Winterblaze (12 page)

He thrust up a hand. “Do not engage me, Poppy. I am in no mood for a discussion right now.”

She slammed the door shut behind her. Correction. He made her bloody furious. She ripped her gloves off and flung them on the side table. “Why is it that we must wait for your favor to engage in conversation?”

He stopped short, and his glare was a blaze of winter-blue anger. “Pardon, madam, but are you accusing me of being petulant?”

“Oh, don’t be coy, Win. You know you are, and it’s bloody annoying.”

A slow wash of red crept up his neck. Poppy held his gaze as her heart pounded. Win would never hurt her, not physically. He’d been a gentleman, careful and considerate.
But that was before. There was a wildness in his eyes that had her breath coming short.

The moment stretched until she fought the urge to fidget or look away. But then it snapped when he spoke.

“Your dress is pink.”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“I don’t like it. Take it off.”

The bloody, rude, arrogant bastard.
No one
ordered her about in such a manner. She was of a mind to tell him just that. Only she paused. Win was not
no one
. He was her husband. And beneath the flare of anger in his eyes and the mulish set of his jaw, she saw something that made her breath catch—interest, need. He wanted her dress off, did he?

“No,” she said. Lust curled between her legs, and her pulse raced.

Win’s eyes narrowed. Poppy stepped away from the door and closer to him. Closer to the bed. There was more than one way to communicate. And if he refused to do so with words, then perhaps actions would take them past this impasse. Behind the folds of her skirts, her hands were fists, trembling and cold. But her chin lifted.

“You want my dress off, then take it off yourself.”

His mouth opened and shut. The line of his shoulders tensed. They regarded each other in silence until the mad rush of her blood filled her ears and drowned out all other sound.

“I have half a mind to call your bluff,” he said in a low growl.

“That would imply I am bluffing.”

His nostrils flared. Standing tall and tense, he was the most stirring man she’d ever seen. She’d loved mussing up his polish. Now he was all ragged edges, and she wanted
to see it unleashed. Cold heat danced along her skin, lifted the tiny hairs along her arms, and tightened her nipples. His gaze went to her bodice, honing in on her reaction with stunning precision. His body stiffened further.

“Do it,” she said. “Take the dress off me, Win.”

His wintry eyes held hers for one more moment, and then he was stalking forward. With every step he took, the heat within her coiled tighter. He stopped before her, and a visible tremor ran through him. Then his hands were on her, the pads of his fingers rough as he grasped her shoulders and whirled her around in a brisk move. His knuckles grazed her back as he caught hold of her dress and undid the hooks with hard tugs. Poppy braced herself so she would not fall back onto him. Not yet.

“Pink,” he muttered. “Have you any idea…”

The bodice loosened, gaping. “Idea?” Her voice was a breath, her legs trembling.

He didn’t answer but continued to undo her bodice with angry hands. The satin slid over her arms, the bodice falling forward and down to her waist. Cool air hit her exposed skin and she trembled, waiting for the rest. It did not come. On a curse, he stepped away, leaving her wanting. Slowly, Poppy turned, not bothering to hold her bodice up.

But he did not look at her body or the deep pink corset she wore. His eyes held hers. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

Was he blind? The expanse of his chest lifted and fell with each labored breath he took. She let her gaze travel down the length of him, still properly kitted out in his fine evening clothes. Oh but there was one thing about him that was most improper. Her mouth went dry. His massive erection was straining to break free of his trousers.

One of them made a sound; she couldn’t be sure
whether it was she or Win, but that magnificent cockstand seemed to grow. Poppy ached to take it in hand, stroke and squeeze, tease it to completion. She knew exactly how to do it, exactly how he liked to be worked. Her body swayed with wanting. She could practically feel that cock in her mouth, filling it up, and she licked her parched lips.

“Finish what you started, husband.”

He uncoiled like a snake, his hand catching her on the shoulder. One deft push and she was falling back onto the bed. She went willingly, anticipation thrumming through her veins and making her heart pound. He loomed over her, still so very angry, his body tense and his eyes flashing. But she could see the cracks forming around the façade, and it thrilled her.

“What do you want, Poppy?” His voice was sandpaper against steel. Satin rustled as he yanked her skirts up around her hips. Fabric tore, the shining pink billowing about her waist.

“Do you want this?” He cupped her, his hand hot and rough against her silk drawers. She almost groaned, but held it back. He would have to work for some things. A shiver went through her as two long fingers delved between the slit in her drawers and stroked through her wetness. “Do you want me here?”

He leaned in, not touching her with his body, only his hand and his tormenting fingers. Anger flashed in his eyes as he fondled her, not with finesse but with base intent. It made her white hot, and her thighs parted for him.

Win’s nostrils flared again as he looked down at what she offered. “Pink and red,” he murmured. “Enough to drive a man mad.”

She swallowed hard, and he glanced back at her. “Do you want me, Poppy?”

She held his gaze, willing herself not to plead, not to say a word, but his fingers suddenly plunged into her, and her body tensed. It was too good, too much. Her thighs quivered with the need to demand
more, and harder, damn you
.

Win’s eyes blazed, his mouth parting as he breathed. “Answer me.” His free hand went to the fall of his trousers. “It won’t change a thing. Getting me to fuck you won’t change a thing.”

Everything had already changed. She wanted to shout at him, rail with her fists, but she lay compliant and simply stared back, waiting, letting him finger her as he opened his trousers.

His cock bobbed free, pulsing and dark and enormously erect. Win’s cock. That her staid, serious husband had such a large and thick cock was a secret she took almost perverse pleasure in. Nobody had seen it but her. Only she knew what he hid beneath his unassuming suits and his elegant manners. Her breath left in a rush, anticipation drawing her so tight that she trembled.

Their gazes clashed, each waiting for the other to yield. His hips moved between her thighs, a brush of wool against silk drawers. The hot crown of his cock touched her, and she almost jumped.

“It won’t change a thing,” he said again, weaker yet insistent, almost as if he were willing it so.

Defiance surged through her, and she opened her legs wider. “Prove it.”

He grabbed her hips and thrust. Poppy’s entire body tensed, the invasion of his thick length almost painful, and so damn intense that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. And it wasn’t even all of him. She knew he had more to give. He pulled back and plunged again, delving
further, rendering her incapable of speech. Heat swirled and spread from where he plundered. He moved automatically, as if he was determined not to feel, only take her.

The bed ropes squeaked in a steady rhythm. In. Out. Push. Pull. His hips slammed into hers, each thrust shoving her farther up the bedding, only his hands on her thighs keeping her in position.
Harder. Make me feel it.

His eyes held hers as his cock moved, filling and emptying her. Oh God, but when he invaded, she could scarcely bear the pleasure of it. Inside she quaked, her body so very hot that she longed to rip free of her clothing, longed to rip his off as well and feel his skin upon hers. But she did not move, barely breathed, for fear of breaking the spell.

Win.
How could she tell him how much she missed this? How much she’d yearned for him. Even now, when he tupped her like a dockside whore.
Win. Feel me.
His gaze bore into her, so cold, detached. Poppy melted against his assault. Her breath turned to rough pants. She was soaking now. Her sex pulsing. The sound of their combined breathing, the wet slap of flesh against flesh, and the rocking bed filled the silence between them.

A small sigh escaped her. Poppy cursed her weakness, but he’d heard it. Win’s lips parted. The pump of his hips did not stop but the rhythm changed, his strokes shifting from purposeful to lingering. And she felt it with the whole of her body, the way he slowly started to…
explore
her. The ice in his expression thawed, melting as his eyes stayed on hers. His body leaned into hers, closer, closer, almost touching. A shiver of heat caught hold of her, and she arched her back. Her nipples ached to be sucked, and the lack of the sensation only made them more sensitive. Fisting the sheets, she held on, letting him take her.

When that familiar crinkle between his brows formed and he bit his lower lip, she exploded, a keening cry breaking from her lips. Winston came with a hiss between his clenched teeth, his fingers biting into her hips. He stayed tense, grinding his length into her for one long, glorious moment. His chest brushed against hers as he panted, the soft bursts of breath warming her neck. Poppy licked her lips and stared up at the ceiling, too weak to do anything more and too afraid to wrap her arms about him as she wanted to do. Then he was up, pulling out in a move that made her cringe from the loss. Cool air filled the space between her legs that had once been scalding hot. She had barely lifted her head when she heard the door to the suite slam shut, leaving her alone once more.

London, 1869—A Proposal

D
o you suppose,” Poppy said, glancing down at him with her steady brown eyes, “that man walking along the path realizes the lady he’s escorting is no older than fifteen?”

Winston stirred slightly, for he too had been watching the couple as he and Poppy reclined under their willow tree. For a week now, they’d taken a daily walk together, and always they ended up sitting beneath the willow where he’d kissed her for the first time. Today, however, she’d eased his head down onto her lap. The shocking intimacy of it, and that Poppy—his reserved and proper Poppy—had been the one to initiate liberties had almost unmanned him. But he was not so foolish as to protest. Besides, the comfort of her lap was utter heaven.

Poppy had felt him start at her question, for her cheeks pinked. “I like to people gaze. I can’t seem to help myself.”

He let his fingers touch hers where they rested lightly on his arm. “Neither can I.” When she glanced down in surprise, he smiled. “Now then, you were saying about the strolling couple? Tell me your theory. You cannot see her face, as they are walking away from us. So then why do you assume she is a youth?”

Poppy’s fingers pulled free from his and drifted up to his hair. He almost purred at the way she toyed with the ends as her gaze went back to the couple. “Her walk. She is not used to gowns of that length. Her skirts are tangling about her ankles because she hasn’t yet learned to properly step.”

“Mmm.” He willed himself not to close his eyes but kept them upon the couple. He hadn’t noticed that. “I do believe you are correct.”

Poppy’s brown eyes gleamed as she leaned in, the action bringing her rather pert bosom wonderfully close to his nose. “The question is, however, does he know?”

Winston cleared his throat, taking in a subtle breath of her intoxicating scent.
Soon.
Soon he would see those breasts. Anticipation simmered as he gave her a conspiratorial smile and paid attention to the subject at hand. “No, the question is, does she know he is cash poor?”

“Cash poor?” She nibbled on her bottom lip, but stopped quickly, as if correcting herself, and Winston wondered if she constantly self-governed her actions.

“I see nothing in his clothing to indicate poverty,” Poppy said.

Because the sad truth was that clothing made the man, or woman. With a lift of his chin, Winston gestured toward the man. “Observe the soles of his shoes. There is a hole wearing on the left one. No man with proper means would allow that to happen. Unless,” he nodded back at
the man, “he saves his funds to address the more obvious items in his wardrobe.”

He was rewarded with Poppy’s grin, a full cheeky one that made her nose wrinkle.

“Very clever, Mr. Lane.” She looked at him, and he grew a little dizzy basking under her admiration.

“I would like to be a detective.” Winston blinked. Now that he hadn’t meant to say. He hadn’t even fully wanted to admit it to himself.

Poppy, however, did not see the strangeness of his desire. “Why not, then? I think you would be brilliant.”

Had they been in private, he would have turned and nuzzled her belly before pulling her down atop of him. As it was, he ran a finger along the folds of her simple worsted gown. “My family would not condone it.”

Her own blunt-tipped finger traced his ear, sending little shivers down his spine. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t.”