A Rogue's Proposal (44 page)

His head spun. Desire exploded. He was lost.

So was she—no angel, now, but a woman wild, demonically demanding, flagrantly inciting—

Madness.

It caught them up—set them free.

Flick gloried in the rush, gloried in the sense of being impossibly alive. Gloried in the hard body against hers, the chest like rock against her aching breasts, the thighs like pillars trapping hers. His lips bruised hers and she exulted; his hard hands held her brutally close, lifting her, rocking her—she only wanted to be closer.

She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. Flinging her arms about his shoulders, she levered herself up in his punishing embrace, then held tight so their faces were closer, nearly level. His hands wrapped over her bottom, he held her high against him; she could feel the hard ridge of him grinding against her mound.

She wanted him inside her. Here. Now. Immediately. His tongue plundered remorselessly, his lips more ruthlessly demanding than ever before—she had no breath to tell him. Her skirts were just wide enough for her to grip his hips with her thighs; she did, then moved against him.

His breathing hitched; muscles tensed, then quivered. Beneath her hands, he felt like tensile steel, coiled, compressed, ready to let fly.

She moved again. He caught his breath and resumed his heated ravishing of her mouth. But his hands on her bottom shifted; supporting her with one hand, he reached down, caught the hem of her gown, and flicked, sliding first one hand under, then, palm to her bare bottom, changing hands and slipping the other, too, under her silk skirts.

Her fine chemise was short—no impediment. His hands were beneath it from the start. Hauling in a breath, she gripped tighter with her thighs, locked her arms about his neck, and flagrantly wriggled in his hands.

He got the message—his hands drifted, his touch driven, demanding, over the backs of her splayed thighs, over the globes of her bare bottom, then, holding her high with one hand, he slid the other down and around, hard fingers exploring the soft, slick folds between her thighs.

He found her entrance—one finger slid deep. She gasped and arched lightly. The finger left her—a second later, two returned, pressing deep, drawing back, then stabbing once, twice, hard and deep.

She couldn’t catch her breath—heat raged beneath her skin. Her body quivered, ready to fly apart. But that wasn’t what she wanted.

Locking one arm about his neck, she slid her other hand between them—down to where his engorged flesh throbbed, rampant and hard as iron. She closed her fingers greedily, sliding them down as far as she could—

He groaned. And shuddered. “
God
—!”

Voices reached them. Footsteps steadily approached the library. Panting, senses screaming, Flick turned her head and stared at the door. The unlocked door.

Like the procession of thoughts said to presage death, Demon saw in his mind’s eye Remington closing the door behind him. Saw the image he and Flick would present to those nearing the library. They were both beyond dishevelled, barely able to breathe; Flick’s arms would never release in time—nor would his.

Three giant strides had them at the French doors; with two more, he got them out of sight.

The library door opened.

Swinging Flick against the wall, he pressed her into the soft creeper—the scent of jasmine wafted about them. Chest heaving, he leaned into her, pinning her there, physically wracked by the effort of exerting his will. His entire body had been focused on doing only one thing—burying himself inside her.

Voices from inside reached them clearly; he couldn’t separate the sounds through the drumming in his ears.

He tried to think, but couldn’t. Flexing every mental muscle, he tried to pull back from the soft body his rock-hard limbs were holding fast against the creeper-covered stone. And failed. Just thinking about that soft body had hurled him back into the volcano of his need.

Molten desire rose, battered at his senses, broke and consumed his will.

His breathing harsh in the moonlit night, he slowly lifted his head, raised his lids and looked into her face. He expected to see shock, fright—even fear—surely he had to be scaring her? Even fear of discovery—a real possibility—would do; anything to help him hold back from doing what he would do.

Instead, he saw a face sultry with desire, heavy-lidded eyes fixed hungrily on his lips. Saw her swollen lips part, her tongue briefly lick the lower. She felt his gaze and looked up—her eyes searched his briefly, then her chin firmed. “Now.”

The demand reached him on a determined whisper. Her lips curved—he could have sworn in ruthless triumph. Then he felt her hand, still trapped between them.

She closed it, slid her fingers down, then up—he closed his eyes and shuddered. Her wicked chuckle was a warm breath against his lips as she trailed her fingers higher—to his waistband. She’d worn male attire herself; in seconds, she’d slipped the buttons and had him free. He leapt in her palm, iron hard, ready to explode.

With a gasping groan he only just suppressed, he reached between them, caught her hand and hauled it up, leaning even harder into her, teeth gritted against the sensation of her silk skirts sliding over his sensitized flesh.

He met her eyes, mere inches from his. If he could have glared, he would have. But his features were set, graven—impossible to shift—hers looked the same way. Driven, muscles locked and quivering, he teetered on the brink—

She met his hard gaze directly, challengingly. “Do it!” she hissed against his lips. Then kissed him ravenously.

The conversation inside the library droned on; mere yards away, in the moonlight on the terrace, hot and frenzied needs held sway. A bare second was all it took for him to lift her skirts, to smooth them up, out of the way. His staff slid seeking between her thighs; she gripped him hard and pulled him to her.

He found her entrance and plunged—drove into her heat—straight into a vortex of shattering need.

His—and hers.

The combination was too powerful for either of them to control; it buffeted them, battered them, drove them. Their bodies bucked and strained, desperate for release, locked in a battle with no foe.

Lips frantically locked to stifle the sounds that clawed their throats, they took all they could, grabbed and held on, clutched for each precious moment—there, against the wall in the moonlight.

The sounds from the library washed over them, gentle, soothing, heightening their awareness.

Of the heated slickness where they joined, of skin too hot to touch, of the raging tide in their blood—of the driven fusing of their bodies.

Crushed blossoms released perfume in a cloud about them—an evocative scent as deeply illicit, deeply intimate as their mating. Gasping, Flick dragged the scent deep. Demon’s hips flexed again, ruthlessly driving into her. His lips cut off her glad cry as he plunged. Again and again he filled her—a sword slamming into its sheath. She gripped him lovingly and gloried in the power—the power that drove them both.

The ride was wild—wilder than she’d imagined anything could be. She clung tight, drunk on that power, delirious with speed, drugged with pleasure. Then the peak was before them—they rode faster, gripped by compulsive urgency.

And then they were there—the mountain exploded, erupted, melting them in its massive heat.

No! Don’t leave me!
Flick silently begged, clinging tightly for one heartbeat, then, accepting that he would have to, she sighed and relaxed her hold.

He withdrew from her; she closed her eyes against the sudden emptiness. Cool air slid between them, chilling her flushed skin. She gripped his shoulder as he shifted, sliding her down, carefully guiding her back to earth.

Her slippers touched cold stone; he flicked her skirts down. They fell easily. She glanced down and was amazed—they were only slightly crushed. He didn’t move away; one arm about her, he angled his body, shoulder to hers as he roughly straightened his clothes.

The murmur of voices still flowed from the library; as the pounding in her ears subsided, she could hear two older men swapping tales of long gone battles. The doors to the terrace stood wide, the candlelight a pale swath on the grey flags. If anyone had come to the threshold . . .

Luckily, no one had.

Heat still lapped her; warmth still flowed in her veins. She felt both exhilarated and disappointed—and confused that that was so.

Tightening his arm about her, Demon steered her along the terrace to the next set of doors, also open. Without a word, he helped her over the step and into the dark room.

Her heart leapt—instantly, she stilled it. What was she thinking? Just because she still wanted to hold him, to feel his body naked against hers, to hear his heart beating under her ear, to snuggle close—feel close—to cling—just because she wanted, didn’t mean they could. They were at a ball, for heaven’s sake!

He drew away from her, quickly tucking in his shirt, doing up his trousers, straightening his cravat and coat. Breathless, giddy, her heart still pounding, she shook out her skirts and smoothed them, wriggled her chemise straight, fluffed out the organza ruffle that traced her neckline and formed her transparent sleeves.

She looked up to discover Demon looking at her; she stared at him hungrily, conscious to her toes of a compulsion to reach out and touch him. Hold him. Although her body hummed with satiation, some other part of her felt . . . deprived. Denied. Still yearning.

Even through the dimness, Demon saw the need in her eyes; he felt it in his gut. He cleared his throat. “We have to go back.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Do you know where the withdrawing room is?” He spoke in a hushed whisper, conscious of those next door.

“Yes.”

“Go there—if anyone comments on you coming from the wrong direction, just say you went out of the other door and got lost.” He surveyed her critically. “Put cold water on your lips.” Reaching out, he tucked one unruly curl back behind her ear. Ruthlessly squelching the impulse to trail his fingers along her jaw, to fold her in his arms and simply hold her, he lowered his hand. “I’ll go directly back.”

She nodded, then turned to the door. He opened it, glanced out, then let her through, retreating back into the gloomy room to wait until she’d passed out of sight.

He needed to talk to her, explain things, but he couldn’t do it now—not tonight. Thanks to her wantonness, and his, he couldn’t think straight—and they had to get back to the ball.

D
esperate needs called for desperate deeds. Flick knew her needs qualified as desperate, especially after last night. She needed much more from her lover—her prospective husband. She knew what she wanted. The big question was: How to get it?

Surrounded by her court, in the middle of Lady Ashcombe’s drawing room, she pretended to listen while inwardly she plotted. She’d come to London with one clear aim: to make Demon fall in love with her. If he’d been going to look at her face and fall down smitten, it would have happened long ago. As it hadn’t, she was going to have to do something—take some active steps—to achieve her desired goal.

Insisting he spend more time with her was the logical next step. She’d made a start last night, although they’d got distracted. She’d enjoyed the distraction, as far as it had gone, but that had only made her more determined, more stubbornly set on her course. Such distractions, and the subsequent empty yearning, provided yet more reasons to act soon. She didn’t want to find herself in the situation of
having
to agree to his suit. That would leave her with absolutely no leeway to secure her dream. And she definitely wanted to ease the desolate, empty feeling their interlude outside the library had left about her heart.

She was still convinced he could love her if he tried. They had so many things in common. She’d enumerated them at length in her cold bed last night; she felt confident the possibility of love was there.

The first step to making it a reality was to ensure that he spent more time with her. To do that, she needed to speak with him alone. She also wanted to talk to him about Dillon. Recalling how the previous night’s interlude had come about, she eyed her would-be suitors measuringly.

Demon saw her proposition Framlingham. His mental imprecations as he strolled to the side door to cut off their escape should have set her ears aflame.

“Oh, ah! Evening, Cynster.”

“Framlingham.” With a perfunctory nod to Flick, he met his lordship’s eyes. “Dissatisfied with her ladyship’s entertainments?”

“Ah—” Although bluffly genial, Framlingham was not slow. He shot a glance at Flick. “Miss Parteger needed a breath of fresh air, don’t you know.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed,” Flick verified. “However, now you’re here, I won’t need Lord Framlingham’s kind escort.” She gave Framlingham her hand and smiled sweetly. “Thank you for coming to my aid, my lord.”

“Any time—er.” Framlingham glanced at Demon. “Pleased to have been of assistance, my dear.” With a nod, he beat a hasty retreat.