When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 18

  He held her tenderly even as his mouth ravaged hers.

  Warmth shot straight down her body to settle between her legs, throbbing. She moaned, lifting her hands to clutch his head. She wanted more. Wanted something that she wasn’t sure he could give her.

  Wanted the freedom to come undone.

  She turned her face from his, trying to thread her fingers through his hair even as he ran his mouth down her neck. She was breathless, almost giddy from trepidation, anticipation, and need.

  The tie in his hair frustrated her efforts. She yanked it free, making his black hair fall about his cheeks. She smiled at the sight, gathering his curls into her hands. She felt almost privileged. Gideon didn’t let down his guard for many.

  In an abrupt movement, he lifted her to the bed and followed her, settling by her side.

  She looked up at him, gasping for breath.

  He was formidable like this—his hair wild and untamed, his hairy chest no longer kept hidden.

  And his eyes. They were so possessive, so focused on her, that she felt a shiver run down her back.

  The ache in her quim grew, pounding with her heartbeat.

  He levered himself up, leaning over her. He took the ribbon that gathered her chemise at the neckline and pulled, untying it.

  She stilled like a cat caught by a far larger beast.

  She felt him spread the neck of her chemise before he slowly drew it down. Until the fine material caught on her nipples.

  For a moment he simply stared at her. Then—when she was about to demand he do something—he moved, tracing her areola through the lawn chemise with one finger.

  She swallowed hard. It was so odd—such a tiny touch—it felt almost like pinpricks, except it was pleasurable.

  Unbearably pleasurable.

  Her whole body felt alight.

  One finger. That was the only part of him touching her, and she feverishly wondered what would happen when he used his entire body. She arched at the thought.

  He placed his palm flat on her upper chest, holding her still, and then he bent to lick her nipple through the chemise.

  She had to close her eyes.

  Oh Lord, this was wonderful.

  He suddenly drew that bit of flesh into his mouth and suckled, sending streaks of pleasure throughout her body. It was so sweet, so intolerable she wanted to scream.

  He lifted his head and she opened her eyes. Just in time to see him transfer to her other nipple, sucking strongly until the material was damp. He drew back, his eyes frankly on her breasts, looking very satisfied.

  She felt the chill of the damp material and she wanted to squirm.

  He glanced at her face and flashed her a roguish smile before impatiently pushing down her chemise.

  When he took her naked breast into his mouth the heat made her cry out.

  She panted as he drew at her breasts one after the other, pulling pleasure from her center through those taut peaks.

  She ached.

  He sat up, taking all that sensation with him, and she couldn’t help but grasp for him.

  He growled, pulling her chemise over her head.

  And then she was naked for the first time with a man. She froze, controlling the impulse to cover herself while at the same time feeling as if she might explode.

  He was watching her, though, and the hunger, the want, in his gaze made her relax.

  He still wore his smalls.

  “Take those off,” she ordered, her voice low and throaty.

  He stood and unbuttoned his smalls, letting them fall to the ground. She just had time to glimpse his angry red cock and then he was back in the bed, crawling over her, gently nudging apart her thighs and settling atop her, the chain and farthing pooling between her breasts.

  His hard penis pressed into her thigh.

  She thought that he might immediately mount her, but instead he kissed her.

  Slowly.

  His lips parting hers, his tongue lazily sweeping into her mouth.

  She gasped, arching under him, feeling the hardness of his thighs against her own, the slight scrape of his hair on the tender skin between her legs. She drew on his tongue, suckling it. Suckling him.

  Her hands stroked over his shoulders, feeling the muscles of his back, the long indentation of his spine, and his taut buttocks. She drew up her legs, driving her toes into the mattress, opening herself to him.

  She yearned.

  Until finally he raised himself a little and reached between their bodies. She felt his knuckles on her belly and then lower, brushing against her wet folds.

  He positioned himself.

  She inhaled, glancing up, meeting his gaze.

  He did not look kind.

  He stared down into her eyes as he pushed.

  She swallowed, feeling him invade her. He was large, foreign, male where she was most female.

  “All right?” he murmured, breathless, his voice dark.

  She nodded.

  “Sure?”

  She lifted her chin as something pinched. “Yes.”

  He began to retreat, the drag of his flesh against hers making sparks light within her. Just when she was about to complain, to clutch him and call him back, he thrust into her again.

  Solid.

  Hard.

  Wonderful.

  Her eyelids half closed against her will. Why had no one told her how sweet this was? Animal, crude, but sweet as well?

  She spread her fingers along his throat and demanded, “Again.”

  He stretched his lips in what might’ve been a grin and complied, his strong body thumping into her, his cock even deeper somehow.

  “Like that?” he whispered.

  “Yes.” She twisted, reveling in the feeling.

  No wonder this was forbidden to women unwed. If young ladies knew about it, they’d never wait for marriage. They’d throw aside convention and social mores and bed any man who pleased them.

  All of society would be turned upside down.

  The thought made her slide her palms down his back, over the indentation at the small of his back and onto his pumping buttocks. She was allowed this. She was allowed him.

  He was pounding into her now, his voice reduced to grunts in time to his thrusts. As if he’d lost the veneer of civilization.

  And then, as she was watching, as she clutched the muscles of his bottom, she felt him tense.

  As if he were having a seizure.

  As if he were dying.

  His head was thrown back, the cords of his neck shining with sweat and strain, beautiful and savage in the candlelight.

  She watched him, rapt, as he stilled and shuddered.

  He slumped onto her, unexpectedly heavy. Slowly he rolled off her.

  She couldn’t help a pang of disappointment. Her body was still strung taut. Was it over? She’d somehow thought there was more. That the feeling that had been building within her would have some outlet.

  Instead everything had simply stopped. Perhaps later, when he fell asleep, she could—

  He leaned over her again and placed his hand on her feminine triangle.

  “What—?” she began.

  He stroked a finger into her folds, watching her, his half-lidded eyes lazy, satiated, and then he touched that bit of flesh.

  She squeaked.

  “Like that?” he murmured.

  “Yes.” She clutched at his arm, but not to stop him. To hold him there.

  He smiled slowly and bent to kiss her, relentlessly stroking her all the while. She could hear the sound of him working her—wet and explicit—and it filled her with needy heat. Should she be embarrassed? Perhaps, but she couldn’t care right now. All of her being was focused on that one finger.

  She moaned.

  She was so close.

  So close.

  And then he thrust his tongue into her mouth and she clenched her thighs around his wrist, whimpering as she shook apart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Well the tinker wept and B
et’s mother shouted, saying that Bet need not honor a promise her father had made years ago.

  But Bet looked at the fox and shook her head slowly. “Father gave his word and the fox saved him from the wood.” She held out her hand to the beast. “I will marry you.”.…

  —From Bet and the Fox

  Gideon woke the next morning to the feel of Messalina’s soft lips brushing against his shoulder.

  He opened his eyes and met her beautiful gray gaze.

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “Good morning.”

  He cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded like knives scraping when he said, “Good morning.”

  He had a moment to think that something was wrong. That he should feel guilty for something. But then she leaned down.

  “We didn’t wait the full month.” She blushed.

  “Is that all right?” he asked slowly, trying to understand her mood.

  “Yes.” A corner of her mouth quirked up. “And it means I’ll have my moneys sooner.”

  Little schemer.

  She kissed him, her pretty breasts crushed against his chest, and he tried to push away the apprehension. The guilt.

  This could not last.

  For the moment she was his—fully and in every way. No one could take her away from him because now their marriage was real.

  But Julian Greycourt had come to London. No doubt the duke already knew and would be demanding Gideon’s part of the bargain.

  He was going to have to murder Greycourt within days.

  And when Messalina discovered that he’d killed her brother—and she would discover, he knew it now—all this would evaporate. She would look at him with horror and loathing.

  She would leave him.

  His time with her was fleeting. Soon—too soon—it would be over.

  Best he use it well, then.

  He rolled to his back and pulled her over him in a sprawl, catching her giggle in his mouth.

  This, this was what he’d wanted all his life.

  He ran his hand down her naked back to her arse, palming one plump buttock with possession. She was soft and warm from sleep, pliable in the way her limbs slumped over him, and he could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressed into her belly. He shifted her hips, bringing her velvety cunny over his erection.

  She moaned into his mouth as he spread her legs to either side of his hips. She might be sore this morning and he didn’t want to hurt her. He ground against her slick folds instead, gently, letting her get used to the notion.

  She wriggled, nearly making him lose control of their movements. He had the animal urge to thrust and penetrate, but he beat it down.

  Easy.

  Slow.

  There was no rush, after all. Not this morning, anyway. This was his wife, his bed. He twisted his head, seeking the depths of her mouth, chasing the quiet whimpers she made. He could feel her wetness now, that plush feminine softness, and it was taking all he had to keep this languid.

  He heard her gasp. She pulled back her head, her hair brushing against his face and throat.

  She swallowed, her lips parted and shining wet from their kiss.

  He grasped her hips and arched against her, rubbing his penis into her cunt, his balls drawn up tight, his blood beginning to boil.

  Her brows drew together as if she were choosing the trim on a new frock. If he’d had the breath he might’ve laughed at the thought.

  But then she bit her bottom lip and he was jealous of the movement.

  He caught her mouth, licking that bottom lip, soothing it before he claimed it for himself, biting and teasing.

  She groaned and stiffened, her hands clutching his shoulders, her fingers scrabbling against his perspiring skin. She shuddered and he felt the heat of her orgasm.

  He thrust into her sweet, soft mouth, taking advantage of her limp relaxation.

  His.

  His.

  His.

  He came on the thought. On her sweet, wet softness. On her lips, open in submission to him.

  She was his.

  For now.

  * * *

  Late that morning, Julian Greycourt stood on the steps of Windemere House and stared down the butler. Johnson was his name, and he’d been in service to the duke since before Julian and his siblings had come to live at Windemere House.

  The butler was an imposing man of middle age with a great sloping belly and a perfect, snowy wig on his head. He’d been one of the most eager of Augustus’s spies and informants.

  Johnson attempted to block his way. “Shall I see if His Grace is in to receive you?”

  “No need.” Julian placed the flat of his hand against the man’s chest and pushed.

  The butler stumbled back with a yelp.

  Julian strode inside the house.

  Two burly footmen converged on him.

  Julian raised one eyebrow and drawled, “Really?”

  The footmen halted.

  Julian didn’t bother acknowledging them further, but simply climbed the stairs to Augustus’s study.

  The duke looked up when Julian opened the door and then glanced to the clock atop his desk. “You’re late. I expected you days ago.”

  “Did you?” Julian took a chair before the desk, because there was no point in waiting for one to be offered. Augustus enjoyed making people stand before him like criminals about to be judged. “Is that why you’ve done this obscene thing?”

  “You mean arrange lovely Messalina’s marriage?” A slow smile crossed the duke’s face, revealing a dent in his left cheek.

  Julian made himself continue looking at his uncle. The dent—indeed everything physical about Augustus—reminded Julian of his father. The brothers had been so similar, some had mistaken them for twins.

  It was hard to stare into the face of the man he hated most in the world and see his father’s ghost.

  Julian made sure his voice was calm, even, nearly bored when he answered. “Yes, my sister’s marriage.” He examined his nails. “You could have found a much more advantageous match—both for her and you—which makes me wonder how you’ve benefited from marrying Messalina to your guard dog.”

  He flicked his eyes up on the last, watching for any tell, any revealing change of expression on his uncle’s face.

  Naturally there was none.

  “Bravo, Nephew,” the duke said. “You’ve learned well from my tutelage.”

  Julian took a careful breath before he spoke. “I learned nothing from you.”

  Augustus shrugged. “You certainly didn’t learn to look for your enemy’s motives from your father.” His upper lip curled ever so slightly. “Claudius never saw anything beneath the surface his entire life. I vow he died thinking I loved him.”

  Julian cocked his head and said gently, “Instead of realizing what a monster of a brother you were.”

  That hit Augustus. His face reddened as he leaned forward and hissed, “Your father was a thorn in my side all his life. I can still see his milksop face looking at me so sorrowfully, as if he pitied me.” He sat back panting. “But I won, didn’t I, dear boy? Your father died falling on his face, while I still live.”

  The look Augustus sent him was wildly triumphant.

  Julian would not remember Papa when he died. Would not remember the hideous apoplectic attack that had sent his father to his knees, half his face sagging before he’d indeed fallen and died.

  Instead Julian yawned. “My father might be dead, but he was able to ensure his line. A line”—he stood leisurely—“which it seems will soon continue the Dukedom of Windemere.”

  Strangely, Augustus smiled at this. Usually his temper rose at any mention of Julian’s being his heir. Instead he seemed to have calmed. “Well,” the duke drawled. “I suppose that might be so. Unless…” He trailed away as if a thought had struck him. “Oh, unless you prove to have as poor a constitution as your father.”

  Julian’s eyes narrowed. “My father died at eight and thirty. I’m only tw
o and thirty and far more likely to outlive you, dear uncle.”

  “Are you?” Augustus shrugged as if it mattered little at all.

  A chill went through Julian. The duke’s words were a clear threat on his life.

  “Well, this has been a pleasant chat,” Julian said dryly, “but I fear I must be off on other errands.”

  “A pleasure as always, Nephew,” Augustus replied lazily. “I do hope, though, that you’ll be attending the ball Her Grace has arranged to celebrate Messalina’s marriage? It’s in a week’s time.”

  “Naturally,” Julian drawled. If nothing else, attending the ball might give him an idea of what Augustus was up to with Messalina.

  The duke grunted. “Lucretia needs to return to Windemere House to help Ann plan. Where is the girl, anyway?”

  “She’s at Whispers House with Messalina,” Julian replied carelessly. “Where she’ll remain.”

  Augustus leaned forward, his face slowly reddening. His words, though, were calm when he spoke. “I have interested gentlemen I wish her to meet. Do make sure she attends the ball or I shall have to talk to her in private.”

  Julian stared at the duke. Augustus was waiting for his reaction, nearly slavering for it.

  He bowed. “Good day, Uncle.”

  With that he strolled out of the room, making sure to keep his pace leisurely as he descended the staircase and strode out the door.

  Outside he flipped a coin to the small boy holding his horse before mounting and setting off at a trot.

  He still didn’t know what Augustus was planning with Messalina’s marriage to his lackey, but Julian did know one thing.

  He had to make certain Lucretia didn’t suffer the same fate.

  * * *

  “Purple?” Lucretia wrinkled her nose doubtfully later that day.

  “Purple,” Messalina said firmly. She smiled fondly at the swatch of fabric laid over the sturdy armchair, then nodded at the clerk standing hopefully beside her. “Four, please. All upholstered in the purple. Now.” She glanced around the cavernous furniture shop. “A dressing table for you,” she said to Lucretia.

  “Guest rooms?” her sister asked, trailing behind.

  “Well, naturally that as well.” Messalina pursed her lips. “At least four, then.”