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Authors: Theresa Romain

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BOOK: Season for Surrender
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He twirled the looped handle on one finger and grinned at her. Faint creases formed at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
At this close distance, without the glass focusing his sight, his eyes looked cloud-soft. He looked . . . oh, like he ought to be touched a little.
She could sweep a hand through his hair, surely; that was something a friend might do.
So she reached out for him, threading her fingers through his cropped hair. It was coarse, as though it wanted to curl if he'd only allow it, and faintly scratchy, like the tickle of evergreen on bare skin.
When she scraped her nails lightly over his scalp, he shut his eyes, and the hand holding the glass sagged.
Since his eyes were already closed, she let hers fall shut, too, let her fingers twine more roughly in his hair, tugging his face closer until mouth found mouth.
Louisa, you idiot.
That one final thought intruded, and then it was all blasted away as his mouth opened, as the soft heat of their tongues touched. She slid closer, dropping the book from her nerveless left hand, then cradling his face between her palms.
Just for now. Just a little more. There was nothing so dangerous about a kiss.
Before she could pull back—not that she wanted to—his arms slid to her waist and tugged her astride his legs. Belly to belly, they faced each other, and Louisa was torn between the contrary demands of her conscience and the startling lust that rushed through her veins.
She was much more used to obeying her mind than her body. She gripped his shoulders, hard, until his eyes blinked open.
“Alex. We seem to be—”
“I know. I'm sorry.” The muscles in his thighs felt tense and solid between hers.
He shook his head, sliding his fingers over the carpet until he found the quizzing glass. But he didn't look through it; he only rolled the handle between his fingertips. “With you, I can't seem to do what's wise.”
“What would be wise?” Why did she ask? She didn't want to know the answer.
“Sending you away.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Or—something more proper.”
A betrothal? Her heart stuttered. “Don't be ridiculous. We've done nothing irrevocable.”
“We vowed to be friends. So we shouldn't—”
“I chose to begin this.” She forced a smile. “And you ought to be used to women being unable to leave you in peace. That's what the world says of you.”
His face changed for an instant; a look of revulsion, then a blank. “You certainly do not leave me in peace,” he murmured.
The sharp need twisted through her again, and she rocked against his body. A little moan escaped him.
If she'd ever wanted to add more to her Louisa catalogue, there was no better time.
“Alex. Is there more that we can do? Without being . . .”
“Irrevocable,” he finished. His right hand tightened on her waist; his left gripped his quizzing glass. “Yes. Yes, there's much more. But—we're friends. You're a gently bred maiden. We shouldn't—it's not Christmas anymore.”
So they only needed that excuse to give one another the unaccustomed gift of pleasure? Well, then. “In a way, it's still Christmas until Twelfth Night,” she said.
His grip on her waist hadn't slackened. He spanned it, shaping her body, and she waited for his reply.
It seemed to take an age.
With a little shudder, like the shaking off of control, he tossed his quizzing glass away.
“Very well, then.” And his mouth was on hers.
Chapter 19
Containing Unexpected Shadow
It's still Christmas until Twelfth Night.
They had another week, then? Another week of this hidden, sweet suspense. Another week to give one another the gift of something new.
The idea was shatteringly appealing. So much so that Alex could almost forget how she'd tossed his reputation in his face with a
despite
. The “you have potential—
despite
.”
Almost. He could
almost
forget.
Louisa pulled back and stroked his lips with a gentle thumb. “Is something wrong?”
“What could be wrong? Is this not what a man of my notoriety wants?”
She looked at him oddly for a moment, as though he'd spoken in a heathen tongue.
And then she laughed.
“I wounded your pride, didn't I?” Her nails found his chin, stroked his jaw. “Dear me. What did I say?”
He tried to ignore the tickling sensation, the intimacy of such a touch. “I know my character is of no value to you. But I thought, too, that you knew it for a fiction.”
Conscience—the conscience that no one thought he had—made him add, “In part.”
Her hand stilled against the pulse hammering beneath his jaw. “Yes, just as you know mine is. In part. Do you not?”
Apparently he didn't, because his mouth failed to emit any words.
She smiled at his silence. “It's true that I have an immoderate liking for books. But I also know how to dance and play cards. I string a sentence together once in a while. I can even display a few social graces.”
“I am aware of all that.” He knew he sounded irritable. “You mustn't snipe at me simply because the
ton
took up some wrong-headed idea of you—oh. Yes. I see what you're getting at.”
“You understand me, then.” Her hand drifted to toy with his earlobe, and everything that was not her fingertips seemed further away and less important. “I want to be seen for myself, and—and wanted.”
“You most definitely are.”
“As are you.” She patted around on the floor until she grasped his quizzing glass, then held it in front of his eye. “Don't be so worried about fashion. Here, look at me.”
She was blushing now, the flush spreading down her chest and reaching beneath the bodice of her gown.
He smiled. “How far down does that blush go?”
“You're welcome to find out.” Her thumb traced his lips again. “You. Alex.”
Those simple words—they were the best Christmas gift he had ever received.
You are wanted. You. Alex.
He knew it wasn't right to indulge his desires with a virgin, no matter how much she offered. But she
was
his friend, and—well, he simply needed her. He was already captivated by her newfound promise; her simple statement
you are wanted
.
Not for his title. Not because of his notoriety. Not for anything outrageous he had done, or been thought to do.
His lips captured her thumb, and her eyes widened. Her mouth curved into a slow half smile, and she rubbed her thumb on the soft inside of his lower lip.
“I don't need the glass,” he murmured, pressing down the hand that held the circular lens before his face.
At once she became a haze of color: the darkness of her hair, shell-pink for her flushed skin, and a sweep of creamy speckles for her patterned gown.
If she wanted him just as he was, this was it: face-to-face, purblind and overeager. He breathed her in, soap and flowers and intoxicating warmth.
She settled herself more securely across his lap. The pressure was no doubt an accident, but his body immediately responded, swelling to a full erection. Her hands, caressing his face, plucked away his control as effortlessly as he might, once upon a time, have plucked a flirtatious widow's handkerchief from the floor.
He disliked the thought of the past. Here, there was no space for it. Despite everything he had done that was foolish and wrong, Louisa wanted and liked him. The knowledge seeped through him, bone-deep and astounding.
He wanted her to feel more than his body; he wanted her to know his very self.
So he kissed her, slow and gentle, his lips entreating:
trust me.
Tilting her head in the cradle of his hands, he slid his mouth to the hot pulse on her neck, then murmured down its length. Nonsense? Poetry? It didn't matter. She shivered, and he sucked lightly at the fragile skin. Not hard enough to bruise; only enough pressure to mark her memory with pleasure.
You are wanted. You. Louisa.
As though she could hear his thoughts, she chuckled, low and lovely. He could feel the hum of the sound under his lips. He trailed them down her neck, her collarbone, finding the soft hollow between her breasts. Relishing every catch of her breath, every clench of her fingers on his arms.
I am wanted.
It was wondrous.
Lord Xavier would never have stopped here; Lord Xavier—if the cursed man had ever existed—would have taken his partner's willingness and experience for granted.
But Alex
knew
her. And so he stopped.
“What is it?” asked Louisa, and he opened his eyes to the lovely blur of her face. He could make out the dark curves of her brows, slanting down as though furrowed. “Is something wrong?”
“I want your permission before I remove any of your clothes.”
She laughed again, a quavery sound. “I'd intended to grant that implicitly, but you're very kind to ask. Need I ask your permission in return?”
“You may assume that you have it. Anytime.”
“Anytime?”
He wished he could read the expression on her face. He could guess at it from the way her voice turned wry: a mischievous twinkle, a tight press of her lips that could not keep one corner from curving up.
She continued, “I shall keep that in mind, if I find that the soup at tonight's dinner isn't to my liking. ‘My apologies, everyone,' I shall say. ‘Since I'm not interested in eating at the moment, I'll remove his lordship's clothes instead.'”
Alex had not thought he could grow any harder, but he did. Nudity . . . a public confession . . .
He realized he'd been holding his breath. When he exhaled, she sank fully against his chest, blanketing him from shoulder to groin. “Mmmm,” she said, rubbing herself against him.
“You shock me,” he said lightly.
“I read
Fanny Hill
. It was very enlightening.”
“You've read
Fanny Hill
.” He shook his head. “I don't know why I'm surprised.”
“Nor do I. You ought to be aware, I want to learn everything.”
She clambered off of his outstretched legs, and her features resolved as she slid farther from him. A dark spiral of hair had fallen across her face, and she tucked it behind one ear. “For instance, I want to see what Fanny called your
machine
.”
“My machine.” Alex had braced his reclining body on one elbow. He felt suddenly self-conscious.
“Yes. Well, she called it some other things, too. But you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” he echoed. “Well. I did give you permission to remove my clothing.”
God
.
She didn't remove anything, though. She simply went exploring, her flattened palm sliding hard over his body from thigh to waist, then back down. He tried valiantly not to embarrass either of them by rolling into her touch. At last, her fingers raked lightly up his inner thigh, finding the tightening sac, the steel-hard shaft through the fabric of his breeches.
He inhaled, hard, through his teeth—a hiss of pleasure.
“Excellent,” Louisa said. “You liked that, I can tell. I'll do it again.” And she proceeded to.
Why was he bothering to hold himself up on one elbow? Why not simply collapse?
There was no reason. So he lay down flat on the carpet and surrendered to her touch.
“You look,” Louisa commented, “like some sort of feast laid out for my gustatory pleasure. What shall I select next, and what will it taste like?”
“You are shockingly articulate for such a moment,” he gasped, and then his eyes rolled back as her hands went wandering again.
Louisa worked open the buttoned fall of his breeches and slipped her hands within. Her fingers were cool as they rubbed and wrapped around his overheated shaft. “I didn't realize your
machine
would feel so soft.”
“Soft?” He lifted his head and frowned at her. His cock felt hard enough to club himself into unconsciousness with, if he'd been able to bend that way.
She scrunched her nose. “Just the skin of it. The texture.”
Her fingers slid down, then back up, wrapping around the sensitive head. He collapsed back onto the carpet, unable to muster any protest—or any words at all—as she slid her fingertip through the moisture beading the tip.
“Your body works like mine,” she observed. “This wetness when you're aroused.”
She rubbed it around, testing it between her fingertips. Then she bent her head and
licked the tip of his cock
.
His hips jerked. Every muscle in his body knotted tight.
“I assume you liked that, too,” she said. Her mouth was unbearably wicked, mouthing these calm observations as she drew him to the unraveling edge of his control.
“Mmuungh,” he replied astutely.
“Well said. That's how you made me feel on the chaise.”
His fogged brain managed a flicker of pride. And then his conscience spoke up once more, and he realized he was close to spending himself in the hands of a respectable virgin.
In an instant, he sat bolt upright, tucking his erection back into the placket of his breeches. He owed Louisa better than that, and so he walled off his ragged lust like the beast it was. Never mind. He'd take care of it later in the washroom.
“Now you've felt my machine”—it was hard to say the word with a sober expression—“and it's my turn. From what book shall I take my own inspiration?”
“I couldn't possibly suggest something,” Louisa said. Her eyes had gone wide, the dark pupils huge, as though she could swallow the sight of him.
He wished she would.
“
The Tempest
, then.” He whisked his fingers over her collarbone, then onto her chest, savoring the peach-fine texture of her skin, the quick rise and fall of her breath.
With a gentle tug at the edge of her bodice—fashionably, delectably low—the frail muslin slipped to reveal low-cut stays. They needed little enticement to release her breasts to his view; a few more twists and tugs of the fabric and she sat before him, half-nude, her upper arms pinned by her pushed-down sleeves.
And he—he simply stared as though he'd never seen a pair of breasts before in his life. For the effect she had on him, that might as well be true.
He reached for her, brushing a hand gently across the delicate points of her nipples. She drew in a sharp breath. He feared, for a second, he'd gone too far.
“Why
The Tempest
?” She held very still. No; she breathed more deeply now, pressing her breast into his cupped hand.
Alex trailed his fingers around the sweet curve. “‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I
,
'” he quoted.
He bent to taste what his hands had touched, palming her in one hand as he nibbled and sucked the rosy nub of the other breast.
She gasped, and the sound was poetry. As he pulled and caressed with his lips, he felt her posture loosen, the press of her legs against one another slackening. She was unwinding under his touch, and he helped her on, gently pushing her backward while supporting her in his embrace. His mouth pulled at one nipple, then the other, drawing them into peaks of desire. Her skin was velvet and honey, soft and sweet.
She was quivering by the time he lifted his head. “Your quotation is inapt. No bee has ever done such a thing to me.”
“You can't stop thinking for an instant, can you?”
“Very rarely.” She shifted in his arms, sliding her bottom over the carpet. Rucking up her skirts, she slid her legs to either side of his, her inner thighs pressing against his outer ones.
She was embracing him with her whole body, and his heart gave a painful, joyful squeeze.
From
Measure for Measure
this time, then; not
The Tempest
. In the secret curve of her ear, he said, “‘Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.'”
BOOK: Season for Surrender
5.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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