Rules of Engagement (19 page)

She chuckled.

He did not.

She caressed him with both hands, one on each limb. How peculiar, to have two such different textures so close on a single body!

His hands flexed on the smooth surface of the desk, then in a lightning-swift move, he reached for her waist. Shocked, she grabbed for his shoulders as he picked her up and dragged her up with him. Her knees landed on either side of his hips, on the folds of his robe. She sprawled atop him in an untidy heap. His private parts imprinted themselves on her belly. "Lord Kerrich, this is not—"

Enfolding her head in his hands, he pressed a kiss on her. Not like her kiss, or like his kisses of the previous night, but a kiss that possessed and overwhelmed. He thrust his tongue in her mouth, tasted her like a starving man, made her whimper and catch fire. How could he do that with his lips, his hands? How could he make her crowd against him, trying to get closer than the inside of his heart? She kissed him back, entangling her tongue, her breath, her passions with his.

Taking his mouth away, he said, "Let me." And tugged at her corset strings.

She had no faith that any man could do more than make a snarl of those strings, but Kerrich untied and unlaced at a speed any lady's maid would have envied. Of course.

Pamela hadn't accounted for his extensive experience.

So she bit his neck.

He jumped and muttered, "Savage."

She kissed the place to make it better.

He removed her corset completely and dropped it off the edge of the desk, leaving her clad in only her thin, cotton chemise.

She ducked her head and kissed his chest.

He lifted her breasts in the cups of his hands…

And she breathed in pure ecstasy. Sitting up, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

"I knew…" he whispered. "Sensitive all over." He rubbed his thumbs languidly along the delicate skin beneath, then skimmed up and over her nipples.

The pleasure made her clench her legs around him, rock to ease her excitement, and deep inside her womb tensed, waiting for something. For him.

How could she know so much? What feral instinct had her in its grip?

When he put his lips on her breasts, she whimpered. He sucked the cloth into his mouth, then smoothed it across her nipple and looked. "So pretty," he said. Then he wet the cloth again and suckled.

What she had felt before was nothing to this. This was sublime, a divine experience, pure happiness distilled into this man and his touch. She held him to her, raked her nails though his hair. He blew on the damp cloth and her nipples rose, tight and thrusting, pointing at him and demanding.

He yielded. He untied the ribbon at the full neck of her chemise and slid it off her shoulder. He brought her breast out into the open and stared at it, and she saw worship in his gaze. Tilting his head, he began to kiss the smooth skin beside her arm—and she pushed him away. "Let me show you what I want you to do."

In a disconcerted tone, he repeated, "What you want me to do?"

"Yes." Opening her hand over his collarbone, she pushed him down flat on the desk.

His robe was beneath his bottom, the hard wood beneath his back, and he gave a hiss as his heated flesh made contact with the cool surface. "I'm not going to let you tease me," he said.

"Yes, you are. You're going to let me take my revenge on you, and on every other shallow male who worships at the altar of beauty and ignores—"

He adjusted his hips beneath her, and for a moment she lost track of what she was saying.

At his mocking smile, she remembered. "Every shallow male who cares only for comeliness and nothing for the woman."

"But I can guide you until you're lost in pleasure."

She didn't want to be guided. She wanted to command. So with a half-fathomed idea that he would respond and submit, she untangled her arms and slowly worked the chemise off over her head. As soon as it had cleared her eyes, she saw him. The concentrated gaze he had bestowed on one breast doubled in intensity. His lips were slightly open, yet he breathed with difficulty. He was a man in thrall, and between her legs his protrusion stirred.

It couldn't get bigger… could it? Thank heavens she still wore her pantalettes. Her plain, clean, white pantalettes, symbol of purity, worn to hide her limbs from licentious rogues such as him.

Foresight and caution rose to plague her. Where was this going? When the anger had been exorcised and the passion spent, would she be the pitiable creature she feared?

"Miss Lockhart." Recovering from his daze, he rose to lean on his elbows.

That brought her back to this time and this place. She didn't want him to take charge. She didn't want to think sensibly. She just wanted to drive Kerrich insane. So, crossing her arms, she cupped each of her breasts in her palm and lifted them.

His elbow slipped and he toppled back.

With the deceitfully affable smile she had inherited from some distant, seductive female ancestor, she leaned toward him, bringing herself to his mouth. "Taste me," she whispered.

His resistance collapsed. Because what she wanted was what he wanted, too, of course. Because he couldn't believe his luck or her gullibility, of course. But of course, she didn't care. He did as he was told, and when he suckled on one nipple and caressed the other, she was in an agony of delight. She undulated her hips, finding the motion against him to be a voluptuous debauchery. She was no longer aware of being in the library, in the chamber she so enjoyed. Her surroundings had narrowed to a single area, the long, wide surface of the desk. She was aware of Kerrich, naked and illicitly handsome, of his mouth, seeking other places that would bring her joy, of his hand, ranging over her as if the touch of her gave him pleasure. From the throb in her loins, she knew that he gave pleasure.

She pressed the flat of her hands on his chest, feeling the coarse hair, the tensile muscles, the pulse of his heart. He was alive, and he made her come alive—with laughter, with fury, with rancor, with exasperation. With him, she felt all she hadn't let herself feel for years, and now she wanted him. Even if he hurt her. Even if it weren't proper. Even if she were being as stupid as every other infatuated lady.

Tonight would be for her.

So Kerrich helped her. When she regained sanity, she would be piqued that he handled female undergarments so adroitly, but right now she didn't care. He eased off her pantalettes, and she never suffered a moment of embarrassment.

Until she had to place herself on him again. Her bare thighs touched his bare hips and if she settled her weight, they would be almost…

"Why are you staring at nothing and moving your lips?" he asked.

She looked down at him, at that elegant countenance and the long, broad, bare body that served as her saddle. "I'm thinking."

His hand drifted up toward her chest, and as lightly as the first leaf-fall of autumn, drifted down her chest and onto her belly. "I wish you wouldn't."

"If I take this to its natural conclusion, what would that be?"

Now his lips moved, and nothing came out.

"I mean," she said, "what would happen afterward? Between you and me?"

"Whatever you want," he answered promptly. Too promptly.

He was lying, but she was appeased because he'd said what she wanted to hear.

"All right." Leaning over, she sank onto him. His chest against hers, their bellies touching, his rambunctious erection nestled against her… her skin ached with the gladness of touching him, and she settled deeper, relaxing, touching all of him with all of her and wishing she could touch more. "All right," she repeated, her lips so close to his her breath brushed his face. Then she kissed him as he had kissed her: demanding, coercing, leading him where she wished to go. She loved this. She wanted this. "Kerrich, please," she whispered.

What he saw in her face seemed to give him immense satisfaction, for he grinned, briefly and savagely.

Then he scooted beneath her as if trying to escape.

"No!" Instantly enraged, she sat up and dug her nails into his chest. "You can't leave me."

"I won't." He chuckled briefly, unevenly. "I can't." Taking a breath, he said, "Over here. Scoot over here."

Not understanding, she went with him as, helped by the robe beneath him, he slid across the desk. A few papers shuffled to the floor as he moved far enough to get into one of the drawers. The slide of wood against wood sounded loud in the quiet room, and the phial clattered as he drew it out.

Staring at the crimson bottle with its delicate cuts and lacy filigrees, she asked, "What is it?"

"Lean back." He grabbed one of the paper-filled folders and stuck it under his head as a pillow, then uncorked the phial.

She wavered. She wanted this, yes, but she hadn't thought it out. How could she? She didn't know all the details. But to take the chance that he could look and see… there…

"It's oil." He poured a thin stream of platinum liquid into his cupped palm and waved it toward her. "Attar of rose. Can you smell it?"

She could, and the scent was rich and sensuous, redolent of flowers and opulence.

Corking the bottle, he shoved it aside without ever taking his attention off her. "When you lean back, I'll rub it on you. I'll do your belly first… have I told you how beautiful your belly is? Taut and the color of cream, with the indentation of your navel placed where the thumb of God pressed inward."

"You… you didn't see my belly."

He smiled again, blast him, that slow, knowing, erotic smile she had been admiring for… for too long.

"There is nothing about you I haven't noticed." He poured half the oil onto his other hand and rubbed his palms together. They glistened with temptation. "You are beautiful, and I want to touch your belly and your thighs."

With the oil, he meant. Such explicit intimacy shocked her, and at the same time moisture eased from inside her. Just like him, she realized. She must be eager, for she responded just like him.

Still the training of a chaste lifetime could not be subdued, and she said, "I thought this wouldn't take very long."

He laughed out loud. "Am I demolishing your schedule, teacher?"

"Yes." He was demolishing everything—and she would worry about it
tomorrow.
No consequences. Not tonight. "Where else are you going to touch me?"

"Just where you think I will touch you." His sin-colored eyes glowed with promise. "Lean back."

Slowly, she leaned enough to arch her back.

"More. Put your hands behind you on the desk."

She stretched back, back until she looked up at the ceiling and all of her was bared to his gaze. That he was looking, she had no doubt. The man was incorrigible, and very, very good at what he did.

The first tender touch slid up her hipbone, then across to her navel, where it swirled and delved. Then his other hand, it had to be his other hand, touched her inner thigh and moved with infinite indolence up toward… "Sh…" he whispered. "Don't move. Close your eyes. Let me…"

His touch tousled the triangle of hair, ruffling every nerve. When he opened her, the air puffed against her.
Now. Now he'll pierce me with his finger.
Determinedly she shut her eyes. She could take it. She might suffer embarrassment. She surely would undergo discomfort. But at least she'd know if his performance lived up to his reputation.

Instead, he anointed her inner, delicate, bare skin with oil. It felt… good. More than good.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

Her hesitation became anticipation as his hand progressed with ever narrowing circles toward her own tiny protrusion at the front. She knew how sensitive that was, yet he didn't quite touch it. Not yet. Not yet.

She found herself quivering, trying to entice him with tiny rhythmic movements of her hips, trying to get him to caress her there.

He didn't, drat him.

He continued that disturbing dance of skin against skin,

and all her predisposed notions drifted away. "Please." Colors shifted and glowed behind her closed lids. "Please, Lord Kerrich."

"Devon," he said.

She hesitated. Coupling was one thing, a breakdown of the social distance between them something else. She knew herself to be a lady of English society, stifled by too many rules, but…

Deliberately, he removed his touch. "Devon," he repeated.

She surrendered at once. "Devon. Please, Devon."

His fingers skimmed the places he had skimmed before, then with exquisite care, he plucked at the protrusion that was causing her such craving, and he both eased the craving and made her want more. Her hands searched behind, found his thighs, gripped them and rubbed them. "Kerrich… Devon… don't. Please. You're making me…"
Feel too much.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, was it? This irresistible, clawing desire, made more poignant by its startling newness.

If this was lust, why had she eschewed it all her life?

Blind with passion, she swayed, her whole body caught up in the bliss of having
him,
Kerrich—Devon—beneath her, titillating her with the clever hands of a connoisseur. Each muscle in her body trembled in anticipation, each touch jolting her and each touch making her want more. She wanted to beg him to do… do… whatever it was that came next. She couldn't articulate words anymore, yet she concentrated so hard on her yearning he must have overheard her, for his fingers glided farther back—and inside.

She arched up, avid, frantic, desperate. His finger slipped in and out, his palm rubbed against her, and she was ready. So ready. If he didn't stop, she would…

He stopped.

She gave a keening sound of protest.

He shushed her. "Lean forward now."

Her hands landed on his chest and instinctively, she groped for anything that would bring him joy. Evidently, mere contact was enough, for his heated skin chilled with goosebumps.

"You are a darling," he said, as with his hands on her bottom he raised her above him.

Dimly she realized what he was doing; he was going to enter her, take her, vanquish her innocence. If she could have spoken she would have told him to hurry.

He fitted them together without fumbling—of course— and then he said, "Pamela. Look at me."

The tone of command penetrated her wonderful daze, and she opened her eyes.

His sinful gaze watched her, fervent and so grim he clearly took this business of defloration seriously. "Listen to me. You have to do this."

What did he mean? She shook her head.

"Yes, you have to. You're on top. You're ready. Please. Take me inside you."

Enough of her reason returned for her to realize his stratagem. This wasn't fair. If they did it his way, she couldn't blame him afterward. She couldn't claim that his expertise had swept her away or that she'd been seduced.

"It's the only way," he said. "If you want me…"

She did. She wanted him so much, and regardless of what happened after, she had made her decision and she would always have this evening.

So, tentatively, she began to lower herself onto him. At first she slid—the oil, she realized, eased the way.

"That feels… so good."

Surprised by his thickened tone, she looked at him. The cords in his neck stood out, color stained his cheeks, and his eyes were half-closed. He gasped beneath her as if he were in agony… but he wasn't. That was passion. She recognized it, she knew not how, but she was transporting Kerrich beyond the mundane. Her body was carrying him to a magical realm, and this,
this
was what she had wanted. She had mastered the man beneath her. And how much she loved command!

As she moved down further, discomfort made her pause.

He groaned, an ardent, desperate groan. "Please."

"You're too big," she told him.

His hips jerked beneath her, sending him deeper, making her gasp on a shard of pain.

He stopped himself with obvious reluctance, and he stared at her worshipfully. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She lifted herself slightly, allowing the ripples of distress to fade.

He must have thought she was punishing him, because he said, "I mean, more than beautiful. You're intelligent and witty… please, Pamela, if you would just finish, I would do anything for you."

"Anything?" She held herself still, readying herself for the pain that must come.

"Climb mountains. Swim…" Gripping her hips, he stared at her pleadingly.

"Oceans?"

He nodded.

"I don't want that. I just want this." Taking his hand, she positioned it between her legs.

His smile looked more like a painful grimace, but he touched her as he had before. He touched her just as she wanted.

And she plunged down. Oh, God, he hurt her. It hurt, but he kept caressing her and the pain mixed with the passion, and she didn't know what to do but to rise and plunge down again. He was assisting her now, moving his hips, helping her catch the primal rhythm. Her fingers clutched at him, her frantic breath caught in her chest, her heart beat out of control, and she was ecstatic. The motion, the tumult, the joy felt like riding the wildest stallion toward the tempestuous night. It was hot, it was sweaty, it was crude, and she loved it.

He loved it, too, for he made breathless, inarticulate sounds of encouragement as he strained and writhed beneath her. Everything narrowed itself to one square desktop, and that square encompassed all the universe. She was here, living now, aware of everything and carried beyond. Her thighs ached from the exercise, her knees hurt from contact with the hard wood, she had a stitch in her side, but Kerrich was inside, deep in her womb, luring forth a response, and she wanted that response so badly, waited for it with such desperation, nothing else mattered.

When the spasms caught her up, she cried out her joy. She wanted to press herself down on him, to savor the climax of this fiery ride, but Kerrich couldn't pause. He urged her on, and she went willingly, his need spurring hers. They moved together, faster and faster, until beneath her he gave a shout and held her hips tightly against him, and climaxed while she… well, she had never stopped.