A Rogue's Proposal (32 page)

“Since by tomorrow evening we can rely on the entire ton believing that I spent tonight in your bed, there’s no reason I can see that I shouldn’t.”

Fleetingly, he met her gaze; his was hot, smoldering blue. Temptation and promise—both glowed clearly; Flick found the sight reassuring.

Reassuring
? She was losing her mind—he’d already lost his.

“Besides,” he continued, in the same low, sinfully languid tone, “you made it clear you require something more than social stricture to agree to our wedding.” The last button slipped free; he looked up and met her gaze. “Consider what follows as my answer to that.”

Raising his hands, he framed her face and drew her lips to his. Flick braced herself to deny him—she would not be won over by main force.

But there was no force in his kiss. He nibbled, kissed, tantalizingly teased until, senses whirling, she grabbed him and kissed him back. She sensed his triumph, but she didn’t care—in that instant, she needed his lips on hers, needed to feel the fire and flames again, wanted to know, couldn’t live without knowing, more.

And she knew he could—would—teach her.

As if in confirmation, he welcomed her in, drew her deep, then toyed with her—incited her. Ignited her.

Until she was consumed by raging heat too hot to be confined within living flesh.

He eased back, his lips still on hers but their kiss no longer so demanding, no longer the focus of his attention. His hands drifted from her face, long fingers trailing down either side of her throat, then spreading over her shoulders. Unhurriedly, those long fingers skimmed down; with the lightest of touches, they flared over her breasts.

Her flesh came alive. Nerves flickered, unfurled—sensitized, they waited, tightening with anticipation.

He drew back from their kiss. Flick kept her eyes shut and struggled to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked the upper curves of her breasts, then the lower, through the soft fabric of her gown, then his fingers trailed lightly over the peaks, over nipples now excruciatingly tight.

She gasped—his lips returned, drinking the sound. His hands shifted, firming, palms cupping her curves. Gently but intently—inherently possessively—he closed his hands about the soft mounds.

Her breath hitched; his lips shifted on hers, brushed, caressed, reassured.

She felt her breasts swell even more, felt them heat and firm until they ached.

Demon ached, too, but ignored it. Her breasts were small, pert—they fit snugly within his palms. He closed thumb and forefinger about her nipples, and she gasped, and tensed—and tensed. With his lips on hers, soothing her, distracting her, he played, giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch, ruthlessly denying the impulse to brush aside her bodice and bare her to his senses. Eventually, she sighed into his mouth, the tautness in her frame subtly altered to a tension he recognized very well.

She was awakening.

With every controlled sweep of his fingers, every gentle, encouraging squeeze, he drew her further along the road to fulfillment. Hers. And his.

When he released her lips, drew his hands from her breasts and reached for the edges of her bodice, she didn’t stop him. She did, however, reach up, too, closing her fingers on the edges below his.

She hesitated.

They were both breathing quickly, heated yet in control of their senses, both very much aware. Supremely conscious of the pounding in his blood, the passion he was holding at bay, he drew in a slow breath, locked his jaw and staved off the urge to rush her. And waited.

Her gaze was fixed on his throat; she dragged in a breath, held it, and looked up, into his eyes.

He had no idea what she saw there—what her swiftly searching gaze discovered; he stared down at her, unable to spare the energy to summon any expression, and prayed she wouldn’t balk.

Instead, her chin firmed; her lips curved in a smile of pure feminine assurance tinged with her ever-present innocence. In a gesture almost demure, she dropped her gaze from his; tightening her hold on the open flaps of her bodice, she parted them.

Inwardly reeling, he let go and let her do it. That smile, coupled with her action, had hit him with the force of a fist and left him winded. Captured, transfixed, he watched as she wriggled, sliding first one shoulder free, then the other, then drawing her arms from the tight sleeves.

She glanced shyly, questioningly, up at him; he hauled in a breath and took charge again.

He drew the gown down to her waist, then had to pause to look at her—to take in the smooth expanse of creamy skin showing above her demure chemise, to drink in the beauty of her naked shoulders, her sweetly rounded arms, the delicate structure of her collarbone.

His rakish instincts catalogued points for later examination—where her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, where her shoulder met her collarbone, the outer swells of her breasts. Her breasts themselves remained screened, albeit incompletely; her nipples peaked tightly beneath the fine chemise, but he couldn’t appreciate their color. Soft, pure pink was his guess.

Feeling like a drowning man coming up for air, he hauled in a breath. Lifting his hands, he once more framed her face, and brought her lips to his.

Flick sank into the kiss. The heat welled—she welcomed it, then deliberately let go and slipped into the flow, letting it take her on its tide. If there had been a windmill near, and she’d been wearing a cap, she would have shied it into the sky. She’d made up her mind, made her decision.

She knew he desired her powerfully—it was there in his face, in the hard edge passion set to the angular planes, in the fire that smoldered in his eyes. His desire was palpable, a living thing—hot as the sun, it reached for her as his hands, his arms, his whole body did. She recognized it instinctively—she needed no interpreter to tell her what it was. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman. And she wanted him in the converse way.

As for marrying, he hadn’t yet answered her question of whether love could grow from strong desire. Nor had she. But she’d expected no easy declaration of love—not from him. If he said it, he would mean it—she could count on that. But he could only tell her if he knew—and she didn’t think he did. However . . .

There was a light in his eyes, behind the heated glow, behind the passion and desire—there was a sense in his touch, in his kiss, in all his actions. And while that light shone, and while that sense reached her, she was convinced there was hope.

Hope of love—hope for a marriage invested with love, built on love, with him. She was willing to risk all to claim such a prize. Fate had offered her this chance to secure her deepest, all-but-unrecognized dream—she would take it, grasp it with both hands. And do everything she could to make the dream come true.

She would marry him, but on her terms. He would need to do more than seduce her—teach her about passion, desire and physical intimacy—to get her to say yes. She wasn’t, however, about to stop and explain. Tonight was for them—their first night together.

Her first time with him.

When next he drew back, she smiled; lifting her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. His eyes met hers as he slid her closer to the dressing table’s edge. He studied her face, his own hard, passion-set; wrapping one arm about her hips, he lifted her and stripped her dress away. Excitement shot through her, searing her veins. Clad in her chemise and petticoats, she dared to meet his eyes. He raised his brows slightly, then slid his hands upward and closed them about her breasts. “Do you like this?”

Her lids fell of their own accord; her head tipped back.

“Yes.” She breathed the word, aware only of his clever hands, his clever fingers, as they stroked and gently squeezed. Although muted by fine lawn, his touch burned. His lips returned to hers. Sliding one hand to her back, he urged her nearer, closer to the table’s edge.

She complied without thought—thought was beyond her; all she could do was feel. Her senses gloried in unfettered freedom, freed by her decision, freed by the night.

Freed by him. His kiss anchored her to the world, but it was a world of sensation, a world filled with an excitement she’d never known, and a promise of glory she wanted for her own.

Demon captured her lips and kissed her—ravenously—no longer so gentle, so controlled. She was delectable, and so very nearly his—he wanted to devour her. On the thought, his lips slid from hers, tracing the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly. He laved the spot, then sucked lightly; appeased by her gasp, he moved on, sliding his lips along the curve of her collarbone, then shifting lower to the warm swell of her breast.

Through her fine chemise, one pert nipple beckoned; he closed his mouth over it and heard her shocked gasp. But she didn’t try to wriggle back—she didn’t tell him to stop. So he settled to feast, to wring more shocked gasps from her. Long before he raised his head, he’d succeeded, drawing a chorus of appreciation from her lips.

He kissed them again, parting them fully, ravishing her softness, taking all—demanding more. She met him eagerly, no match for the brutal strength of his passion but with an open eagerness that nearly brought him to his knees.

Abruptly, he stopped kissing her, amazed to find his own breathing as ragged as hers. Nuzzling aside her curls, he slid his lips into the sweet hollow beneath her ear while his fingers swiftly dealt with the laces of her petticoat.

Speed had suddenly become essential. Imperative.

She sighed, a tense exhalation shimmering with reined excitement; the sound literally shook him. The scent of her, rising to torment him, added to his pain. He glanced down at the soft chemise that hid her body from his sight—he longed to strip it away, but experience warned against it. Sitting naked atop a table in full light might be too much for her this time.

All thus far had gone according to his plan. She’d introduced an odd moment or two, but he’d kept them on track. He intended to seduce her but, this time, he needed to do more. He needed to be gentle, and not just because he was excruciatingly aware, to his very fingertips, of her innocence. He wanted her not just once or even twice—he wanted her for all time. So the moment had to be compelling. As powerfully compelling as he could make it—so she would want him again, as eagerly, as enthusiastically as he knew he would want her.

Another challenge—she was full of them. It was one of the things that so attracted him to her.

The laces of her petticoat came free; he loosened the waistband, pushed it down, then swiftly lifted her and swept the garment down her legs. He freed it from her feet, then flung it after her gown. His cravat and shirt followed—as he stepped back to stand against her knees, he flipped off her shoes.

She was waiting, almost shivering with excitement; she raised her arms, lifted her face and welcomed him back with an open-mouthed kiss. He sank into it and let her lead him where she would while he slipped off her garters, then rolled her stockings down, careful not to touch her bare skin. She was so caught up in their kiss, he wasn’t sure she noticed when her stockings slipped away, and she was sitting in the candlelight clothed only in her chemise. The fine garment reached to midthigh; he grasped a fold and tugged—she was sitting on it.

Mentally girding his loins, he filled his lungs and wrested back control of their kiss. When he was sure he had all the reins in his grasp, he set his hands on her hips, simply holding her, giving her a moment to grow accustomed to the feel of his hands there. Her chemise was so fine it was no real barrier—to his touch or his senses.

She skittered a little, but calmed almost immediately; as soon as she did, he let his hands wander. Gliding, soothing, tracing, learning, he caressed her thighs, her knees, her calves. Then, gently but firmly, he grasped her knees and eased them apart.

She no longer had them locked together, but she resisted—for a moment. Then, hesitant but willing, she let him move each thigh outward, until he could step between.

Before he could haul in a triumphant breath, one of her hands slid from his shoulder to his chest. Quivering awareness shot through her—and him—when her fingers tangled in his crisp hair, when her hand came to rest tentatively, warm palm on the wide muscle above his heart.

For one long instant, Demon simply existed, focused totally on her—on holding onto the reins of her seduction. Her awakening was becoming an awakening for him—an introduction to delights more intense than any he’d previously known.

The tension that held her so tight, so taut, was, for all that, so intensely fragile; he felt as if, with one wrong move, one wrong breath, he might shatter it. And her.

When her hand shifted, drifted, then gently traced across his chest, he breathed again. Sealing his demon’s reins in a death grip, he subtly altered their kiss, encouraging her to explore, relieved, if more tense, when she did.

Gradually, he eased her forward, closer to him, to the edge of the table. Every inch she slid forward pressed her thighs farther apart, until, beneath her chemise, they were wide-spread, held so by his hips.

She was open to him.

It took him a moment or three to shackle his raging lust—a few more to beat back his demons. What came next had to be perfect—it had to be right. Nothing in his life had mattered so much.

Sliding one hand to the small of her back, he settled it there, solid and sure behind her. Then he raised his head fractionally, breaking their kiss, but leaving their lips a mere inch apart. From beneath his lids, he watched her face as, with the same gentle yet deliberate touch he’d used throughout, he dipped his hand beneath her chemise’s hem and slid it slowly up the silken length of her thigh.

Her lids flickered; he glimpsed her eyes, wide pupils circled in startling blue. She trembled; her breath caught, then she slowly exhaled. He stroked her thigh, the long quivering muscle, then the delicate inner face—he stroked upward, brushing her lips when she shuddered, letting her cling when, with the backs of his fingers, he caressed her quivering stomach.

Then, very slowly, he let his fingers glide down, tracing the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other, then, easing back from their kiss, he gently pressed two fingers into the silken curls between her thighs.