Trusting the Rogue (7 page)

As he nestled between the softness of her thighs, Andrew rose to take hold of her lips in a demanding kiss. She met him there, offering up a passion—a confidence—that she had only now found. She wanted him, desired him as well. It warmed his soul.

The tip of his cock settled in the weeping indent of her core. Hannah stiffened for a moment and he broke the kiss to rest his forehead upon hers.

Tentatively, Andrew pushed forward in small strokes, pulling out and entering her little by little. Hannah’s body soon melted beneath him, her fingers biting into the skin of his sides as she gripped him, moaned encouragement and lifted her hips in involuntary invitation.

Soon he was fully buried in her spongy heat, the tightness of it overwhelming Andrew at that instant. He leant down and kissed her as he willed his body to relax. Her tight hold on him, her shifting hips and her clenching core were little help in his attempt at restraint. He gave up—he wanted her too much.

He broke the kiss and started moving, pulling out to the tip before plunging back in. Hannah’s calls of pleasure filled the room, and his harsh breathing sounded loud to his ears. But as he felt the end coming, he reached between them, found her nub with his fingers and took them both to heaven, twice.

Chapter Five

It took Andrew several ticks of the clock on the mantel to place his surroundings, but it was the woman asleep on his chest who slowly reminded him. A smile lifted his lips. Hannah—
his
Hannah.

Something touched his arm, invading his thoughts, and Andrew turned his head to the side. The first thing he noted was a puppy toy, then the child who held it, his thumb in his mouth as he stared at Andrew.
Oh, dear.

“Are you well, Harold?” he whispered, trying not to squirm at having been found in the boy’s mother’s bed. Andrew hoped he was too young to truly understand what it meant. Surely he was?

The boy shook his head, then glanced at his mother where she still slept on Andrew’s chest.

“What is wrong?”

Harold plopped the thumb from his mouth. “There is a dragon under my bed,” he whispered back.

“A dragon…?” Andrew repeated slowly, wondering if he was perhaps dreaming.

Harold nodded. “Mama has to scare it away.”

Andrew looked down to Hannah. She was fast asleep. He could not bear the thought of waking her. “Can I scare it away instead?”

Harold tilted his head to the side in an effort to study Andrew. “You are not very scary.”

Andrew smirked and thought he likely should take offence, but in this case did not. “I shall have to prove it by ridding you of it then, shan’t I?”

Harold shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door. Andrew slipped out of the bed after rolling Hannah onto her side, where she snuggled up against his pillow. He quickly found his breeches at the end of the bed and slid them on, then moved to the hallway, where Harold awaited him.

“Let us see to this dragon then,” he said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

* * * *

Hannah snuggled deeper into the softness before she frowned. She had been so much warmer moments ago. She inhaled the scent of man and musk from the pillow, and a flashback of the evening’s events soon filled her mind.

Oh, the pleasure! So much she had been sure she would explode!

Sir Andrew had been more than true to his word. The things he had done to her, his touch and the way her body had burned from within were things she had never imagined existed. Yet he had been so tender, so patient, and so loving with his touch. She had not expected that. The mere memory of it made her want to weep.

But where was he now?

Pushing herself up, Hannah looked about the room and realised she was alone. The half-opened door caused her to wonder. Had he simply upped and left? A pang of disappointment assaulted her but she shook it off. She had asked for nothing, just as he had offered nothing other than her pleasure. He had certainly lived up to his side of the bargain.

A soft rumble of voices suddenly reached her ears, and she had to focus to hear it again. Sliding from the bed, Hannah felt heat flood her cheeks as she realised she was naked. What if her maid had seen her like this? She hurried to her dressing table and slid into her gown, then quickly slipped the buttons through the loops.

With gentle encouragement, the flame of her lamp lit and she took it into the hall, attempting to seek out the source of the voices she was sure she had heard. Slowly, she travelled barefoot down the carpeted corridor, but paused as she came upon her son’s room.

“Mama always scares him away. You need to be mean and grouse at him or he will return,” her son’s voice commanded.

“Hmm…” Sir Andrew’s voice filtered towards her as she stood to the side of the door. “Go open the window, Harold.”

“Why?” came her son’s dry reply.

“I am going to grab him by the tail, then you open the window and I’ll throw him out. Then we shut the window and we can all head back to bed.”

Hannah’s heart leapt. He was humouring her son. The late duke had thought she babied Harold, but he was a child. There was nothing wrong with one’s imagination—in truth, Hannah encouraged it.

“Okay!” came Harold’s eager voice.

She heard a scraping sound, then running. “Close it!” Sir Andrew called, and the window closed with a bang.

“You got him!” Harold cheered.

Sir Andrew tsked. “You doubted me?”

“Nah,” her son said.

Andrew chuckled. “Into bed, young man.”

“Thank you for getting rid of my dragon,” Harold muttered.

“I will always rid you of your dragons, Harold. All you need to do is ask.”

Tears pricked Hannah’s eyes. How could a man—a man who was not Harold’s father—offer so much adoration towards her son, a child whose own father had seemed to care so little for? The late duke had only ever wanted Harold to ensure that his cousin would not inherit the title.

“Papa never slept with Mama.”

Hannah’s breath caught as she heard her son’s words. The bed springs creaked. For a moment her face heated with shame, but the memories of Sir Andrew’s touch, his murmurings about her beauty, his desire for her… Well, those memories too burnt her skin, but for an entirely different reason.

There was a long pause before Sir Andrew said anything. “Do you not like that I am here now, Harold? Do you have a problem with me spending time alone with your mama?” he said as the bed creaked again. Hannah guessed he now sat beside her son.

“No,” Harold said after a moment. “Are you going to be my new papa?”

Hannah raised her hand to her mouth, stifling the gasp that broached her lips.

“Would you like that?”

She strained to hear, and tears leaked from her eyes when she heard her son whisper, “Yes.”

“I would like that too, Harold. I would like it very much,” Andrew said, then coughed. Was that emotion clouding his voice?

“When will you marry Mama?”

Sir Andrew barked a surprised laugh. “While I admire your optimism, young man, I worry that your mama may not be as receptive to the idea.”

“She likes you. You make her smile. Papa never made her smile—only cry.”

Hannah wiped the tears away from her cheeks, but it was futile. More trickled down in their place.

Hannah had tried so hard to hide her unhappy marriage from her son, but he was such a clever boy and while she had hoped he had not noticed, it seemed he had. Every insult the duke had issued to Hannah or Harold, she had tried to dismiss, allowing the scorn and unpleasantness to roll off her. It had never worked—the sticky insult had always clung to her soul. In the remnants of her nights she had often lain in bed, her misery coming forth and sobs filling her generally quiet chamber.

It had been Harold who had kept her going—his firm cuddles when he had crawled into her bed in the dead of night, his gentle smiles as they had eaten breakfast and his pleasure at the idea of a simple stroll through the park. Yet, it had never occurred to her that he knew more of her struggles. It pained her so much that he knew.

“I would gladly take a bullet so your mama would not shed another tear.”

“Me too,” her son said. Hannah closed her eyes as her chest tightened, her heart filling with love and pain in the same instant.

“It is late, Harold. Time to sleep,” Sir Andrew said gently.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“I do not know the answer to that. But I do know I will be coming back, all right?”

Her son must have nodded—she heard nothing from him. Only the gentle sounds of Sir Andrew rising and moving towards the door drifted from the room.

Hannah felt her pulse falter before it returned to a frantic tattoo. She knew he would soon appear, but she was not prepared for the actual sight of him as he came through the door. When he spotted her standing to its side, a moment of surprise clouded his handsome features.

Sir Andrew closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar as he held her gaze. His expression was now blank, masked, but she saw questions in his eyes. Likely, he was wondering how much she had heard. What would he think if he knew she had heard it all?

He stepped towards her but said nothing, and she was glad. Words were not needed now. She craved his touch and most of all she wanted to feel him close, not only in body but in mind also, his firm hold around her and how it made her feel—cared for, adored.

Hannah raised her hand to his, where it rested by his side. He linked her fingers with his without any encouragement, the heat of his skin warming her tattered heart.

Turning, she led them back down the hall. The sound of the door closing behind them once they had returned to her chamber added to her building courage.

After placing the lamp on the side table, Hannah turned back to face him. The golden firelight caressed the naked ripples of his well-defined chest, a slight dusting of dark hair adding to its tempting allure. He wore nothing but his knee breeches, the fabric clinging to his strong but never overpowering body. A body that had brought her own so much pleasure already this evening.

He cared for her son, truly he did. It gave her hope, but the fear of rejection never left her. Would he reject her the way the late duke had? Her heart screamed no, but in the back of her mind, doubt lingered.

The steady pounding of rain hit the roof above, signalling the start of a storm that had been brewing. The deafening roar of the fall of water almost went unnoticed—her racing heart overshadowed almost everything else.

Lifting her hands from her side, Hannah slid her fingers to the top button of her dressing gown. She released one at a time in a downward motion. Sir Andrew’s eyes held hers, not following her hands’ movements as she had expected. Her pulse pounded. Would he reject her? Her heart would not be able to stand it if he did.

When the last button popped free, the gown parted. Her naked form was now in full view of the man before her. Air caressed her skin and her nipples pulled tight, either from the coolness of the slight breeze or Sir Andrew’s eyes’ caress as they finally dropped, seeming to feast upon her body. His gaze finally returned to hers, deep, dark and very hungry. He stepped forward and gently pushed the gown from her shoulders, causing it to flutter to the floor. Sir Andrew did not embrace her, lead her to the bed or touch her. He simply took a step back and looked at her—all of her. The urge to cross her hands before her was strong, but she did not cower under his gaze. In a strange way she felt empowered—the heat of it and the bulge in his breeches told her he fully appreciated her naked form.

“God, Hannah. You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

The heat in his eyes pulled at her core, tingles flashing over her skin as her nipples pulled tighter. Hannah, at that moment, did not want to linger on the words she had heard him speak with her son. All she wanted was his touch, the closeness she felt to him when he caressed her, and the pleasure she knew only he could bring.

As if reading her mind, he stepped forward. Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her tenderly, before the embrace slowly shifted to a beautiful passion.

Hannah moved her hands to his chest, shaping the muscles that formed his body, then allowing them to drift down until they encountered the waistband of his breeches. Sir Andrew pulled his mouth from hers. She moved her fingers to the buttons of his flap, and his forehead came to rest against hers. His breathing was harsh, as was her own, as she allowed the fabric to drop and his penis sprang forth into her hand. He groaned, his chest rumbling, when she slid her fingers over the heated flesh. How silky but hard it felt in her hand.

A wash of kisses caressed her skin—he shaped her face with his lips before he moved down the slope of her neck to the hollow he seemed to enjoy so much. With his hands, too, he explored her body, in firm but gentle motions. He never seemed to stop touching her and she adored it.

Hannah pushed the breeches down his body and he stepped out of them. He was seemingly no longer willing to draw out their encounter, because he walked her back towards the bed. She sat down as her bottom touched it, then slid up the bed as Sir Andrew moved with her, over her. His warmth advanced between her thighs as she allowed him to settle there before his kisses returned to her lips, where she met them with her own.

Her demanding body and growing arousal had her longing to devour him, squeeze him the way she had before. The feel of him inside her had been nothing like she remembered with her late husband. That had been painful and brief. Her time with Sir Andrew was hardly that. He had lingered, drawn out her pleasure, and there had not been a moment of pain during their last joining.

Hannah’s hands lingered over the coarseness of the hair on his chest and where it concealed the base of his manhood.

“Hannah,” he groaned onto her lips. “Never has my cock been as eager as it is in your hands.”

Cock?
He called his manhood a cock? She paused for a moment to ponder that before she ran her fingers over the length of it once more. He moaned into her ear before he nipped at it, the tinge of pleasure-filled pain shooting straight to her core.