An Officer but No Gentleman (3 page)

Chapter Six

Elowyn trembled. This was by far the most erotic thing she’d ever done, the most decadent, the most exposed, the most
everything
. It had not escaped her that Horace could come through the door at any moment and discover them.

She could hardly think about that when all her senses were coalesced around Grahame—around the press of his phallus, long and ready against her buttocks, the warmth of his hand at the back of her neck, pushing her forward onto the sideboard until he had her positioned for him.

Grahame was the center of her world now. He had her skirts up and she shivered at the delicious decadence of cool air on private skin. She felt him shift behind her, heard the rustle and slide of his own clothes as he took himself in hand. Elowyn braced her weight with her arms. When penetration came it would be swift and fierce. She was ready for it.

His phallus was hot and naked behind her, brushing against the cleft of her bare bottom but it was his hand that cupped her, his fingers that entered her. “Are you ready for me?” His voice was harsh with desire at her ear.

“So ready.” Her desire matched his in breathlessness. She moved on his fingers, hardly able to keep herself from doing anything else. His fingers withdrew and pressed against the skin hiding her pearl until she thought she’d scream from the exquisite touch. She squirmed and he held her, one strong hand on her neck, holding her down, her cheek flat against the cool wood of the sideboard. He came into her then, swift and sure, his phallus sliding into her depths until she was certain it touched the very edges of her womb.

She gasped. This was a fantasy come to life, this man deep-seated in her, her body flowing around his. She could feel her own heat, her own slickness as he started to move—back and forth, back and forth. She was a wanton, indeed, to enjoy such feral sex, but enjoy it, she did. She could hear Grahame with his rough love words at her ear as he rocked into her. “You’re so wet, so tight, your cunny is sweet heaven.” He nuzzled her neck with his mouth. His hair had come loose, tickling the bare skin of her shoulder, soft and loose, an antidote to the coarse hair that pressed against her bottom.

“Scream for me, Elowyn,” he urged in a rasp, evidence that his release was nearly upon him. “Go ahead, no one will hear, they’re too busy with their own fun.”

He surged into her, hard and insistent, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster and stronger. She had no choice but to give over to the pleasure they elicited. She was vaguely aware her own arms had failed, that he was holding her up, as the threshold of her climax approached and she let herself go, crossing over into the shattering oblivion of desire replete. She did scream then, in joy, in release, in freedom. She soared with new wings in those moments, but not alone. Grahame was with her, his groan primal and rapturous as his body tensed and pulsed with hers.

* * *

How long had it been since a climax had taken him so thoroughly? Grahame bent over the basin in his room and splashed another round of cold water on his face, trying to cool down his heated body. Even now, everything seemed surreal, existing in fragmented scenes in his mind. He’d helped Elowyn restore herself; he’d escorted her upstairs. He’d done all the things protocol demanded in such situations and yet the sharp edge of clarity that accompanied his release had not ebbed.

He searched for reasons. Perhaps it was the spontaneity or the potential publicity of the act which had worked so strongly upon his senses? But that theory was full of holes. He’d had public encounters several times and never had the edge lasted like this. Spontaneity, too, was something to which he was all too well accustomed.

There were other explanations he could put forward. Maybe it was the novelty of having chosen this interlude for himself? There was no contract expecting him to perform. Perhaps the freedom had spurred him on? Or perhaps it was the woman herself; a beautiful, well-bred woman had wanted him for himself, not for his notoriety, not for the fulfillment of some need to impress her friends or any of the other reasons London’s ladies sought him for their paids. Elowyn had no inkling of who he was or what he could do to a woman and she’d wanted him, anyway. It was heady knowledge for a man of his humble origins to think a woman of her quality would freely choose him, that he could belong.

There was the old ghost again. Grahame faced himself in the mirror over the basin, staring hard at the primal reflection. The military had made him rugged but it had made him ragged, too. He traced the thin line running toward his shoulder, one scar of many that had contributed to the man he was today—a leader of men, a lover of women. But still, deep inside, that man harbored the needs of the boy who had never wanted more than to belong, somewhere.

The military had been such a place for him. The camaraderie he’d built with his men had filled that need until they’d been scattered, proving that even the hard-forged bonds of shared misery and loss were temporary. There’d been a sense of belonging at Argosy House with Channing and the boys, where he was accepted among them, even if he hadn’t been of the same birth. They’d formed bonds based on laughter and escapades and they, too, were free to scatter as the world beckoned. D’Arcy had already gone. He wanted more than that, more than temporary friendships. He wanted an unbreakable bond with someone, something that could not be torn apart by distance or circumstance.

It was his ultimate fantasy, a fantasy he played out nightly with London’s women, the fantasy that he belonged in their world. Tonight that fantasy had deepened dangerously. He could not have Elowyn Bagshaw any more than he could have any of the other women. With Elowyn the end was so obviously near. When they reached Vienna, all would be over. There wasn’t even an illusion, a hope of permanence.

Grahame jerked, startled by the sudden knock on his door. “Come.” He reached for a towel in a belated effort to address his shirtless dishabille, his hair still damp from his ablutions. Chances were it didn’t matter. His visitor was most likely Christopher, come to report on the horses and the wagons. Still, he knew he’d grabbed the towel because he hadn’t given up all hope.

“Hello, Grahame, it looks like you were expecting me.” The sultry voice at the door sent a shot of white-hot desire to his groin. Her eyes flashed to his crotch where a new arousal stirred. Dammit! His trousers were undone. He’d forgotten and it was too late to do anything about it now except to let her watch the effect she had on him come to life.

His eyes drank in the sight of her—the white, satin robe belted at her waist, the fabric hugging the full curves of her breasts, the chestnut hair spilling seductively over one shoulder. Then it hit him—she’d crossed the hallway dressed like that.

“Shut the door, Elowyn. I can’t have you traipsing around the hall like that,” Grahame growled. “Have you forgotten the guests downstairs?”

Elowyn shrugged and stepped inside, holding up a white, ceramic ramekin in her hand. Grahame recognized it as the one from dinner, the one placed next to the pie they’d never gotten around to eating. “I came to tell you, if you’re in the mood, dessert’s on me.”

Good God, the woman was a temptress! He could see her in his mind’s eye, a naked Elowyn streaked with
crème fraîche
and laid out before him. Her eyes roamed low, a wicked smile on her lips as she watched his arousal complete.

Maybe he could not have her forever; maybe she could no more fulfill his need to belong than any of his other attempts, but he could have it tonight, and the next and the next and perhaps that would be enough. It was the only deal he could make with himself that would preserve his sanity as he stood there, half-dressed and fully aroused. “Now that you mention it,” Grahame drawled. “I think I could do with a piece of pie.”

Elowyn dipped her finger into the pot and licked it with a flick of her tongue. “I thought that might be the case.”

Chapter Seven

Elowyn was ready for him. He’d taken just enough time to put on a shirt before crossing the hall. Grahame shut the door soundlessly behind him, taking in the terrain out of old military habit. Her room was a far sight cozier than his chamber. She and her maid had taken efforts here with sheets and pillows from home. Candles and the firelight added a seductive element, or maybe that was just her. Grahame was starting to think any room would be more seductive with Elowyn in it.

“You’re a quiet mover for such a large man.” Elowyn stepped into the light. She loosened the belt of her robe, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of skin and shadow.

“I can be. Stealth comes in handy in the military.”

“And in dining parlors, too, apparently.” Elowyn ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Elowyn shook her hair free from the single tie that held it. The chestnut hues caught the light of the fire, dancing like a veritable autumn flame. She held his eyes, her mouth curving into a knowing smile. With a shrug, the robe began to slip—first one shoulder, then the other until the robe pooled at her feet, leaving her entirely naked to his gaze. The fact that she did not mind his rather blatant perusal registered somewhere in his brain. And why should she? Elowyn was marvelous naked.

High, firm breasts with pink nipples played peek-a-boo beneath the long curtain of hair draped over them, not unlike Botticelli’s Venus, he thought. Her skin was pale, too, porcelain-smooth in its perfection, a perfection so different from the tanned roughness of his own. Grahame stepped forward, his body aching to worship this goddess of autumn and flame. It was time to do his part. But Elowyn stopped him with her eyes and an infinitesimal shake of her head. Apparently, her part was not yet done.

“Have a seat.” She gestured to the chair pulled close to the fire. Grahame sat, hardly able to look away from his Venus. The firelight played across her body, adding grace and mystery to her every move. She stood in front of him, the ramekin in her hand, and Grahame’s mouth went dry. She meant to do it. She meant to seduce him. Elowyn tossed her hair back over her shoulders so that nothing obscured his view now. With deliberate slowness, she scooped up the
crème
with her fingers and began to draw her hands down her body, circling the areolas of her breasts, then the breasts themselves with the
crème
. She cupped and lifted each breast, running her thumbs across her nipples for him, her neck arched in delight, a little moan on her lips until Grahame thought he’d come in his chair. Yet he could not look away.

Always, the trail of her hands led downward, past the flat of her abdomen and the curve of her hip, a map to her pleasure, a key to her expectations until they rested on the auburn mons of her triangle. The silent invitation was not lost on him. She wanted his mouth on her in the most intimate of ways.

Elowyn stepped back and lay on the bed, legs parted, her inner femininity exposed to him. Her hand moved between her thighs with the last of the
crème
and Grahame forgot all else. Her voice beckoned, a goddess calling to her supplicant. “Now you may come and feast.”

Grahame shed his shirt, his hands moving swiftly to the waistband of his trousers, nuisance that they were. He hadn’t spent much time with them on tonight.

“No, leave the trousers.” Elowyn gave the languorous command from the bed. “We’ll take them off later.” As long as his erection didn’t get there first. The way he felt right now, he wouldn’t be surprised if his cock simply burned a hole through the fabric and ripped its own way out. He couldn’t ever remember being this thoroughly aroused.

Grahame braced himself over Elowyn, reveling in the ease with which he fit between the cradle of her legs, but that would come later, much later if he understood correctly. She was all temptress beneath him, her eyes glowing green embers, her body smeared with
crème
, awaiting his ministrations. “Has anyone ever told you what a vixen you are?” He didn’t let her answer. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to believe this had been inspired by him alone. Grahame bent his head to her breast, and began to lick.

* * *

Death by licking. Elowyn had not thought such a thing possible until now, but it must be because she was certain she could not stand much more of this exquisite torture before she would simply shatter into millions of tiny pieces.

She arched and cried out under Grahame’s mouth as he nipped at the tender skin of her breast. She had not realized how sensitive she could be there. Nor had she realized what she was asking for, what her body was apparently capable of, when she’d begun her game. She wished she’d used less
crème
, or perhaps more
crème
as the case may be. This exquisite torture was indeed worth dying for and a most pleasant way to go, too.

Grahame’s hot mouth drew a searing trail to her navel. He kissed her there, his tongue tickling the tiny crevice until she bucked. “Easy now.” Grahame’s voice was a low rumble, his hands framing her low on her hips, readying her for his next destination on his seductive journey down her body. Never mind, this sensual adventure had been hers at the start. It was his now. Somewhere between picking up the pot of
crème
and lying down on the bed, he’d usurped the game and made it his own. It seemed he was very good at usurping.

He looked up at her from the apex of her thighs—his eyes the color of hot mercury, all liquid and silver in his desire. She was not alone in this any more than she had been downstairs when they’d joined so swiftly, so frantically. Her want was his want. There was potency in knowing that this wild, competitive madness between them was shared.

His head dropped, his tongue lapping up the last of the
crème
on the insides of her thighs, each lap a flirtation, a promise of more as his mouth angled closer to the prize. He claimed the seam of her first, licking upward to her hidden pearl. His hands held her firm as he pleasured her, the restraint adding its own titillation to the act until she was entirely at sea, lost to all worlds but the one of pleasure. She was vaguely aware her hands had wrapped themselves in the darkness of Grahame’s hair, her one anchor in this world of shattering sensation. But she was acutely aware for all the pleasure this act brought her, it wasn’t enough.

“Trousers, Grahame. Take them off, now.” Urgency was evident in her voice. She had not planned this. She’d meant another interlude of pleasuring him as he had her, but there was no more waiting, no more time for games.

Grahame shoved the trousers down, a grin on his face as he rose above her. “I thought you’d never ask, princess.” He was huge and hard against her leg as he levered into position, a testament to his own desire. He thrust deep. There was no question of readiness, no need to play the gentleman with a tentative testing of the waters. These waters were primed and boiling, as they had been downstairs.

But this was different. This was no hurried, erotic coupling. This time she could see his face, she could watch her lover as he took her, as he moved in and out of her body with long, sure strokes. She tightened her muscles around him, watching pleasure pass over his face in response, watching it linger in the brackets about his mouth, in faint lines at the corners of his eyes as climax approached. His eyes! Almost too late she realized they were shut, those silver gateways to his mind, shut against her in this intimate moment. She would not have it, could not have it. She wanted him with her in all ways, not just in physical synchronicity when the pleasure took them.

“Open your eyes, Grahame.” Elowyn gave the command with the last ounce of her reserve. “I want to see you when I fall apart.”

His body tensed, his eyes flashed open with a final thrust, revealing far more than she had anticipated. Her one thought as release swamped her was a vague realization of what she’d done. She’d hoped for a glimpse of his mind; what she’d gotten was a sliver of his soul.