Never Resist Temptation (15 page)

I
t was a beautiful bed with a canopy of yellow satin swags, and curtains and counterpane in broad stripes of a rose satin and floral toile that reminded her of her mother's bedroom in Paris. Next to the bed, on a table, sat a dark blue and gold dish that looked like Sèvres, piled high with profiteroles in a pyramid. She'd wondered where they'd got to. He'd planned it, right down to the little puffy things.

The lighting was low, only a handful of candles, but not low enough that she—and he—wouldn't be clearly visible. Everything she'd ever heard led her to believe they'd be naked.

She swallowed, balancing sensations of terror and excitement. What was she doing with this imposing figure of masculine beauty who stood next to her, searing her with his gaze? The heat in his stormy-sea eyes, now devoid of any hauteur, set her heart thrumming. How could she, with her purely theoretical knowledge of lovemaking, hope to please him? The defiance that had brought her this far was seeping away, and an urge to run niggled the back of her mind.

“What would you like to do now?” she asked in what she hoped was a casual tone, too proud to let her intimidation show.

“Guess,” he said wickedly, stripping off his coat and throwing it onto the floor in a way that would give his valet fits. He examined her meticulously, his gaze ranging from the tip of her head, lingering over her breasts in her linen shirt, scanning her breeches, and coming to rest on her riding boots, freshly polished that morning.

“I like the boots,” he continued. “I'd like to see you in them, and nothing else.”

That sounded positively depraved. And quite stirring.

“But for now, I think they should come off.” Guiding her down to sit on the bed, he knelt before her and pulled one off.

“Silk stockings?” he asked with an appreciative twinkle, caressing her calf through the hose and shooting blissful tingles up her leg. “You are always surprising, my chicken.”

Once he'd attended to the boots he shed his own footwear and his waistcoat, which joined his coat on the floor, and sat beside her on the bed. “Will you help me with my neck cloth, my rabbit?”

Apparently he found it tremendously amusing to go through the whole menagerie of endearments—in English. Actually, it was funny. The names she'd learned from her nurse sounded absurd, yet also touching, in prosaic Anglo-Saxon.

The starched linen cloth hit the floor. “Thank you, my flea.”

Impulsively she pushed aside the plackets of his shirt to reveal his neck. It was beautiful, the sinews finely etched.

“Fleas bite.” Acting on instinct, she leaned in and gave his flesh a sharp nip, just at the vee of his collarbone.

The effect was electrifying. In two seconds she was flat on her back being kissed breathless.

“You're a naughty little treasure,” he said, mockingly stern, when he finally came up for air.

She liked this game. Besides, she didn't know what to call him. She didn't like to address him as Anthony, as his sister had, without invitation. And she wasn't going to “my lord” him when they were rolling around on a bed. It pleased her that he didn't call her Jane.

“I apologize, my bread crumb.”

He gave her a look that told her he thought this riposte was feeble, as indeed it was, but they'd run out of animals. Anyway, she was too busy thinking about the fact that his fingers were at the buttons of her breeches, which he tugged off, along with her cotton drawers.

“More surprises,” he said happily when he saw the rose satin garters tied just above her knees.

She'd anticipated this moment when she put them on, determined to make use of her only feminine adornments. Kneeling next to her, he ran his fingers over the satin ribbons, then bent to bestow a warm kiss on each inner thigh, just where the stockings gave way to sensitive skin. She twitched with alarm as his hair tickled
her farther up, so close to her private place. Thankfully he didn't seem aware of her fright, perhaps because it was accompanied by a little sigh of pleasure.

She settled back against the pillows, now clad only in her knee-length shirt, stockings, and garters, while he stood to remove his clothing. Hers was an excellent vantage point to admire the well-defined musculature of his chest, lightly sprinkled with golden brown hair, and shapely calves, uncovered as shirt, stockings, and trousers were cast aside. But when his hands grasped the waistband of his drawers, she felt too shy to look and instead fixed her eyes on a painting that hung on the wall opposite the bed.

An ornate gilt frame surrounded a faux-pastoral confection showing a young girl in a simple rustic-style gown, which happened to be made of pink silk and trimmed with lashings of lace. She languished on a swing in a wild garden, featuring a profusion of flowers that Jacobin was reasonably sure never bloomed at the same time in any country she'd ever heard of. In one corner an equally well-dressed country lad peeped at the glimpse of ankle revealed by the maiden as she swung, one frivolous high-heeled slipper barely clinging to her toes.

“I think that must be a Boucher,” she said, suddenly anxious for conversation to dispel her tension and forgetting that she was supposed to belong to a class that knew nothing of such frivolities.

His glance followed hers. “That picture? Silly, isn't it?”

“I think it's charming.” She kept her eyes fixed on it, to avoid looking at an incredibly tall, lean, and utterly naked male body.

“I'm glad you like it.” She heard the bed creak as he stretched out beside her. She continued to stare at the girl in the swing, but her mind was transfixed by what she couldn't help noticing out of the corner of her eye. That
it
, his male member, was erect and alarmingly large. She felt a big hand stroking her breast through her linen shirt and his teeth nipping gently at her ear. Both things felt so good that she relaxed a little.

“What's a
boucher
?” he asked. “I like it when you explain French to me. You're much prettier than any of my teachers.”

“Boucher was the name of the painter, but it also means ‘butcher.'” Now his tongue, warm and moist, was playing deep inside the ear, for some reason sensitizing every inch of her body and making her skin ache for his touch. “
Bouche
means ‘mouth” she babbled, shivering as his hand pushed under her garment and painted lazy whorls with his fingers over both breasts. “And
une bouchée
is a mouthful.”

“Mmm.” His
bouche
was too busy for coherent speech.

Conversation had failed to distract him, so she tried another tack. Reaching over to the plate next to the bed, she selected a profiterole and offered it to him, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Here.
Une bouchée pour toi
.”

“Feed me,” he begged huskily, and took the whole
puff into his mouth along with her forefinger and thumb and sucked on them before letting them go and swallowing the airy confection. “Tell me, what did you think when I sent the message asking you to prepare little puffy things for tonight?”

“That it wasn't very polite to invite me to supper and then expect me to provide dessert.”

His fingers were now teasing her nipples, creating blissful sensations there and lower down, between her thighs. “We'll both be providing dessert tonight.” He withdrew his hand, eliciting a moue of protest.

“I think you're overdressed,” he said, and rapidly she found herself as naked as he was, between the twinkling gems at her throat and the satin frivolities at her knees. Shy, she clenched her knees together, but he didn't seem to notice; his attention was fixed on her breasts.

“I wondered what color your nipples were,” he said in a mesmerizing whisper. “Pink, like wild strawberries. And what are strawberries without cream?” And taking a profiterole he squeezed the little pastry and adorned the tips of her breasts with the whipped cream filling, then sucked it off, first one side and then the other. The contrast between the cool cream and the heat of his mouth aroused her feminine mounds to an almost painful excitement and dispelled any embarrassment.

Jacobin, a fast learner, snatched another cream puff and did the same to him, licking the vanilla-sweetened
crème chantilly
from the flat copper disks on his chest, fascinated by the hardness of the little peaks. Sensing his heart beat faster and his chest heave at her ministra
tions gave her a feeling of power.
She
was causing this excitement.

He chuckled when, with a peep of annoyance, she had to remove a stray hair from her tongue. Then it was his turn, and this time it was from her navel he supped, the warm caresses of his mouth sending a stab of longing to the hidden place lower down.

Not yet brave enough to approach his sex, she moved upward and ate cream from his collarbone, relishing the spicy scent of his neck, which seemed to have intensified since she'd nipped him earlier.
Mon Dieu,
this man smelled good, better than the aroma of fresh-baked madeleines emerging from the oven. She didn't think she'd ever get tired of it.

In rotation they ate cream from each other's bodies until there was a messy pile of deflated puffs next to the plate. His cunning licks all over her upper body pitched her into a state of excited longing. She was even able to look at his far-from-deflated shaft without hesitation. The ache in the passage between her legs told her she was eager to receive him, to find out at last what all the shouting was about. All inhibitions fled and she was ready, knees unclenched, for the next stage.

Accepting her unspoken invitation, skillful fingers parted her lower curls and dabbed cream on her nether lips, making her squirm deliciously. Then, up on his knees beside her, he squeezed a blob of cream onto the tip of that perpendicular rod and gave her an inviting look.

Her body tensed.

He couldn't be serious
. Did people actually do
that
? She'd never heard of such a thing.

Anthony shrugged internally. Judging by the look of alarm on Jacobin's face this was a new concept for her. Another time, then. Apparently that damn French cook hadn't initiated her into this particular intimacy. And Frenchmen were supposed to be such great lovers!

Jacobin didn't seem to be overly experienced in bed, and he found himself pleased by the fact. It would give him very great satisfaction to teach her himself. It was probably just as well. He was so aroused he likely wouldn't last a minute in her mouth. And there was nothing to prevent him from partaking in the feast.

He leaned over and kissed her, tangling his tongue with hers and stroking the tender plumpness of her mouth until he felt that hint of tension disperse and she was melting in his arms, returning his kisses and his embrace with a hum of appreciation. Shifting down the bed with a few murmured words of reassurance, he buried his face in her warmth, reveling in her musky scent and taste mingled with sweet cream and her little squeaks of shock and enjoyment. When he sensed she was close to fulfillment, he raised his head and grinned at her blearily.

“You've never done this before, have you?”

She shook her head, her beautiful eyes bright and big as saucers, the exquisite features imprinted with an expression of awe. She made a choking noise. Good, he'd rendered her speechless.

And he'd better finish the job because he wasn't confident he'd have enough time to do it once he was inside her. Never, in his recollection, had he been so excited in bed with a woman.

Her moans of delight as he licked and sucked her to a quivering climax poised him on the edge of explosion.

Now, he thought. At last. It had been a long dry spell and she was even more delectable than he'd imagined. He was primed to lose himself in her, to sense her shuddering passage clench him tight and bring him to release. Positioning himself over her, he kissed her panting mouth and plunged in.

She let out a piercing shriek.

What the hell?

Bracing himself on his arms Anthony stared at her face. Her look of dreamy satiation had been replaced by shock, ecstatic sighs by a whimper of pain. With a disappointed moan he pulled out and peered down. Dimly he could make out a trace of blood on his cock.

Goddamn it, she was a virgin.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out, too flabbergasted for subtlety, “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“It's all right.” She grimaced bravely. “I knew it would hurt the first time. I just didn't know how much.”

Remorse plucked at him. Although his acquaintance with virgins was theoretical, he could at least have been more careful. “It was my fault. I would have done things differently if I'd known. I had no idea you'd never—”

“You didn't ask. Why did you assume I was—?”

Bewilderment and guilt fought with the part of him that hadn't caught up to the fact that it wasn't going to get what it wanted immediately.

He interrupted her, his brain oblivious to anything but throbbing frustration. “'Struth, Jacobin! You ran off with the cook. What else was I to think?”

Then he realized what he'd said and watched her expression turn to fury. Shoving him away, she rolled off the bed, seized the plate of profiteroles, and hurled it at his head, accompanied by a flow of what he had to assume were French insults. Her strength exceeding her aim, the missile streaked by its target and crashed onto the floor in an explosion of pastry, cream, and shards of Sèvres porcelain.

“Pig! Brute! Villain!” she shrieked. He was beginning to get the drift. “You
knew
. How could you?”

She looked magnificent, stomping the floor, seemingly unconscious that she wore not a stitch of clothing aside from her stockings and those enticing garters.

If he was ever to fulfill his urgent needs he was going to have to grovel.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, kneeling on the bed and trying to look as abject as was possible with a painful erection. “Let me explain.”