A Rogue's Proposal (49 page)

She gasped softly; her lids fluttered, then fell. He smiled and kneaded, stroked and tweaked, all the time watching desire flow across her face. Her lips parted. Her tongue slipped out to moisten them; her breath came in little rushes, not yet pants, but with urgency building. Her lashes fluttered as she felt him learn her, explore her.

With a wolfish smile, he bent his head.

Her shocked gasp rang through the room. She clutched his head, fingers gripping tight as he rasped his tongue over the nipple he’d suckled, torturing it even more. She was soon panting in earnest, the sound sweetly evocative.

He drew back. Desire had flooded her, changing her skin from flawless ivory to rose. Sliding his hand down over her waist, he watched her face as he gently kneaded her taut belly, then reached lower, spearing his fingers through her soft curls, pressing into the soft flesh behind.

She was already wet, swollen and ready—he stroked, and she shuddered. And leaned against one thigh, caught his shoulder for balance.

Before he could blink, she hauled in a breath, opened her eyes, and reached for his buttons. Her nimble fingers slid them free; she reached in—

He closed his eyes and groaned.

She closed her hand and he shuddered. His hands fell from her; head bowed, hands fisted, he endured as she eased her hold and went searching, exploring.

He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to open his eyes—his lids still lifted, just enough so he could see her slender arm, wrist-deep in his open breeches, fine muscles flexing as she stroked and squeezed.

Then she reached deep.

The groan she ripped from him was one of real pain—he was achingly hard, throbbing fit to explode.

Her other hand pushed at his chest.

“Lie back.”

He did, falling flat on his back, chest heaving as he struggled for breath—control was far beyond him. Her hand left him—he cursed the loss of her touch.

“Just a minute.”

In disbelief, he felt her tugging at his breeches. This was nothing like what he’d had planned, but . . . with a defeated groan, he lifted his hips and let her strip them from him. She got them halfway down, then froze.

Only then did he recall she’d never seen what she’d so successfully accommodated four times thus far.

Oh, God!
He levered his lids up—she was standing between his thighs, completely naked, staring, absolutely mesmerized, at his groin. At his rather large member, thick as her wrist, which was presently standing at full attention out of its nest of brown hair.

Stifling a groan, he tensed to sit up, to grab her before she jumped away—to calm her, soothe her, reassure her—

In that instant, the stunned look on her face dissolved into a glorious smile—a wicked, purely sensual, blatantly eager light danced in her eyes. Releasing his breeches, she reached for him—

“
No!
”

Chest heaving, he lay on the bed and gazed at her in absolute horror. Her fingers had stopped mere inches from his staff, which was growing more painfully rigid by the second. He glanced at her face.

She opened her eyes wide and raised her brows back. She didn’t get close to looking innocent—it was pure sensual challenge that flashed in her eyes. When he didn’t immediately respond—just lay there looking at her, stupefied and at her mercy—her chin firmed.

He hauled in a breath. “All right—but for God’s sake get these off me first.”

She chuckled wickedly and did, quickly easing the tight breeches down his long legs, then hauling them off his feet.

He used the moment to gather his strength—she was going to kill him.

His breeches hit the floor; the next instant, she clambered eagerly onto the bed—and surprised him again. He’d assumed she’d come to his side—instead, she climbed up between his thighs, settling herself on her knees directly before what was clearly her present obsession.

He sucked in a breath—it got trapped in his lungs; they seized as she seized him. Too gently. On a groan, he reached down and closed his hand about hers, showing her how much pressure to exert. As in all things, she learned quickly. After that, all he could do was lie back and think of England. Of Lady Osbaldestone—of anything that might distract him. Not that anything did—it was utterly impossible to detach himself from her touch, from her increasingly explicit caresses. With the fingers of one hand wrapped about his rigid length, she reached to his chest, running her warm hand over taut muscles that tensed and tightened even more.

Then she leaned over him—she couldn’t reach his mouth—she did reach his flat nipples. When he jerked, she chuckled—when he moaned, she only licked harder. With gay abandon, she spread hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, then nibbled her way down, over his ridged abdomen.

He went rigid when she nuzzled along the trail of hair leading down from his navel—

And nearly died when she closed her hot mouth about his head.

He caught her, gripping her arms tight, fighting a desperate battle not to buck and push himself deeper. Dizzy, almost faint, he clenched his jaw, and hauled in three deep breaths, even while he gloried in the intimate caress.

Then he slid his hands further, gripped and lifted her.

Her eyes went wide as he held her briefly above him while he brought his legs inside hers.

“Didn’t you like it?”

He met her gaze briefly. “Too much.” He bit the words off—he wasn’t up to talking. He set her down astride his hips. “I need to be inside you.”

He was nudging into her as he spoke, muscles bunching, flickering, veins cording as he fought to be gentle. He should have readied her more, eased her more, but . . .

He glanced up—she met his gaze, studied his eyes fleetingly, then she smiled, gloriously wanton, and gave her wicked little chuckle. Setting her hands on his chest for balance, she leaned forward, just a little.

She flowered and opened for him. Before he could catch his breath and thrust upward, she sank down, not in a rush—he was too big for that—but slowly. Her lids fell; her breath caught. Frowning in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she eased herself down on him, inch by steady inch, even tucking her rear deeper to take him all. She enveloped him in hot, wet silk, slick with her own passion; when she was fully impaled, she released the breath she’d held—and tightened firmly about him.

After that, he couldn’t remember anything clearly—just startling moments of achingly sweet sensuality, a delight he’d never experienced before. As she rode him, loved him, used her body to pleasure him, he lay back, conquered—defeated—and surrendered and simply took. He let her set the pace, let her gallop, rush, or amble as she would. While she moved over him, rising and falling, he let his hands roam, refreshing his memory, learning more—feasting on the knowledge, reveling in the intimacy.

And when, flushed and panting, she convulsed about him, collapsing, sated, into his arms, he decided this had to be heaven. Only an angel could have given him so much.

He held her, soothed her, waited until she’d caught her breath before he rolled her beneath him. Pushing her thighs wide, he thrust heavily, deeply; she caught her breath and opened wide, then clung.

She stayed with him as he rode her, reaching up to stroke his chest. Briefly meeting his eyes, she smiled—a cat who’d savored a whole bowlful of cream. “I love you.” Her eyes drifted shut on the whisper; her smile remained on her face.

“I know,” he murmured, then closed his eyes and concentrated on loving her back.

A soft, smug smile flirted about her lips. Two minutes later, it died.

She blinked, and shot him a surprised look, immediately wiped from her face as she gasped and arched beneath him. He stifled a groan as she tensed, and tightened about him once more. He was fully engorged and so deeply inside her he was going to lose his mind.

She lost hers first, coming apart in a series of small explosions, a shatteringly long, rolling release.

He continued to ride her, hard and deep, waiting until she eased, until all tension leached from her limbs, until, open and possessed, she lay beneath him, her body accepting him with no resistance—in that instant just before she started drifting, just before he joined her in the void, he leaned down, and kissed her gently.

“I love you, too.”

T
he instincts of years hadn’t died—Demon woke long before anyone else in the house. And instantly remembered his last words. He tensed, waiting for horror to engulf him—instead, all he felt was a warm peace, a subtle sense that all was right in his world. For long moments, he simply lay there, luxuriating in that feeling.

A ticking inner clock finally prompted him to move. It wasn’t yet dawn, but he had to leave soon. Turning on his side, he studied the angel snuggled beside him. He’d fallen asleep still inside her; during the night, he’d woken and disengaged, then gently settled her to sleep by his side.

How she woke was one of the delights already imprinted—etched—on his mind. Smiling, he gently tugged the sheet from her slack grasp and lifted it.

Flick woke to the sensation of him parting her thighs, to the sweet stroking of his finger in the soft flesh between. She never woke quickly—she simply couldn’t do it. By the time her breathing had accelerated enough for her to lift her lids, she was hot and wet, aching and empty. In the instant before she would have tensed to move, he shifted over her, one hand pressing beneath her bottom to tilt her up, his hard thighs pressing hers wide.

He entered her—solid and hard and hot. He pushed in, and stretched her, filled her until she gasped, clutched and clung. He rode her and she joined him, their bodies locked together, driven and driving, seeking, climbing, racing until their hearts almost burst and glory rained upon them.

Flat on her back, gasping in the aftermath, she felt him still high and hard inside her. He hung over her, on his elbows, head bowed, chest working like a bellows. They were both hot, skins slick. The hair on his chest abraded her nipples—in her sensitized state, she could feel his hair elsewhere—on his forearms and calves, on his stomach, at his groin. Their limbs touched—everywhere; they were as intimately joined as it was possible to be. She had never been more physically aware of him—or herself.

His heart, thudding against her breast, slowed. Raising his head, he looked at her. “Have I convinced you?”

She lifted her lids and looked into his eyes, then deliberately tensed, tightening all about him, smiled, and let her lids fall. “Yes.”

He groaned, moaned, dropped his forehead to hers—and predictably convinced her all over again.

As he left her room in a rush, flitting through the corridors like a thief to slip out of the side door before any maid caught sight of him, Demon swore on his soul that he’d never again underestimate an angel.

His morning was busy, but he was back in Berkeley Square by eleven, confident that now the Season was in full swing, his mother would not yet be down. As he’d requested before he’d left, Flick was waiting—she came gliding down the stairs as Highthorpe opened the door.

The light in her eyes, that glow in her face, took his breath away. As she crossed the hall toward him, the sun shone through the fanlight full upon her—it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. If Highthorpe hadn’t been standing in silent majesty beside him, he would have.

Flick seemed to sense his thoughts; the glance she shot him as she glided straight past and out of the door was designed to torment.

“We’ll be back late in the afternoon.” Demon threw the comment back at Highthorpe as he followed her down the steps. He caught her on the pavement and lifted her into his curricle.

Flick glanced at the empty pillion. “No Gillies?”

“He’s off visiting his peers all over town.” Retrieving the reins and rewarding the urchin who’d held them, Demon joined her; he set the bays pacing smartly. “I spoke to Montague—we’ve people everywhere. Now we know where to look, we’ll find Bletchley. And his masters.” He took a corner in style. “And not before time.”

Flick glanced at him. “I had wondered . . .” The Spring Carnival was next week. Demon grimaced. “I should have gone back and seen the Committee this week, but . . . I kept hoping we’d find something—at least one link, one fact, to support Dillon’s story. As things stand, we should locate Bletchley by tomorrow evening at the latest—if he’s anywhere within the ton, he won’t be able to hide. As soon as we have any further information, I’ll go back to Newmarket—at the very latest, on Sunday.” He glanced at Flick. “Will you come with me?”

She blinked and opened her eyes wide. “Of course.”

Suppressing a grin, he looked to his horses. “We haven’t found any trace of the money—not anywhere—which is odd. We now think it has to be moving through the ton as wagers and overt expenditure. But no one’s been throwing large sums around unexpectedly.”

He flicked the reins; the bays stretched their legs. As they passed the gates of the park, he added, “I’d assumed the syndicate was too clever to use their own servants, but it’s possible that, when both Dillon and Ickley declined to provide the necessary services so close to the Spring Carnival, they had no choice but to send someone already to hand—someone they trusted.”