Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (20 page)

He studied her for a moment as though he were memorizing every line and curve of her face. She wondered if he would study her as thoroughly during breakfast in the morning, if there would be differences for him to note. How much would she change tonight? Would anything about her remain the same?

“If I were the sort to spout poetry,” he finally said, “I would spout it for you.”

She didn’t know whether to weep at his sincerity or laugh at the words he’d chosen to use. She settled on a soft smile. “
Spout
poetry? You don’t think very highly of poems.”

“I have a difficult time following them. Words don’t always mean what they are supposed to mean. They’re not always in the right order. They circle about.”

“You prefer things straightforward.”

He gave a slow appreciative nod. “I do.”

“I enjoy poetry. Even when I can’t figure out exactly what the poet is saying, I like the way the words flow, especially when read aloud. I believe poetry must be read aloud in order to be truly appreciated.”

“Perhaps if you read it to me I’ll grow to appreciate it.”

She smiled, accepting the challenge. “I suppose we’ll find out, since you’ve already agreed that we’ll begin with a reading.”

She didn’t recall ever seeing a gentle smile on him before. It looked at once out of place, and yet so very natural. Leaning over, he tucked a finger beneath her chin, pressed his thumb to her mouth. “Don’t be nervous.”

“It’s a little hard not to be.” She couldn’t manage to quiet the romantic in her. She wanted more than this. He was going to bed her and she would never be the same again. Her stomach was twisting and turning like the strings of sugared candy that she’d watched being pulled in a confectioner’s window once.

He shoved back his chair, stood, and pulled her to her feet. “We’ll have the reading in the library.”

A reprieve. She hardly knew whether to be grateful or annoyed. She settled for grateful.

Chapter 13

I
n the library, Rafe stood by the fireplace and drank his best Scotch, one glass after another, while she sat in a nearby chair, her posture perfect.

In the end, she didn’t read him poetry but some story about windswept moors and haunting love. But he wasn’t listening to the words as much as he was the lilt and smoky cadence of her voice. The raspiness of it had intrigued him from the beginning. She could recite the letters of the alphabet and hold him enthralled.

Dangerous, so very dangerous.

He wanted to sweep her up into his arms and carry her upstairs, even knowing the hell that holding her so close would bring. Watching her, he could almost forget his limitations, that there was so much he could not give her, and for the first time in his life, his inadequacies filled him with regret.

He was vain enough to acknowledge that on the surface he was a handsome enough fellow. It was what lay beneath that would turn her away. The dark parts, the secrets, the things he’d done. If she knew of those, even the surface would not be attractive to her. And then she’d wash her hands of him. She wouldn’t send him invitations, dress becomingly, have a lovely dinner prepared, offer boring entertainments such as reading and music.

She would leave him, and he would once again be alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.

Her voice was growing lower, raspier, more seductive. He wanted her with every breath he took. He drained his glass, set it on the mantel.

Before he went truly mad, he walked over to her, reached down, closed the book, and set it on the table beside the chair, beside the glass of untouched Scotch that he’d poured for her earlier. He brought her to her feet, watched as she focused her gaze on the black onyx stickpin in his cravat.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I thought it was your skin or your hair or your eyes. But it’s more than that.” Dear God, how much had he drunk? He couldn’t seem to stop his mouth from opening and uttering words. He cradled her face, tilted it up, because he wanted to gaze into the violet depths of her eyes. “I’ll hurt you, Eve. It’s what I do. I hurt people. I have for so long that I don’t know how not to. I want you with a desperation that”—damn near had him on his knees, but he wasn’t going to tell her that, give her power over him—“consumes me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t.”

She made it sound so simple. “I should let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He told himself it was because of all she would gain by becoming his mistress. When he was done with her, she would have wealth, power—and if she played her cards right—influence. And the freedom to do any damn thing she wanted.

“Make me your mistress in truth,” she rasped, and the wisps of her smoky voice swirled through the charred remains of his blackened soul.

A
deep feral groan hung on the air as his mouth blanketed hers before she took her next breath. Her arms were almost around his shoulders before she recalled his first rule and dropped them to her side. Oh, she wanted to touch him, hold him, secure him to her because she was in danger of melting into the floor.

No gentleness, no kindness. He would not bestow those upon her, but the dark and needy way in which he devoured her heated her blood, weakened her knees, sent pleasure cascading from her head to her toes.

She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d decided that she wanted him, that she cared little about her ruination. She only knew that she desired him. They were two lonely souls cast aside by Society. Surely they could find solace within each other.

He drew back, and the ice that was usually in his eyes was gone, replaced by smoldering embers. The blue was a richer hue, like the hottest flames at the base of a fire. “I must have you, Eve,” he growled.

Nodding, she licked her lips, tasted his Scotch and him lingering there.

“Just remember my rule.”

“I won’t hold you.”

He swept her into his arms and began marching from the room. She wanted desperately to wind an arm around his neck, to stroke his jaw. “What am I allowed?”

“Nothing.” He strode down the hallway. “Just take the pleasure, don’t try to give it.”

“What if I leaned in and kissed your neck?”

He gave her a quick glance, his eyes clashing with hers, before he started up the stairs. “No.”

She wanted to ask him why, to uncover what had happened to make it so he couldn’t bear her touching him—no, not her, anyone. She realized now with resounding clarity that the night he had carried her through the rain, he hadn’t been urging her on as she’d originally thought. He’d been urging himself on. Whatever had happened to him? But now was not the time to poke, pry, and prod. But she would. After tonight, this distance between them could not remain. After tonight, everything would change.

He shouldered open the door and made his way inside, kicking it closed behind him. Gently he set her on the bed as though she were capable of breaking. Then he began tearing at his clothes. She heard linen rip and buttons ping as they scattered over the floor. She thought she should be frightened by the frenzy, but instead she was fascinated that she could elicit such a reaction from a man. That he was fairly mad with wanting her.

It was a heady realization as she rose up on an elbow to watch him. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He balanced on one foot, jerked off his boot, cast aside his stocking, before moving on to the other side.

He freed two buttons on his trousers before he stopped, looked at her. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart was beating as though it would fly from her chest. He was breathing heavily. She could see a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow.

“Close your eyes if you like.” His roughened voice caused prickles to form over her skin.

He was flawless. Skin and muscle tight on bone. Shaking her head, she dared to say what she hadn’t the courage to reveal the night before when he’d taken her to the boxing room. “I think you’re beautiful.”

He released a huff of air that might have been a laugh. Then his fingers made short work of the remaining buttons and he shoved down his trousers. Desire nearly swamped her. She wanted to touch. All of him. Badly. She thought she should be frightened by his jutting manhood. It was the only term she knew, but it somehow seemed wrong when applied to Rafe. His required a stronger, more powerful word. Yes, he could very well hurt her, but she wasn’t afraid.

His legs were long, corded muscles—a puckered scar on his right thigh. She sat up. “What happened there?”

“Later,” he said, walking toward her. “I’ll tell you later.”

Would he? Would he finally start talking to her in truth, telling her everything about him, his past, his present, his dreams for the future? Did he have goals and ambitions? She had so many questions, but they could wait, they could all wait.

When he reached the bed, he brought with him the fragrance of male, perhaps of sex, musky, not unpleasant. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her back down to the pillows. He closed his fists around the top of her nightdress, then ripped it asunder from collar to hem, spreading it wide, until she was as exposed as he.

“Oh, dear God, I knew you would be . . .”

His voice trailed off, and she wondered what word he might have used, but based on the appreciation that lit his eyes, the faintest upturn of his lips, he was pleased.

“Shall I roll over now?” she asked, her voice thready.

His gaze came back to hers, his brow furrowed. “I’m not taking you from behind.” He gave her the smallest of smiles that warmed and touched her heart. “We’re not dogs, and I promised you would take pleasure in our coupling.”

Still standing, he bent at the waist, lowered his head and kissed her, his mouth working the familiar magic to which she was becoming accustomed. Strong sweeps of his tongue that encouraged hers to respond in kind. She desperately wanted to comb her fingers through his hair, hold him near. Instead she raised her arms and clutched the pillow. It was a poor substitute, but it served to anchor her.

She felt one of his hands gliding leisurely from her knee, along her thigh, halting at her hip to massage gently, before skimming along her side until he was cupping her ribs. Another hesitation. Then the flat of his roughened hand was curving around the underside of her breast. Kneading tenderly as though he feared bruising her. His thumb—she thought it was his thumb—circled her nipple. It puckered. She moaned.

He dragged his mouth from hers, along the column of her throat, along her collarbone, nibbling, nipping, soothing with his tongue. Opening her eyes, she gazed down on his bent dark head. He hovered over her, only his mouth and hand touching her. She wanted to feel the press of him over the full length of her. Was that the way it should be done? She didn’t know. She only knew that she desired him, all of him.

The room was growing warm, as though they’d built a fire at its edges. But perhaps it was only she heating up, as passion—as he—licked at her skin.

He trailed his mouth lower, lower, over the swell of her breast, lower still until it replaced his thumb and his tongue was swirling, taunting. He closed his mouth over the tautened peak and suckled. She sighed a raspy note that came from deep within her, and twisted toward him.

“Do you like that?” he asked, blowing on the dampened skin, driving her to madness.

“Yes. Why can’t I hold you?”

“Because you can’t.”

It wasn’t an answer. She wanted to disobey him, but would all these lovely sensations dissipate if she did what he commanded her not to? Just one little touch, she wanted to beg, just one little stroke of her fingers over his back. Not a hold really, but she dared not risk it.

His hand traveled down, came to rest between her thighs. His fingers stroked, circled.

“Oh. Rafe—”

“Shh. Just enjoy.”

Enjoy? She thought she might take flight. She wasn’t certain how she remained anchored on the bed.

Slowly, slowly, he slipped a finger inside her most intimate place.

“Dear God, but you’re already so wet, so hot . . . so damned tight.” He turned his face toward her then, and she could see the strain in his features. “I’ve never known such tightness.”

“Is that bad?”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “Not for me, but I fear you’ll find it unpleasant.”

“It’s not been unpleasant thus far. I don’t want you to stop.”

“Selfish bastard that I am, I want you too badly now to stop.” She didn’t believe him. She thought if she said no he would cease his attentions, but then she thought she might die. She loved having his hands and mouth on her, loved all the sensations he was stirring to life.

Placing both his hands on her inner thighs, he spread her legs and bent his head.

And kissed her there.

“Oh God.”

He remained standing. It seemed a terribly awkward uncomfortable position for him, but he seemed not to mind at all as his mouth slowly began to follow the path his hand had taken. Another kiss, a swirl of his tongue, a gentle suckling. Over and over. The attentions changed, but the outcome remained: an intense pressure that built and built until she thought she might scream.

She rolled her head from side to side, reached for him, remembered that she couldn’t touch him, and dug her fingers into the sheets instead. She wanted him. It was torment not to touch his firm flesh, not to feel his warmth while he worked so diligently to increase hers.

Her breaths began to come in pants. She heard little cries, coming from her, small sounds that she couldn’t hold in, couldn’t control. Madness, this was madness.

One hand tiptoed up her torso, covered her breast, squeezed, pinched, touched lightly. All the while his mouth worked feverishly. The pressure built, her body tensed—

“Oh, my word!”

Pleasure shot through her, out of her, as her body convulsed, her back arched. Crying out, she yanked on the sheets, needing to hold onto something to keep her anchored. Breathing harshly, she sank back down, unable to believe what she’d just experienced.

He moved swiftly, wedging himself between her thighs, hovering over her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, straight, the muscles bunched, his once icy eyes a fiery blue. “Forgive me,” he rasped, before thrusting forward.

The pain was sharp, intense, quick. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he stared down on her, his arms quaking now.

“I’m all right,” she assured him.

She thought he might have nodded, and then he was rocking against her, with long powerful strokes. Fast. Furious.

He emitted a deep-throated growl, threw his head back. His body jerked, stiffened, thrust once more. Then he stilled, breathing harshly, staring at her as though he didn’t quite know who she was.

She couldn’t stop herself from reaching up and gently combing the damp locks of hair from his brow. His breathing began to even out, his eyes never straying from hers.

“I was supposed to leave you,” he said, his voice hoarse as though he’d been screaming.

“Pardon?”

“I was supposed to spill my seed in my hand, not in you.”