The Lady's Tutor (33 page)

Healing laughter spewed up out of his chest and drowned out the
surrounding drone of men and women gossiping, flirting, maligning, and
complaining.

“Take
me home.”

He
stared down into her hazel eyes, laughter forgotten.

“To my home, Lord Safyre. Edward has not returned to the ball. I
have no carriage.”

A pulse throbbed in his right temple. An identical throb swelled
and pounded in his groin.

“Here, in this ballroom, Elizabeth, I am not your tutor. I will
not be your tutor in the carriage.”

She
lifted her chin. “You would touch me against my will?”

It
would not be against her will. They both knew that.

Ramiel rapidly calculated how to leave together yet attract a
minimum of attention. Now that he knew she would soon be his, he felt strangely
protective of her reputation.

“I’ll have my carriage drawn up. A servant will come get you. We
do not need to be seen leaving together.”

Gratitude
softened her face. “Thank you.”

The
footman accepted Ramiel’s generous tip with a blank face. “You will summon Mrs.
Petre when I tell you to. Then you will escort her to my coach. If you say one
word to another living soul, I will personally castrate you and send you to
Arabia, where eunuchs are sold like whores.”

The footman had a large Adam’s apple; it bobbed up and down. “Yes,
my lord.”

Ramiel paid his servants well; in return, they performed their
jobs well. The coach was in front of the marquis’s palatial house inside of ten
minutes. “Now,” he told the footman.

Damp,
insidious fog blanketed the night and seeped inside the coach. Ramiel leaned
his head against the leather upholstery and closed his eyes, trying to control
his body, his wants, his needs. He did not move when the door opened. Nor did
he move when the coach tilted and he was surrounded by the essence of
Elizabeth, her smell, the heat of her body. She had no sooner settled across
from him with a swish of satin and a squeak of leather than the door slammed
closed and the coach lurched forward.

“Last
Thursday night I ran into a lamppost.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the dark outline of her cloak and
bonnet. She had touched him but had not confided in him. “You were hurt. . .
and you didn’t tell me.”

“My pride was hurt more than my head.” Her voice, so proximate in
the close quarters, was remote. A dim glow of light from a passing lamppost
briefly illuminated her face. “But I was frightened that night, because there
were only me and the coachman and neither of us could see in the fog. We could
have fallen into the Thames and all I thought about was that I would die and I
would never know what it is like to love. May I kiss you?”

A
bolt of heat shot up his body.
May I kiss you?
reverberated over the
grind of the carriage wheels. “Take off your bonnet.”

The sleek silhouette of her head replaced the bulky shape of the
bonnet. Springs creaked; she perched on the edge of the seat, knees rubbing his
through the layers of their individual clothing.

He
leaned forward, tensed when gloved hands cupped his head.

She
jerked away.

“Elizabeth—”

Instantly, her hands were back without the gloves, warm skin
cupping his ears, sliding forward to the hard planes of his jaws. He closed his
eyes on a wave of pleasure pain.
It had been so long. . .

“Your
skin feels different from mine. Harder. Rougher.”

He
choked back a laugh, eyes opening, wishing he had lit the lamps inside the
coach so he could see her face as she indulged her passion. “You are a woman; I
am a man.”

Ramiel held his breath, waiting,
waiting,
and then she was
leaning closer, her breath fanning his lips—

The
carriage bounced; her lips skidded across his chin.

“I’m
sorry—”

“No. Don’t stop.” If she pulled back, he would put his hands on
her and he would take her. “Here.” He reached out his arms, braced himself
between the carriage windows. “Now. Again.”

Tentatively,
she leaned forward, breath caressing, lips touching...

Sizzling
electricity galvanized Ramiel. Blindly, hungrily, he angled his head downward
and opened his mouth over hers, sucking at her lips, swaying with the coach,
moving with her as she explored the moist friction of a kiss,
ferame,
her
first kiss by a man.

Not enough.

Easing back slightly, her lips soft and wet against his, he
whispered shakily, “Open your mouth. Take my tongue inside of you.”

She sucked in air, his breath, and then he was inside her. A low
groan worked its way up from his chest. She gripped his head as if she wanted
to pull him into her mouth, but her tongue nervously danced away from the prod
of his.

Ramiel would not let her retreat.
He circled, he probed, he licked until she
imitated his motions, circling him, tasting him.
Ela’na,
she was hot.
He
wanted her. . . .

Ramiel licked the roof of her mouth, listened to the accelerating
cadence of her breathing. Exultation so sharp that it was painful peaked inside
of him.
She wanted him too,
and that was almost as potent as his own
needs.

“Dear
God ... I did not know.”

The
words vibrated inside his mouth. He nipped her bottom lip, asked, “Did not know
what?” and heard her swallow his breath.

“I did not know that a man’s lips were so soft.” Her lips moved
against his, a soft abrasion, warm breath feathering his skin while her fingers
dug into his scalp. “I did not know that a kiss was so ...
personal.
So
intimate. Is it not better if a man holds a woman when he kisses her?”

“I will not touch you against your will.” He was surprised the
palms of his hands pressing against the two windows did not shatter the glass.
Purposefully, he teased her lips with his tongue, imitating the moist glide of
a man’s verge against a woman’s wet vulva, thrust only to withdraw. “It you
want me to touch you, Elizabeth, you are going to have to tell me to.”

Her fingers knotted in his hair. “You do not consider a kiss. . .
touching?”

“Lips kiss; teeth nibble; a tongue licks and tastes. Only hands
touch. They cup a woman’s breasts, warm and heavy with the weight of her need;
they guide a woman’s hips, soft and round beneath a man’s hardness; they
squeeze a woman’s buttocks, to soothe and urge her closer; they hold open a
woman’s thighs, stretching her wide for pleasure; they caress a woman’s vulva
until she’s slick with her passion. A tongue can taste that passion, but only
through touch can a man’s fingers slide inside her body where she’s hot and wet
and aches with desire. Touch prepares a woman for deeper penetration. When you
tell me to touch you, Elizabeth, I will touch the very depths of your body.”

Lips slanting, hardening, he took her mouth, unleashed the full
strength of his need, and sucked her tongue inside him. She stiffened; he
refused to let her go, sucking and sucking her lips, her tongue, until she
groaned into his mouth and clutched his hair in both hands, pulling him closer,
closer.
When he released her mouth, she gasped for breath.

He leaned his forehead against hers, skin bumping and grinding
hers as the coach bumped and ground along the cobbled street. His voice was raw
with need. “Ask me to touch you,
taalibba.”

Her
voice was equally raw. “What would you do if I did?”

“I
would unfasten your gown and take out your breasts and suckle your nipples
until you scream for release. Then I would suckle them until you gain it.”

Her breath audibly caught in her throat. “A woman does not obtain
release through her breasts.”

A pained smile twisted his lips, remembering her earlier
confession. “And how do you know that?”

“I have two sons,” she whispered breathlessly. “My nipples have
been suckled.”

“Not
by a man,
taalibba.
”

“I
cannot!” she suddenly cried.

“You
can!” he returned, feeling her pain, feeling his own pain from her fingers that
clenched in his hair. “You came to me wanting to learn how to give a man
pleasure. I want to be that man. I want you to want me so badly, you will do
anything to learn how to give
me
pleasure.
Tell me to touch you,
Elizabeth.”

Suddenly, he was free, and it took every ounce of control that he
possessed not to plunge after her. He had tasted her mouth; he wanted far, far
more. He wanted to taste her pleasure, her cry of release.

“You
do not know what you are asking.”

Yes, he did.

Lowering his arms, he closed his eyes and took a shuddering
breath. “A kiss, Elizabeth. If you will not let me touch you, let me kiss your
breasts. Let me take your nipples inside my mouth and suckle them like I
suckled your tongue. Give me that,
taalibba.”

A
rustle overrode the grind of the carriage wheels.

Ramiel’s
eyes snapped open.

Elizabeth slipped her cloak off her shoulders. “Just a kiss.” Her
voice shook with need.

He
licked his lips and stared at the white skin that shone above the neckline of
her dress that was black in the dark, then burgundy in a flash of streetlight. “Just
a kiss,” he agreed hoarsely. And prayed he could stop when the time came.

If he took her before she was ready, she would never forgive him .
.. or herself.

“I
cannot reach the buttons—”

“Turn
around.”

More rustling. She sat on the edge of the seat and presented him
her back.

Hands trembling—the bouncing of the carriage did not aid him— he
found the tiny buttons and one by one worked them free. His fingers tingled,
aching to touch more than cloth. “I have to unlace your corset.”

“Yes.” He heard her ragged whisper over the drumming of his heart.

Laces . .. He thanked both Allah and God for the nine years he had
spent in England, learning Englishwomen’s undergarments. Quickly, efficiently,
he freed her.

She turned, clutching the
dress to her chest.

“Give
me your breasts,
taalibba.”

“I
can’t.”

“Ela’na,
Elizabeth—”

“My
chemise . . .”

Reaching out, he gently pulled the straps of her dress over her
shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides. Peeling the corset down, he exposed
the chemise, a white square of cloth cut low across the pale curve of her
breasts.

Breath rasping in his throat, he slowly, carefully, slid his
fingers underneath the cotton. Soft heat seared his fingers as he delicately
lifted her left breast free of the restraining chemise. Unable to resist, he
brushed the hard, exposed bud of her nipple.

She
gasped. “Ramiel—”

He stilled. She had never called him by his given name, never
called him a bastard, an animal, a dirty Arab.
She had apologized for her
husbands rudeness.
So many firsts, for her, for him.

“It’s all right,” he crooned, lifting free her right breast,
contact minimal, more than he had promised, but he would not abuse her trust
any further.

“It’s
all right,” he murmured again, slipping down onto the carriage floor, down onto
his knees, digging his fingers into the leather seat on either side of her to
prevent himself from taking more than she wanted.

“It’s all right,” he repeated, leaning forward into the warmth of
her body, lips grazing soft, smooth skin. Her fingers threaded through his
hair, cupped his head, caressed the tips of his ears. He breathed in the heat of
her; it washed over him in a scalding wave. Suddenly his entire world consisted
of this moment, this woman, and he wanted her to share that wonder.

He
wanted to give her the gift of sex.

Nuzzling, he found her, a hard, tight bud of pure passion, and sucked
her deep into his mouth. Elizabeth cried out; an answering cry ground out of
his chest as he tongued her and suckled her and lost himself utterly in her
wants and her needs.

She drew him closer, leaned into his face, body arching with her
need, bouncing with the coach. “Oh, my God.
Stop.
Ramiel. What are you
doing? I feel. . . please. Stop.
Oh, my God!”

Halfway there,
taalibba.

He
rooted for her left breast, spared a moment to nuzzle her, to lick a hard,
straining nipple in quick welcome, and then he took her into his mouth, became
a part of her, heart pounding in time to her heartbeat, lungs expanding and
contracting with the labored cadence of her breathing. He tongued the tiny
indentation that had once spurted milk into the mouths of her sons, imagined
her giving him a son and letting him drink from her after she had fed their
child. Imagined drinking and drinking until she could give no more and there
was no need to worry that it wasn’t enough.