Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (13 page)

He reached for her waist and lifted her gently onto the table.

"I won't be your lover," she protested, but her hands clutched the lapels of his gray jacket.

"Oh, I'd never take you here, like this." He curled one hand around the back of her cool neck and pulled her closer. "Actually, I would. But not the first time. The first time I won't risk being interrupted. Spread your knees," he added, deliberately echoing her own scornful words.

She spread her knees wider and Hart moved between them.

"
Somerhart
. . ."

"Call me Hart. And I. . ." He lowered his mouth to hers. "I will call you Emma." Her mouth opened, her tongue licked out to meet his. Lust burned through him, sensitizing his skin. He kissed her deep and hard until her knees clutched at his hips. She kissed him even harder, worked her hands under his coat to dig her nails into his ribs.

The woman was fighting a rough battle with herself and knew that she would lose. Hart recognized denial. He'd lived with it for a decade, and he could just as easily recognize the fissures and cracks of weakness in her will. He was here, after all, despite his bitter words about scandal and pride. He'd fought himself and lost, and he'd be damned if he'd grant any mercy now.

He took a handful of her skirts in his hand and pulled them higher. When he touched her thigh, she was already trembling, shaking in anticipation of his touch. Hart let his fingers spread, let them experience the texture he'd wondered at. Oh, yes, her muscles were tight beneath that soft skin, straining. He bit her bottom lip gently before he broke the kiss. "Tell me what you want." He stroked higher, ran his thumb back and forth at the edge of her drawers.

 
"No," she sighed.

He slipped his hand beneath the warm fabric and rubbed over the softest skin he'd ever felt. . . surely the softest. His fingers brushed damp curls. Emma gasped.

"Tell me."

"No."

"I'll not have you accuse me of heartless seduction when you want this as much as I. You're already slick, aren't you? Wet and beautiful. Wanting."

She was shaking her head, eyes clenched shut, when Hart went to his knees. He kissed the inside of her thigh, dragged his mouth up the tense line of muscle and tendon until she sobbed. "I thought about this last night. Dreamed of your taste, of you pressing yourself to my mouth. I pleasured myself to this fantasy. Tell me, Emma."

"Oh, God."

He nibbled higher.

Emma sobbed, "Oh, please."

"Please, what?"

"Please.
Touch me.
There."

His hands shook against her skin, a separate trembling from her own. He breathed out hard and watched her jump at the sensation. "You've said you won't be my lover."

"I won't.
Just touch me,
you bastard."

Hart chuckled. "Cheeky wench." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the fabric and found it damp and fragrant. Emma cried out as if he'd done much more. He reached for her drawers and untied the waist, pulled them down, pressed her knees together and pulled them off completely. When he pushed her legs open again, he was treated to the sight of her sex, pink and wet. All for him. A shudder of need raced through him.

"Please," Emma whispered, but he needed no further encouragement, and doubted he would have stopped for anything. He smoothed his palms up her white thighs, until they met at her sex. He feathered both thumbs up and down, up and down, over plumpness and heat and dark, dark curls. She rocked back, balanced on her elbows, back arching with shock.

God, he wanted to drive deep into her right now. Take her here, on the table, spend himself into the core of her. But he wouldn't. Not yet. He'd meant what he said about being interrupted, and yet. . .

The idea that the door could open at any moment, that anyone could walk in and find him cradled between her legs . . . Hart's mind raced with arousal as his blood pumped harder, faster.

His fingers spread her open for his mouth.

The barest touch of his tongue and she was panting, "Yes, yes."

He explored gently at first, taking in her intoxicating scent, the delicate texture of her need. Her taste flooded his tongue and made him want more. He probed into her, then deeper when she groaned her approval. But when he worked his way up to that tight bud of her clitoris, Emma cried out, a deep groan that couldn't quite be contained by her clenched teeth. He lapped at that spot again, and smiled when her fingers curled cruelly into his hair.
"Yes!'
she moaned. "There."

As if he couldn't tell. Hart chuckled against her flesh and rewarded her demands with a firmer touch. She shuddered and pushed herself higher against his mouth.

"Hart." Her voice was a high, breathless keen. "I've wanted this . . ."

God, he'd wanted this too. This and so much more. Almost from the moment they'd been introduced. He slipped one finger inside her. She bucked beneath him, trying to hold back a scream. Her flesh clutched at him, and, oh if it were his cock . . . pushing in, finding its way into that tightness. He suckled at her little bud, felt her muscles tightening, felt his need spiraling higher.

Hart looked up, expecting to find her blind, reaching for her peak, but he was shocked to meet her gaze. She was watching him, any trace of hesitance long dissolved in pleasure. Her eyes were narrowed, glinting. Her lips parted before her breath, but they curled up at the corners, hinting at satisfaction and demand. She didn't look away from his gaze. Instead, her eyes narrowed even further and glittered with wickedness.

That kind of boldness deserved a reward. Hart closed his lips around her, suckling, and slid another finger into her body. Emma threw her head back with a grimace and a scream. She tried to back away, but it was too late. Her hips jerked and strained. Hart's name was torn from her throat in a hoarse scream.

He let her go when her hips finally fell back to the table, then he laid his cheek against her hot thigh and tried to calm himself down. Not easy given the view, but he tried. That glance into her eyes . . .

He'd recognized her. They were kindred spirits. Depraved and wicked and trying to deny it to the world. But she'd
liked
it. She'd liked being ordered about, liked being set on a table and devoured like a candied treat. The danger and the depravity. Whatever reason she had for denying herself, it had nothing to do with what she wanted. And Hart understood that completely.

His understanding helped him gather the will to raise his hands to her crumpled skirts and ease the fabric down her thighs. A quick check of the floor and he had her pale pink drawers in hand.

Emma snapped from her daze. She sat forward and slid to the ground so quickly that Hart was forced to scoot back. He fell to his backside, suddenly struck with the image of how he must look: sprawled on the floor with a
cockstand
, a pair of pink drawers in his fist. Utterly ridiculous. Corrupt. Depraved. Hart couldn't help but grin.

His lover didn't seem to appreciate his good humor. She glared at him, clearly wishing she could roast him with her eyes, then swooped down and snatched the delicate garment from his fingers, muttering something under her breath. Hart heard the word "obnoxious" quite clearly.

She looked fetchingly enraged as she turned her back and stepped into her underclothes. "You tremble quite keenly, my dearest Emma."

"Are you trying to tempt me to murder?"

"No, but something just as impulsive."

"Maiming?"

"Hmm. No, not that. One more guess."

"You."
She spun about and speared him with a glare. "You needn't be so ridiculously jolly. Not only is it completely absurd on your ducal countenance, but your happiness is premature. I will not be your lover. Your work was in vain."

"Well, not for you, I hope. It seemed quite fruitful."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What is the matter with you? You're positively . . ." She waved a hand in a tight circle. "This isn't amusing."

"No." Hart shook his head and finally bothered with pushing up to his feet. "It's not amusing. It's delightful." He pulled her into his arms before she could shout whatever she meant to shout. The sound died against his lips. He kissed her soundly, and when he let her go, she blinked hard and touched her fingers to her lips.

"I won't be your lover," she whispered.

Hart inclined his head. "I believe that you could resist me, Emma, but I don't believe you can resist your own nature."

Her pink cheeks paled considerably at that.

"I assume you haven't dined this morning. May I escort you to the breakfast room?"

Emma shook her head. She turned purposefully away to see to her winnings, then brushed past him without a word. He followed her toward the door, but as her hand reached for the knob, the door opened on a silent rush of air.

"Oh!" a startled maid gasped and dropped into a curtsy so quickly that she almost fell. "Your pardon, ma'am! Sir!"

"For God's sake," Emma muttered, and the girl backed away. But Emma wasn't glaring at the maid, she was glaring at the doorknob and then at Hart. "Do not ever accuse me of indiscretion again,
Somerhart
. You've surpassed me."

"So I have," he chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in years.

The thick carpet muffled any satisfaction Emma could have taken from stomping back and forth across the floor of her room. Her pacing sounded peaceful instead of agitated, and she longed to smash something against the wall just for the racket it would make. And every frustrating step was a reminder of the new sensitivity between her legs, the aching satisfaction that had turned her insides to liquid.

Good God, she wanted more. More, more, more, which was exactly what she'd always feared. He'd awakened the wickedness lurking just beneath the surface of her skin. She wanted to have him again,
now.
Then stay in his bed, languid and nude, awaiting his return from dinner. Give him anything he demanded. Sleep with him, wake with him. She wanted to luxuriate in her body with his.

Emma pressed a hand to her hot forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to regain her control, what little there had been of it. But she'd never dreamed that his touch could be so much more magical than her own. And his
mouth . . .

"Oh, God, his mouth," she groaned.

She should leave. She should. Run away before sunset and fly back to her cold little town house in London. But gentlemen were losing money at this party as quickly as she'd lost her willpower. She'd won nearly three hundred pounds in two days. She couldn't walk away from that kind of profit. It was only one more day. Surely she could persevere.

But she'd thought herself hardened against him this morning, and arrogance had gotten the better of her. The enjoyment of driving him mad, flirting with those men, needling him with her insolence. And, oh, he'd been so angry, and she'd loved that too, his blazing eyes and rough demands.

She'd never responded so to other men's more gentle seductions. How could Hart know that? What other lady would melt with lust when ordered to raise her skirts? Emma shuddered to think what she would have done if he'd pushed her further. Thrown her careful plans to the wind, at the least, and that only the start of her descent.

If she'd ever doubted that her father's tainted blood flowed in her veins, she had her proof.

Her only consolation was the very stricture of the lies she'd told. Her deception would force her to leave London before a life of sin became normal. As long as she could keep from his bed until the ton returned to the city for parliament, she'd have no choice but to leave, to disappear, before anyone from Cheshire appeared to question her story. But maybe . . . in the meantime . . . if she could just get him to touch her a little more.

Madness,
her mind hissed and she knew it was true. Madness, not to mention idiocy. And she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't.

But that happy lust in his smile as they'd quit the gaming room . . . it would haunt her every waking moment, and likely every sleeping moment as well. Because if he looked like that after giving her pleasure, she couldn't imagine his happiness when he found his as well.

She could not afford to find out.