Seducing the Spy (27 page)

He used everything he knew, everything he'd ever heard of. His hands roved over her body like a sculptor, creating her passion, building her desire from his necessity and her isolation. It was wrong. It was trickery. It was the only avenue left open to him.

He had to know.

She was leaning back against the wall, hands spread at her side, her throat arched and her eyes closed, submitting to his manipulative ravagement like a goddess on a sacrificial altar.

He pushed up her nightdress and parted her thighs with his knee. She opened willingly, still silent, still withdrawn into feeling his touch. Stanton plunged his fingers into her two at a time, stealing her moans from her lips with hot kisses, driving her to the edge of madness again and again—then slowing, easing, robbing her of the peak. He did it again and again, until she clutched at him, protesting, begging, the broken gasping words half-formed on her lips.

He captured her hands in one of his and pulled his cravat free with the other. With the length of linen, he tied her wrists together and flipped the end of the cravat over the iron sconce on the wall to keep her hands from interfering. "Stay," he commanded.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the daze of unfulfilled arousal. Her lips moved, then she swallowed hard. "Stant—"

He drove two fingers into her wet slick opening once more, hard and fast, thrusting like a maddened lover, rotating the flat of his thumb against her clitoris. She gasped and shuddered and the protest never came into being.

He used her hard, taking her closer and closer before stopping, until she teetered on such an edge of eruption that the only thing holding her upright was the cravat tied about her wrists.

Alicia fought back the hurricane of need within her—oh, God, what was she becoming?—to look up to see that eerie detachment in Wyndham's gaze once more. She ought to stop this—it wasn't right to allow him to—

This was wrong. She couldn't remember precisely why at this moment, but deep inside she knew it was—

Wrong—it was wrong—

It was splendid.

She let her objections slip from her mind with relief, setting herself free to feel the exquisite pleasure of his skilled hands…

You'll be sorry.

She rolled her head against the wall, erasing the annoying whine of some disturbing insect. He was all around her, enthralling her, giving her such pleasure that she blissfully feared she might very well die from it before he finally fulfilled her.

What could possibly be wrong with that?

Finally, she exploded at his command. She cried his name out loud, amid keening gasps of pleasure. Her knees dissolved and she hung helpless from the sconce, panting.

He unhooked the cravat from its mooring and let her looped arms fall around his neck. Bending, he wrapped one arm beneath her watery knees and, with the other arm supporting her back, lifted her in his arms.

He crossed the room to lay her across the giant bed. She felt him untie the simple knot that held her wrists, distantly embarrassed to note that she likely could have untied it herself—had she wanted to.

Then she felt his weight settle next to her on the bed. "Lie to me," he growled, his voice dark and desperate. "Lie, damn you!"

She opened her eyes to look at the only man she could imagine giving herself to so wholeheartedly. If only he could see her. "I will not lie to you. I love you."

I love you
. Words he never thought he'd hear a woman say.

And he couldn't tell if it was true.

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Alicia awoke the next morning with one sore shoulder and a—well, it was a little sore, but not as much as it had been five years ago. Actually, all things considered, she felt quite good.

The frightening encounter last night had been nearly erased from her memory by Stanton's hands. There was still much to resolve between them, for he had all but fled from her when she had confessed her love for him.

She rolled over sleepily and glanced toward the fire. Stanton was sprawled in the stiff chair, his big body looking entirely uncomfortable stretched awkwardly from his slouched position.

Alicia shed her covers and padded across the room to get a better look. Stanton rarely held still long enough for truly thorough observation. She knelt on the floor before him, tucking her gown beneath her feet to fight the chill. Garrett—being Garrett—hadn't come in to light the fire yet, so sure was he that the gold gown had done its job.

Perhaps it had, at that.

Stanton sleeping was a very different sort of man. His brow was slightly furrowed but his jaw was relaxed. He looked altogether younger and more handsome. His hair was quite mussed, hanging over his brow and curling over his ear and jaw.

His shirt was open down the front placket and Alicia was tempted by the mat of dark hair she saw there. How odd that, as intimate as they had been, she had never seen him unclothed—not even without his boots until now!

His legs stretched out on either side of her, his big feet in naught but his stockings, his big hands resting on his thighs.

His trousers tightened over his stiffened rod.

She blinked. All by itself? In his sleep?

Now, in the dim light of morning, she could see the length and breadth of his organ as it pressed tightly against the tented fabric.

Stanton had not made love to her. He had not undressed, he had not revealed himself, he had not replied when she told him she loved him. Instead, he had left her on the bed, practically running from the room.

As Alicia saw it, she was owed a bit of male… barter.

She didn't want to wake him too soon, but there were a few things he owed her.

Her memory buzzed with the scandalous ideas she had been exposed to last night. There had been one fancy concerning Lady Davenport and a wing chair…

Was it physically possible?

Well, faint heart never won fair knight! Alicia rose carefully and stood before Stanton. With a quick push at the sleeves, her gown slipped to the floor. She placed both hands on the chair arms and managed to straddle her thighs across them without so much as disturbing Wyndham's hair. Then she reached between them and slowly, carefully undid the buttons on either side of his trousers.

His erection sprang free. She imagined it looked a bit relieved, for it grew yet more as she watched. She felt her own sex throb in response. She had been satisfied last night, but her body knew there was more and was still ready for it

She wished she dared lower her body and impale herself upon it, but that seemed a bit… presumptuous. Instead, she slowly dropped down to cover his hard flesh with her soft center. The position of her thighs opened her until his shaft pressed lengthwise along her cleft and pressed firmly against her lu—her clitoris. The pressure was delicious and the wicked exposure made her rotate her hips involuntarily.

Stanton shifted. His rod pressed hard to her and she gasped in response. His eyes flew open.

Instantly, his hands came up to wrap over her shoulders. She would have preferred her breasts, but he was close.

"What are you doing?"

Alicia snorted a little breathlessly. "I make it a point never to answer stupid questions," she said. "Take off your shirt."

"No. This is—" He tried to press her away, but she grabbed tight to the back of the chair.

This put her breasts swaying right before his face. He shut his eyes and moaned. Alicia inhaled deeply. Her nipple grazed his cheek, only an inch from his lips.

He twitched involuntarily and his mouth grazed her nipple. His eyes opened once more, his expression glazed with hunger.

"You owe me," Alicia said. "A gentleman always pays his debts."

Stanton swallowed hard. She was naked, in his lap, wet and hot against his aching erection, her heavy breasts before him like a feast before a starving dog—how much was a man expected to bear?

She bent forward to kiss his neck. She bit him slightly, making him jump. "Wake up, Wyndham. I want you inside me.

She was too much for him—too sweet, too hot, too irresistible. He was going to regret every moment—and he was fairly sure he was going to remember it for the rest of his life.

"Rise a little," he said finally. "Lift up to let me in."

She smiled. It was a smile he had not seen on her before—a happy soft smile with none of her usual sarcastic twist of the lips. "You'll like me," she said, as she raised her body slightly. "You'll see."

Like her? He might alternately want to ravage her or kill her, but he could not imagine ever feeling an emotion as pale and insipid as "like" regarding Lady Alicia Lawrence.

He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder and rolled his head slightly, trying for one last moment of sanity. "Sweeting, we mustn't—"

She slid her warm, slippery vulva over the pulsating head of his cock and he lost the capacity for words.

"Like this?" She pressed the blunt head of him into her, wedging it into her tightness. He was going to die, right now. It was going to be a grand and glorious death.

She was having trouble fitting him in. This caused a delay full of slippery, excruciatingly pleasurable fumblings that stretched his control until he feared bursting in her hand.

Then she caught the proper angle and he pressed inside her carefully. She gripped his shoulders with damp hands and lowered herself down, inch by inch. She paused once, hissing in discomfort, but just as he was about to withdraw, she moved on again.

Alicia closed her eyes as she drove herself down upon his last iron inch. He filled her, stretched her, made her ache with mingled pain and pleasure, and she cherished every sensation. This man was her man, whether he knew it or not, whether he loved her or not, and she was made to take him inside her.

At last her body adjusted, easing his size with more heat and wetness. She lifted herself slightly using her hands on the chair back—

And almost lost her grip from the pleasure that coursed through her. This was so much more than last night! She saw now that this was what was meant to happen between them, arousing mirror play notwithstanding.

She let herself sink back down upon him again, relishing his groan of pleasure. His big hands dropped to wrap about her waist and he lifted her higher this time and drove her down even more slowly.

He pierced her until she gasped, then lifted her again and again. She'd thought her role would be somewhat more athletic, but he took over the rhythm, teaching her to please them both by alternating speed with devastating patience.

The lesson went on, rising—falling—sliding—throbbing—

Every motion made her pleasure swell further. Every touch of his large hot hands made her tingle with the intimacy of his skin on hers.

Every moment made the end grow in pleasure, until her climax had her tossing her head back and keening with abandon.

She was raw and open and vulnerable to him as she had never yet been and still he could see nothing when he looked in her face—nothing but a sensuous beauty who melted his knees and wormed her way past his most fortified defenses with a smile and a touch.

In that moment, he knew. It wasn't her disclosure he needed most—it was his own admission he must hide at all cost. Tangled want and need and dread encompassed him. He could not let her see—for if she was who she was thought to be, she would use it against him. She would own him and that he could not allow.

And even if she were simply sweet and giving Alicia, still he could not bear it. He could not allow himself to ever be as exposed and naked to the world as the world was to him. If they could see what he could see—

It was not to be allowed!

He pushed her away, abruptly lifting her from his flesh and setting her clumsily aside on the carpet before the fire.

She landed awkwardly on her hands and knees and gasped. Too late he remembered her experience the night before.

Then he remembered the rest.

It isn't true. None of it is true. She is a liar.

He stood, fastening his breeches while she gazed up at him with her eyes glazed and her lips parted, still stunned from the abrupt end to her orgasm. She looked wanton and sweet and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into the bed and stay there forever.

God, he was alarmingly close to being lost in her!

He backed away, trying to make it seem like a casual motion instead of the full-blown cowardly retreat that it was.

"You are still tired from your… ordeal," he said lamely. "I shall let you—I will return—"

He gave up and fled the room. Yet, no matter how much distance he put between them, he could still feel her heat on his skin.

Or perhaps it had sunk deeper than that—as deep as his soul.

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After Stanton had fled their bedchamber, Alicia had crawled back into the covers to shiver away her half-fulfilled arousal and warm her chilled heart.

Now, she was unable to stay there one moment more, when she knew beyond doubt Stanton would not be returning to her.

She dressed herself—a surprisingly awkward task, for one who had been independent for so long. The new gowns, however, were made for a lady who never needed to reach her own buttons. The most practical garment was the fine riding habit, which prompted Alicia to consider a long ride—perhaps even one that ended far from this place.

At the stables, she asked for a horse to be readied. Any gentle mount would do. She'd been a good rider once, but she was no longer used to the saddle. As she dawdled in the cobbled yard, she saw an ungainly cart rumble around the side of the great house and aim, more or less, for the stable yard.

On the driver's bench sat a much-bundled figure, too short to be a man, too
strange to be anything else. As the cart meandered nearer, Alicia was able to make out a shock of white hair, a strangely humped back and bright, twinkling eyes.

The disgruntled horse came to a halt a bit left of the graveled path and tossed his head as if to say, "Will someone get this maniac off my reins?"

Alicia took pity on the poor beast and took the pull of the reins into her own gloved hands, giving the creature's sore mouth a much-needed break from the bit. The driver applauded with glee, as if she'd done something terribly clever.