When She Said I Do (16 page)

I never claimed not to be.

Now, he had to make her desire so overwhelming that she would come to him, willing. Eager. Ardent.

He finally gave himself permission to have a taste of her … he bent, inhaling the sweet, flowery scent of her soap and the sweet, earthy musk of her arousal, to press his mouth to the skin of her shoulder. He felt her go very still. He thought she might even be holding her breath but he refused to be charmed by her sweet willingness. His fury and his lust burned through him, firing his blood, overwhelming his thoughts and his second thoughts and even the ache of a day of unaccustomed activity.

He took her shoulders into his hands again, roughly turning her to face him so that he could bend to taste, to consume, more and more of her.

Her neck, her throat, the sweet hollow at the base where her pulse throbbed against the tip of his tongue.

Down … down … the tops of her breasts, lush and full. He devoured them, sucking her flesh into his greedy, starving mouth. He almost forgot his plan then, as he bent over the sweet luxury of her breasts, the silken skin, the strawberry roughness of her nipples. He circled them with his tongue, ignoring her gasp … no, absorbing her gasp, storing it away in the vast empty bank of memory, right next to the overflowing storage of fantasy.

He sucked each nipple into his mouth in turn, sucking hard, taking ownership of them with his lips, tongue, and teeth. She writhed in his grasp now, gasping and whimpering at the pleasure/pain he gave her.

She didn’t protest, she didn’t push him away, only stoking his lust with her broken whimpers, even as he let his teeth graze over her sensitive flesh. Her submission excited him, frustrated him, enraged him—would she never allow him to see within her? Would she never show him her true revulsion?

His hand seemed to travel down her torso all on its own. Her undone gown gaped open, fallen and folded about her waist—he thrust one seeking hand down inside, even as he fisted the other in her hair, tilting her head back the better to devour her neck and throat with his mouth.

Oh, that wayward hand, slipping down past her satiny belly, diving questing fingers into the silky curls of her pubic mound … Her thighs were tightly pressed together. He spared a thought to wonder if she was trying to refuse him, until he realized that she was scissoring the damp plump flesh of her inner thighs together to find some instinctive relief from her arousal.

His hand dove between, a thief in the dark, stealing into that sweet, hot heaven that was far, far too good for the likes of him.

Callie nearly screamed in passionate release at his merest touch. Oh, yes, finally …

Mr. Porter’s hand was a wild ride upon a half-tamed horse. His fingers slipped into her, around her, through her. Hot and wet, coaxing and demanding, invasive and inviting, he broke her down into a panting, mewling wanton creature, her hands trapped, forgotten, still submitting, still willing.

Yet it eluded her. She didn’t know what precisely she sought. She knew the names, climax, fulfillment, orgasm. She’d explored her own body’s pleasure points … she was thirty years old, after all. Yet never, ever had her own touch done this to her!

She opened her thighs wider, without even being urged, her hips thrusting out to aid him in his quest. More, please, more … so close, she knew not to what … lust trembling on the precipice, needing one more step to fling herself over the edge. His long finger stroked deep within her, withdrawing, thrusting, invading, owning, violating, satisfying …

She orgasmed, hard and suddenly, writhing between his pinioning hands and the cold plaster of the wall. Wild, anguished, broken moans poured from her, but the sound was so far away she was scarcely aware. Hot waves, icy shivers, ripples of undulating pleasure stole her breath and her words and her thoughts, leaving her bucking and gasping at his mercy. Rippling outward from her center, they faded at last, dropping her down, down, gently down, until she realized that she stood shivering, half naked and sweating, trapped between a wall and a man she had never truly seen.

This is mad. This is too strange, too wicked.

This is wonderful.

All those years of loneliness and deprivation, years of lack and longing, swept away by this man and his hot mouth and his clever, clever hands.

Callie’s knees gave way. She slithered down the wall. He came with her, supporting her graceless, unselfconscious fall until they were both on their knees, facing each other.

Callie’s arms were still trapped by her gown twisted about her waist, or she would have flung them about him and wept upon his shoulder. As it was, she could only drop her forehead upon his sternum and press herself, breast to chest, into her savior. “Thank you,” she gasped. “Oh, thank you so much.”

Ren, who had been lost in his own lustful haze, driven there by her quivering, eager flesh and her wildly arousing moans, and was darkly contemplating rolling her down upon the carpet and fucking her until he’d spent himself at least three times, was brought abruptly back to reality by her words.

She thanked him … for what? For pushing her up against a wall, ripping her clothing off, and stealing her first orgasm for himself? For debasing a fine and respectable young woman with his dark urges? For tricking and trapping her, for compromising and then virtually kidnapping her from her life and her family, for offering her a sullied bargain of jewels for sexual favors?

Who the hell was Calliope Worthington, that she would thank a man for that?

So Ren found himself wrapping his arms carefully about his shuddering bride, too stunned by her gratitude to either push her away or to ravage her, or fulfill any other of his beastly intentions. Instead he simply held her close until her tremors eased and she lay still and limp against him.

When Callie caught her breath at last, she realized that she could still feel Mr. Porter’s towering erection pressing into her hip. What should she do? It only seemed polite to offer some similar relief—sweet heaven, what a relief!—but she didn’t have the words or knowledge to do so. Then she became aware of the tenderness of his embrace. He held her as carefully as if he thought she might flee him, lightly as one would capture a living bird.

In all her life she could not recall such an embrace, so protective yet at the same time almost tentative. It made her want more. Suddenly, wildly, she ached to feel more such things—the tight longing embrace after parting, the easy affection of intimate laughter, the harsh wild embrace of lust unleashed … There was so much more to be had with a man … with this man …

And by heaven, Callie wanted it all!

Chapter 13

The following morning, Callie awoke in fine mood, indeed. She stretched sensuously in her big bed, shared by no sister, and contemplated her first true orgasm.

It would be a bit embarrassing, but she wished she could tell Mama. Mama would be so happy for her, like when Callie had gotten her courses. There had been cake with sugar icing and the gift of a lovely, lace-edged handkerchief, the kind a woman carried, by her plate that evening. The boys had pestered to know what the occasion was, but Mama had only smiled. Elektra had known, had been jade-green with envy, Callie recalled with satisfaction.

Callie buried her smile in her pillow.
Oh, Ellie, if you only knew.

And yet, she and Mr. Porter had not yet consummated their union. She’d truly expected him to, right there on the floor. She’d felt it in his hands and his mouth and the way he pressed his erection against her.

More was in store. Callie’s smile widened wickedly.

She was terribly interested in that erection. She’d seen illustrations, of course, and one couldn’t live with six men without stumbling across the odd penis. In fact, she’d changed her younger brothers’ nappies as a young girl.

However, that did not at all explain what she’d felt against her last evening. Mr. Porter seemed very large. One assumed that nature would provide, but Callie dearly wished she had one or two of those manuals at hand today to compare. Surely her imagination had been fired by her lust.

Surely.

Then Callie recalled that she had a much more pressing problem.

She’d invited the entire village to a ball—and she had nothing to wear!

*   *   *

This time when Callie entered the village, hardly anyone seemed to take note of her presence at all. She found out why when she entered the dressmaking establishment of Madame Longett.

Everything looked much the same, but suddenly an elfin little man popped up from nowhere, his face wreathed in a smile. “Hello, dear lady! How may I be of service?”

It was not for Callie to comment upon the strangeness of finding this smartly turned out little man where she’d so recently encountered the somewhat frowsy Madame Longett.

It was possible that he’d been there all along … although by the gaggle of astonished women she’d seen lingering on the walk outside, she doubted it.

Still, he beamed at her in a most friendly fashion and that alone was such a relief that she nearly wept upon his elegant shoulder.

His beaming smile had not lost a single candlepower. “Have you need of my assistance, madam?”

Callie smiled helplessly back. “I ordered a few dresses yesterday … well, then I decided to throw a ball to celebrate my marriage … well, not decided exactly … it just sort of erupted out … do you know, I felt exactly like a volcano…”

She was acting like a gibbering idiot and this nice little man simply smiled encouragingly, as if she were making all the sense in the world. At his mild approval, she felt her nerves calm a bit. She smiled and shook her head ruefully. “My apologies, Mr.…”

He bowed. “Button, madam. I have stepped in whilst the fine Madame Longett is taking her holiday. I should be happy to make you anything you desire. I assure you, my skills will not disappoint.”

She had a feeling he wouldn’t disappoint. One didn’t live with Elektra Worthington without picking up a notion or two about fashion, and Callie was certain that the dapper Mr. Button was the most fashionable person she had ever encountered. She had a feeling that he was having a bit of joke on her … and yet she didn’t mind. If it was a jest, it was sure to be a kindly one and she would likely benefit from it and look back upon it with rueful approval.

She knew this because that was precisely what she did to her own family … and a bit like what she was planning to do to Mr. Porter, now that she thought on it.

Straightening, she nodded crisply. “I require a ball gown and I only have a few days. I have very little of my own at the moment. I know my family intends to send my things on, I thought they would have done so by now, but without me there to direct matters … well, things tend to slide a bit.”

Mr. Button beamed at her as if she’d hung the moon and then for an encore decided the stars were too few. “I imagine your family misses you terribly. Such a lovely smile you have, madam. It has surely brightened the halls of your family home all the days of your life.”

Thinking of her occasional screeching fits of frustration, usually brought on by Cas or Poll, or Attie, or Cas
and
Poll
and
Attie, Callie blushed. “I imagine they are toddling on without me well enough.”
They are surely sinking like a barge made of stone.
“Mr. Button, I realize it isn’t possible to have a proper gown made up in only a week’s time—”

“Ah, but impossible is my forte, madam. I eat it for breakfast and hang it out to dry by noon.” He winked.

She laughed at his absurdity, yet his madness was very convincing somehow. She certainly couldn’t be any worse off than she was already. “It would be lovely to leave the matter in your hands, sir. I’ve never thrown a ball before and I hardly know what to do as it is—”

He held up a hand, palm flat to her. “My dearest Mrs. Porter, say no more. I know precisely how to throw a ball. Tell me, do you have thoughts upon a style? A theme, hmm? Spring is quite lovely in the Cotswolds. A pagan rite, perhaps? Or classical, with you gowned as Persephone, Goddess of Spring?”

“A masque,” she said firmly. “And I dare not make it too elaborate, for I’ve invited the entire village, and I’m not certain but it is possible there will be livestock attending, as well.”

She’d got him there. He paused, mouth open, doubtless ready to extol upon his skills once more, but she could see the shiny brass clockworks inside his mind turning as he regarded her in blinking startlement. “Well, it isn’t as though I’d meant to invite the blasted mule!”

For a long moment, she worried that he might in fact faint. Then he finally drew a breath.

“Invitations,” he blurted, a bit desperately. “Yes, invitations are quite the thing. When one has an invitation in hand, a reference to the event, so to speak, with clear instructions as to attire and er, er … attendees…”

“Yes. Invitations. I suppose I could write them out tonight.” But tonight she would be naked and anyway her calligraphy hand was hideous. She was much more inclined to a crabbed, scholarly style.

The miraculous Mr. Button merely waved a graceful hand. “No, madam, I insist. I shall see to the matter myself. Er, is there anyone … else? The village of course, and what a marvelous notion, a lovely opportunity for everyone to greet you and congratulate you upon your very fine match.” He dismissed the population of the village as if penning the invitations would take no more than a moment of his time. “You mentioned your family? Do they reside nearby … close enough to attend?”

“Family. Oh, dear.”
A recipe for a nightmare, that is.
“I love my family but … my husband … it was rather difficult to … er, no. No, I don’t think my family could possibly make it here for the ball. They reside in London, you see. I’m sure it is too much of a journey after they have only just arrived back home.” Reasonable and relieving. The idea of Mama trailing scarves and Papa spouting Shakespeare and Cas and Poll quite possibly unleashing the four horsemen of the apocalypse on this, her first ever ball … no. It was for the best.