Never a Gentleman (30 page)

He lifted an eyebrow. “You keep a gun beneath your pillow?”

Even as her knees began to melt, she maintained her poise. “Of course. You never know what rogue might try to force his way
into your bedroom.”

“I see.” He tapped that riding crop gently on his thigh like a metronome. “Well, I can’t deny I’m a rogue, so I guess it’s
up to you.”

Her heart began to thud in her chest, and her fingers tingled, as if anticipating the feel of his skin against them.
So, he was giving her the final choice. It made the moment even more exciting. Strolling over to her bed, she reached beneath
the pillow and pulled out her Bunney muff pistol. Refusing to surrender completely, she moved it no farther than her bedside
table.

She should have known better. She only made him smile. “Well met, madame wife,” he said, calmly sipping brandy.

“It wouldn’t do to become confused.”

He nodded. “Good point. I believe we’ll vary the program a bit, then. I don’t want to find myself wondering exactly who I’m
fucking.”

Grace felt as if someone had dumped icy water on her head. “Funny,” she said, deliberately stepping back and pulling up her
glove. “I don’t remember you deliberately insulting the woman you were with last night.”

Tap. Tap. Nod. “My apologies. I simply don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

She let out a dry laugh. “That you’ll fall in love with me? No, Diccan. There’s precious little chance I’d make that mistake.”

She would have said a shadow passed across his eyes, but she knew better. Her wish for his affection could not create it.
She had to settle for pleasure. And she knew he could provide that.

“Pull out your pins,” he said abruptly.”I want to see your hair down.”

She hesitated only long enough to make him understand that she would not stay past another insult. Then, slowly, she raised
her arms and began to pull out her pins. Any other time, she would have carefully collected them into her cloisonné box. Tonight
she let them drop, the only
sounds in the room the little plinking noises as they hit the hardwood and the syncopated rasp of breathing.

She couldn’t look away from him. He might not love her. He might not really desire her. But he still managed to look as if
he wanted to pull her down on the floor and take her right there. He didn’t move, except to tap the crop against his thigh.
But Grace felt crowded, suddenly short of breath, as if he had used up all the air in the room. She felt hot and cold and
shivery, and her hands began to shake.

“Now spread it out,” he said.

Winnowing her fingers through her hair, she pulled it out of its tight twists, shaking it until it fell unfettered down her
back. She was surprised to see his pupils dilate at the sight. A melting warmth woke in her belly and seeped into her legs.

“Pull one lock over your breast.”

She did. “Like this?”

His breathing was growing shallow; she could see it. He nodded. Grace stood still, her hair a curtain over her back, a curling
invitation over her suddenly taut breast, silk on silk. She was mesmerized by the growing bulge in his pantaloons.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, resting the tip of the crop against his mouth. “A nice picture, certainly, but I think that lock of hair
would look better against a naked breast. Disrobe.”

She went still. “No.”

His smile grew a bit cooler. “Then you don’t want this after all.”

She might have complied if he had touched her, or even smiled. “Not if it means I must demean myself,” she said, wishing her
voice sounded stronger. “I don’t intend to
spend the next few minutes having you remind me of how little I measure up to your mistress. Enjoy the illusion, Diccan. The
reality pales in comparison.”

His brow lowered. “I thought I told you not to speak like that. I want to see you naked, Grace. It is my right. Especially
since you asked.”

She flushed, hot with frustration. Frozen with indecision. Her body cried out a need to obey, to do anything to keep him here.
Experience told her he wasn’t nearly drunk enough. Pride kept her silent.

“Grace,” he said quietly, his expression giving nothing away, his body perfectly still. “I’ve seen your legs before. Besides,
I promise you’ll be naked soon enough.”

She raised her chin. “Not this way.”

For a long, terrible moment she heard nothing but silence. She struggled to stay where she was, to seem impervious to this
shame. She waited for his inevitable departure.

“Well,” he finally said, and relaxed back in the chair again. “We could move onto the next bit, where you get on your knees.”

“Indeed.” She met his gaze. “And why would I do that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Minette didn’t ask why.”

“Minette probably didn’t have to.”

He gave her another lazy smile. “Because,” he said patiently, “if you truly want to do everything we did last night, then
you need to kneel between my legs and open the placket on my pants. You need to slip your hands inside and pull out my cock.”

His voice slowed and deepened as he compelled her with his gaze. She felt herself flush and chill, her skin alive. She wanted
to squeeze her thighs together again to keep
the juices from dripping down her leg. He aroused her that quickly, with only a look and a few salacious suggestions.

“And then, Grace,” he said, daring her to look away, to flinch, “you’ll open your lovely mouth and swallow my cock whole.”

For a second all she heard was him say was that her mouth was lovely. Then the rest of the command sank in. She sucked in
a startled breath, the image so clear she could almost feel that tumescent flesh against her tongue. She licked her suddenly
dry lips. She saw Diccan’s eyes follow the progress of her tongue, and she was surprised by a sensation of power.

She had seen this act before, of course. She’d always thought it debased a woman. Kneeling like a beggar, offering pleasure
without receiving it. Subservient in every way.

Suddenly, though, she began to see the other side. He didn’t just demand she do this. He wanted it. He needed it. She looked
down to see that his buttons were straining. He didn’t move, but she felt the sudden tension in him even five feet away, a
pulsing energy that bathed her like sunlight. She saw that his hands were fisted against the arms of his chair, and she felt
a thrill of control.

“And then what?” she asked, her voice breathy and small.

Slowly, deliberately, he spread his legs, more dare than invitation. “Then, you pleasure me.”

She could barely get in enough air. Her heart was slamming against her ribs; her palms had begun to perspire. She felt hot,
so hot. She was trembling down to her toes, waves of heat searing her skin. She almost threw herself on the ground right then,
furious to feel that hard velvet rod against her lips, against her teeth, against the tender
curve of her throat. She longed to roll her tongue around that lovely rounded top, to lick the drop of moisture from it, to
see if she could make
him
scream.

She stood perfectly still. “And when is it my turn?”

His smile darkened. His eyes were all but black. The riding crop was motionless in his hand. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “It
will be soon enough, and if you think you climaxed that first night, you have no idea what’s in store for you tonight.”

His words pierced her deep, a searing lightning so intense she almost folded beneath it. She wasted a moment just enjoying
it. The last time he’d taken her she’d been blindsided. Overwhelmed. She hadn’t had any time to appreciate the sensations
he’d unleashed. Well, she would tonight.

Slowly, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other, she approached. She felt suddenly liquid, swelling and pulsing,
life pouring through her like water. She felt feminine, as if her acquiescence imbued her with the instinctive understanding
millennia of women possessed of how to give pleasure, how to receive it. She felt her hips sway as she walked, as if she were
really rounded and soft and as sensual as a cat. She heard silk slither over her legs and delighted in its breezy caress.
She saw the sudden fire in Diccan’s eyes and knew that whatever else, his response would set this night apart.

“Like this?” she asked, lowering herself as gracefully as if she were curtsying to the queen.

The rug was soft beneath her knees. She could smell brandy and the citrus tang of soap. And beneath it, the subtle musk of
his arousal. She could see the candlelight slither down his throat as he swallowed. Her body
responded; softening, swaying, swelling to meet him. She laid her hands on the insides of his thighs and pushed them farther
apart. She didn’t imagine his surprised gasp. She never took her eyes from his as she slowly ran her hands up toward his groin,
and swore his buttons would pop from the pressure. Savoring the sensation of iron muscle beneath the soft slide of wool, she
edged her hands up to the placket and felt the scorching heat beneath. She felt his shaft throb and twitch, as if instinctively
seeking her mouth. Her attention. Her domination. She was on her knees, but he was the one who would soon be helpless.

With a slow smile that told Diccan just that, she ran her fingertips around each button, and was rewarded when his hips came
off the seat. “Grace,” he growled, looking fierce.

“Diccan,” she growled back and flicked open the first button.

Then the next. And the next. She didn’t have to reach in. He was already so hard she could barely get that last button free.
In the end, she just yanked at it, sending the button pinging faintly against one of the bedposts. She barely noticed, for
there, springing right into her hand like a prize for her perseverance, was his engorged rod.

For the first time she took her gaze from Diccan’s. She sated herself on the sight of his erection. The essence of power,
of pleasure. Of life. She’d been right before. Temple art had nothing on Diccan Hilliard. He was magnificent. She couldn’t
help it. She giggled.

“You find my cockstand amusing?”

“No,” she said, unable to keep from running a finger up and down his length. It felt so silky. She hadn’t expected that. “I
was thinking that you must have posed for the
erotic temple art I saw in India. It’s the only way to explain the size of some of those phalluses.”

His smile was quite satisfied. “I hope you’re impressed.”

Ah, there it was, that pearly white drop trembling on the tip of his penis. She slowly licked it off, tasting salt and smoke.
“I’ll reserve my judgment until it’s my turn for pleasure,” she said with a saucy grin.

She did slip a hand inside his trousers now, savoring the dark heat that met her, and cupped his balls, the sacs heavier than
she’d imagined. She ran her other forefinger over the top of his rod, fascinated as much by his reaction as by the smoothness
of it. He was bucking a bit, as if he couldn’t keep his body from its pleasure. His lips thinned and his nose flared. It made
her smile. It made her want to torment him to death. With one more smile up to him, she bent her head, letting her hair cascade
over his belly, and she slowly wrapped her lips around him.

Mmmmm, soft; earthy. She raised up on her knees and took more of him into her mouth, sliding forward until she could feel
him pressing against the back of her throat. He was hot and throbbing and silky, and she was becoming obsessed with the texture
of him.

One hand holding his sacs, she pulled back on his penis, then slid down again. She heard a startled groan and relished an
astonishing sense of power. She began to suck as she pulled back, drawing him more deeply into her mouth. She realized she
was humming in her throat, savoring how he throbbed against her tongue, how he jerked when she left little love bites on his
tender skin. How he was lifting to her mouth, as if incapable of staying away.

“Enough,” he growled, grabbing her shoulders.

She ignored him, pulled harder, anxious to know how
this would end. Her world had diminished to the taste of salt and sweat, the scent of arousal, the sound of gasps and the
wet sucking of her mouth. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to make him mad.

She almost did. But just when she thought she’d triumphed, he pulled out and pushed her onto the floor. In one fluid movement,
he shoved her skirts up and her knees apart, and he drove into her.

Not a kind word. Not a caress. His eyes were closed and his hands were fisted in her hair. She swore he was growling, and
the sound reverberated in her chest. She felt impaled, split, the pressure of him inside her unbearable. Yet her body tightened,
seeking him, reveling in his loss of control. She lifted up, arching to fit him inside of her. She closed her eyes, all her
focus on the unbearable fullness, the sliding, searing pleasure of him as he pumped into her, the abrasion of cloth and buttons
and stays as he took her on the hard wood floor.

Almost before she could comprehend that she’d been usurped, before her body could catch up to intense pleasure, he gave a
harsh cry and spilled himself into her, deep against her womb, where she could feel the heat of his seed pulsing into her,
life-giving warmth. Life-affirming communion. Life-altering power. And then, just as before, he collapsed on top of her, gasping.

After a moment when he made no more move, she felt compelled to prod him. “It doesn’t seem to take long,” she said, her arms
wrapped around him, as if she could keep him close, “does it?”

He lifted his head to glare at her. “It’s your fault.”

She blinked. “Me? How could it be me?”

He scowled. “I don’t know. But I’ve never been this impatient before.”

Was she wrong to feel absolute delight at his words? Could he possibly mean such a thing? Could he even know what it meant
to her?

She decided not to enlighten him, in case it would frighten him away. Instead, she lifted her head to lick the sweat that
beaded in the little hollow in his throat. She wanted to say, “What’s next?” She still didn’t have the courage. After all,
they were still dressed.

Evidently, she didn’t have to. Without prompting, he lifted his head and gazed down at her, and she thought his eyes were
softer. He didn’t smile, exactly. But he didn’t need to.