips. “You’re going to come for me hard, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” exploded from her lips. “
Please
, don’t stop.”

Releasing one of her knees, Nicolas slid two fingers inside her. She moaned at his possession.

His fingers glided in and out of her soaked sex. She was instantly lost in the rhythmic plunge and drag making her inner muscles clench and release, pushing her once more toward a shattering climax.

“That’s it, Anne. I’m not going to stop. You’re going to come for me,
now
.”

He swooped in and sucked her clitoris into his mouth with such stunning force, she lurched with a strangled scream.

Ecstasy burst inside her. Anne stiffened and convulsed, her orgasm rocking her body, as spasms rippled through her core, along his thrusting fingers. He grunted sharply, his mouth still firmly latched onto her, unrelenting. Digging her nails into her knees, she rode out the muscle-melting sensations, the shuddering contractions, until the final one ebbed.

Boneless and shaky, she felt him lower her legs and let them dangle over the edge of the desk. Her gown was bunched at her waist, her lower body still exposed.

Nicolas swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes ablaze with his physical need. “We’re not done,” he assured her, his voice rough with desire. Already his hands were on the ties of his breeches and he started to open them.

She didn’t want to be done.

Anne rose onto her elbows and was about to tell him how much she wanted to feel him inside her, and that she wanted to bring him to a voluptuous climax, just as he’d brought her, when she saw him freeze. His chin jerked up, his attention directed at the door.

It was then she heard it.
Footsteps
.

They were getting louder, closer.

Her stomach dropped. She sat up, twisted around and gasped. The door was ajar and had never been fully closed, much less locked.

Nicolas swore, each word a low snarl, laced with frustration and fury at the impending interruption. He raked both hands through his dark hair and let out a sharp breath. “We’ll have to finish this later.” He cupped her cheeks and gave her a quick hard kiss. “I may just kill whoever is about to walk through that door.” He pulled her skirts down over her legs. “Dress. Quickly.” He refastened his breeches.

Her heart thundered as her fumbling fingers went to work on her bodice.

Nicolas picked up books that had been knocked off the desk during their amorous encounter, straightening the area around them. She hadn’t realized they’d made such a mess.

The footsteps continued to approach at a strong and steady pace.

Finishing with her bodice, Anne slipped off the desk and onto her shaky legs, then smoothed her hair and her skirts, and checked her bodice again, making certain everything was secure.

Nicolas pulled her
caleçons
off the chair and stuffed them into the sleeve of his justacorps. He winked at her.

She felt her cheeks warm. “How do I look?” she asked.

He stepped closer. In her ear he whispered, “Like a woman who thoroughly enjoyed some carnal pleasures.” She heard the smile in his voice.

Heat crept down from her face to her chest. He stepped back.

“Don’t forget this.” Dangling from his finger was her gold locket.

“Thank you.” She quickly slipped it on and tucked the pendant into her bodice.

Nicolas dropped down onto the settee, opened one of the books he’d picked up, and was thumbing through it casually when Henriette pushed the door open and swept into the room.

She stopped, glanced at Nicolas and cocked a brow at Anne. Anne managed the semblance of a smile.

“A wonderful poem, Anne,” Nicolas said. “I enjoyed it very much.” He flipped more pages. “Ah, and this one, ‘One Spring Night’—absolutely lovely.”

Henriette cleared her throat.

Nicolas twisted around. “Oh, Henriette . . .” He smiled and rose, looking as innocent as a babe. “Good day to you.”

“Good day, Nicolas.” Henriette walked over to the desk.

Anne didn’t miss that Nicolas held the book strategically before him, covering his tented breeches. Nicolas met her gaze. His smoldering look weakened her knees. Outwardly, he put on a cool and polished performance. But on the inside, he burned for her.

Henriette pulled her locket out of her bodice and removed the key inside. “I see you are reading Anne’s poetry,” she said as she unlocked the desk drawer.

“Yes, and enjoying it very much. Knowing how much I want to get to know my grandmother, Anne graciously gave me a number of the Comtesse’s favorite books. I’m looking forward to reading yours, too, Henriette.”

“Really? Do tell me what you think of them.” Her sister pulled the ledger out of the desk, then relocked it.

“Of course. I anticipate being enthralled.” Nicolas gave a slight bow.

Dear God, the man was flawless and unflappable. Anne admired him for it, and yet, it was disquieting.

“Are you going to work here, Henriette?” she asked. “I was about to leave—”

“No, I’ll take this to my rooms. If you are through, I’d like you to join me.” Henriette walked toward the doors. “Until this evening, Nicolas.”

“Until this evening, Henriette,” he concurred, his tone and expression genial.

Henriette stopped at the doors. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked Anne.

“I’ll be along shortly.” Anne waited until her sister left the library and her steps had receded before she approached Nicolas. “You are too good.” Her tone was light but her words were weighted.

A grin formed on his face. “Oh? And what specifically am I ‘too good’ at?”

He was hunting for a compliment, the cheeky devil. But then again, a man with his sexual skills had a certain right to be smug. “Your carnal skills notwithstanding, I was referring to your comportment. In fact, your comportment always.”

He lifted a brow. “What about my comportment?”

“It is always polished. You give nothing away.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Did you want me to give away what we did on the desk your sister was just using?”

“No, of course not. It’s just . . .” She shook her head. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

He frowned, tossed the book down onto the settee, then cradled her cheek in his palm. “What is it? Tell me.”

She looked up into his face. “I’ve noted that men who are too polished, are too often . . . deceitful.” She moved in closer. “I want you to be honest with me, Nicolas. Always.”

“What just happened between us was honest. My desire for you is genuine. My desire to spend more such blissful moments with you is sincere.”

Anne smiled. “I know. I enjoyed what we did. Very much.” She grasped hold of his labels, rose onto the balls of her feet and brushed her mouth along the side of his neck, stopping at his pulse to draw lightly on his skin. His heart rate instantly increased beneath her lips. He groaned, his reactions to her an inebriating rush.

She craved his surrender. To turn the tables and bring him to his release, have him completely unravel for
her
. The notion was thrilling. It
was
empowering. And too tempting to walk away from, despite the niggling warnings in her head.

She couldn’t wait to decimate his defenses. To peel back the layers and discover the real Nicolas. And she intended to do it, one caress and kiss at a time.

“Tonight, it is my turn to pleasure you,” she murmured in his ear. “I want you inside me.”

The moment Anne left, Nicolas slumped against the bookshelves and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Merde
. His unsated body was in torment. Agony, actually, thanks to her heated words, her soft hot mouth.

She’d unbalanced him in the worst way.

His every impulse was to race after her, take her to her rooms and finish what they’d started. But he wouldn’t do it no matter how powerful the urge. Not until he’d collected himself and was back in control.

Lifting his left hand, he opened his palm. A shiny gold key stared back at him, taken from the locket just before he’d handed it back to her.

It was a victory, but it felt like an empty one. He had the key. But not the woman. And he wanted her too damned much. Her taste was still on his tongue. She tasted sweeter than any female he’d ever had. Sampling her had only stoked the fire. Having to wait several hours before he could be with her was torture in the extreme.

Nicolas clenched the key tightly. At a full cock stand, his muscles taut, he shoved himself off the bookshelves and began to pace.

She was insightful. A little too intuitive. And as ludicrous as it was, her comment about deceitful men actually bothered him. Nicolas silenced the foreign emotion that was gnawing at him. He was
not
deceitful. He was on a mission. There was a difference. He had a duty—and he was
not
going to feel guilty about it. If physical intimacies brought him closer to the truth, all the better. Especially when those ardent encounters were as fine as the one he’d just had.

There’d be no deviation from his initial plan. Anne was going to unwittingly aid him in solving the mystery of Leduc and gain him recognition in the Guard. Being a Musketeer was everything to him. Commanding the Musketeers was his long-held dream.

So why don’t you check the desk
?
You’ve got the key.

Nicolas stopped dead in his tracks and dragged his gaze to it. Ebony and with gold inlay, it was an ornate piece of furniture.

And where you brought a beautiful author to a shattering release
.

Thanks to their decadent diversion, now he knew for certain she wasn’t a virgin. She’d had another lover, possibly more than one—though she wasn’t overly experienced.

Who were they? How did they treat her?

The comment she’d made about men taking their pleasure and then their leave was also eating at him. He’d initially thought Henriette had put the notion in her head.

But now, he wasn’t so certain . . .

Nicolas pulled out her
caleçons
from his jacket. Her scent swirled around him; his prick throbbed. He shoved the garment back in his justacorps.

So she’d made a negative comment or two about men. So what? Just because she’d made such statements, and just because she’d had some amorous experience, didn’t prove she was Leduc.

Henriette was Leduc.

There is only one way to be certain
 . . .

His attention was drawn back to the desk. With a muttered oath, he marched over to it and sat down. Unlocking the first drawer, he began his search, trying to ignore the trepidation he felt.

His heart rate settled into slow hard thuds as he sifted through the content of each drawer, reading every letter and note he found. His grandmother’s letters. Mostly from old friends. Meaningless to him.

Nicolas closed the third drawer and opened the final one. A yellow satin box was all it contained. Frowning, he pulled it out and untied the matching ribbon around the box and pulled off the lid.

More letters.

Only these were different. These ensnared him. These were addressed to his mother.

Nicolas flipped through them. At least twenty letters, all written by a grandmother he’d never known to a mother who’d regretted her marriage—yet was never forgiven for her impetuous act.

Scanning each letter, he was astonished to read remorse in the old woman’s words. Cold anger slowly seeped through his body and congealed in his blood. Damn her. Why bother writing letters she never intended to send?
Merde
. What was the point? Was this some twisted way of purging her conscience? Having never sent the letters out clearly showed the Comtesse had chosen her pride over her daughter.