One Wicked Night (5 page)
Authors: Shelley Bradley
Serena felt lightheaded. A desire to touch him that she could not explain rushed through her in a hot, dangerous surge. She had never reacted like this to any man. Why him? She was acting as if her common sense had deserted her.
He trailed a finger from her temple to the corner of her mouth, then paused. Breath suspended, she waited, watching his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. Nervously, she swallowed too.
His thumb skimmed her lower lip as he leaned closer still, until their lips lay a breath apart. “You have a beautiful mouth,” he whispered. “May I?”
Assuring herself one kiss couldn’t be a grievous sin, she nodded.
His mouth descended on hers. At his first touch, heat suffused her. A tingling shock found its way to her mind next, suspending all thought.
His tongue touched her bottom lip, its foreign texture and silky invitation stirring her from immobility. She leaned forward and opened slightly, hesitantly returning the kiss.
Instantly, he leaned into her, on top of her, his palm at the small of her back urging her closer. His mouth opened, parting her lips widely beneath his. Tasting of sweet liquor and heady sensuality, his tongue swept through her mouth boldly. The heat in her belly exploded through the rest of her body. His kiss brought her level of intoxication as high as the alcohol had surely raised his.
He wrapped his other arm around her waist, drawing her closer still. At that moment, she had her first awareness of full male arousal. He pressed the hard length intimately against the mound of her female flesh. She gasped into his kiss. He merely probed deeper, his tongue seductive and determined, encouraging her response.
Curling one of his hands behind her neck, he held her yet closer, giving no quarter. Their kiss deepened, turned urgent. Desire for something she could not understand ripped through her body like liquid fire.
He toyed with the tresses lying against the back of her neck. Wrapping his fingers around them, his palm cradled her head as he continued his thrilling exploration inside her mouth for a long moment. Then he pulled away.
Denial and regret slammed her hard. What must he think? But instead of retreating to the other side of the carriage, he edged closer, nipped at her bottom lip, taking it into his mouth. He sucked on it, returned it, then drew it in once more. With a small moan from her throat, Serena melted into heaven.
Again, he plunged into her mouth, coaxing hers to mate with his. And she discovered rapidly that she liked it. A great deal, in fact. She moaned again.
Suddenly, he returned her moan with one of his own, its low-pitched sounds resonating through her body, causing her breasts to tighten, tingle. A sudden ache to be touched, slowly, thoroughly, by him and his hot, capable hands assailed her.
As if he heard her inner thoughts, he curled his hands around her shoulders, caressed her collarbones . . . then cupped her breasts.
She gasped at the heat of his touch as his mouth captured hers again. Through the rose silk of her gown, his thumbs swept across the aching nipples, molding her flesh within his grasp.
He lifted his mouth a fraction, panting. “Another kiss?”
Without thought or hesitation, she gasped, “Yes.”
Serena met him as their lips collided again. As she had hoped, his tongue scorched back into her mouth. Lucien gripped her sides, his hands sliding down her waist. A moment later, after hearing the rustle of silk, she felt a draft of cool summer air under her skirt—and his hand on her thigh.
She halted, frozen, awash in emotion and uncertainty, even as she realized this was the very thing Cyrus wanted her to do—allow a stranger to seduce her. Yet such an act countered all her beliefs.
But God help her, she wanted this man.
The rough pads of his fingers skimmed deliciously across her knee. His palm drifted up beneath her chemise to cradle her hip. He held her closely, his fingers caressing from her waist, down to her female mound. He caught her response, something between a whimper and a moan, with his mouth.
He worked magic with his touch. Any thoughts she might have had, he burned away with the heat of his onslaught. She clung tighter, her fingers beginning a tentative journey up the surprisingly hard ridges of his chest, to the top of his shoulders, finally to sink into the luxurious thickness of his inky hair.
“That’s the way, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck, leaving a hot path of tingles where his warm breath caressed her skin.
His voice, foreign and suggestive, dashed her back to reality. Mercy, she was allowing a stranger to touch her in the most familiar ways. His kisses, his touch, were a dark temptation that would lead her down her mother’s path to pure sin.
She pushed at his chest. “I hardly think—”
“Do not think, love. Feel,” he encouraged, his lips looming closer.
“You said just one kiss,” she reminded him.
“Why stop now?”
“I should not be here, not like this.”
He clutched her arms. His green eyes, powerful when filled with desire, were doubly potent when filled with desperation. “I need you. You help me to forget. Please,” his ragged whisper entreated. “Do not push me away.”
His jagged plea stilled her tongue. How many times had she needed a human touch during her times of grief? Too many to count.
On the wings of her silence, his lips blanketed hers again, his tongue penetrating. In seconds, he caught her up in the cyclone of returning desire, whirling her up in its vortex.
His hand returned to her thigh. This time he did not linger to caress the flesh, but parted her legs with a gentle nudge, then sought the core of her femininity.
Cyrus had touched her there once or twice and had roused only embarrassment. Lucien’s touch awakened an entirely different emotion. His hands were skilled and determined. Her insides melted.
His fingers whispered across her innermost thighs, his palm cradling her mound, rubbing the sensitive center of her desire. She writhed with an instant, blinding burst of heat.
Slowly, torturously, he pressed his fingers inside her. Without thought of restraint, she gasped, tilting her pelvis up to his hand.
“Oh, yes, you are so sweetly wet,” he whispered, his lips an inch from hers, his breath coming hard and fast. “God, I want you.”
His mouth covered hers again. His thumb massaged the very bud of her need, his fingers still withdrawing and entering.
Desire poured in from all regions of her body; her head fell back. He held her neck with one palm, arching it up for his mouth.
The ache within her grew to something intense, excruciating, coursing through her like a heated flash flood. It built inside her, eradicating all thoughts, making her feel as if the only living part of her body lay below her waist and above her knees. She heard the soft, mewling sounds coming from her throat, but could not stop them. Mindless to all but his rousing fingers within her, Serena arched against his hand.
The coach jerked to a stop. Vaguely, she heard the footman step down, toward the door enclosing them in privacy. With a curse that burned Serena’s ears, Lucien withdrew his pleasure-giving hands and smoothed her skirts in place.
Still aching and disoriented, she hung back.
The footman opened the door, illuminating their intimate cocoon with silvery moonlight. Lucien stepped down and faced her. A roguish smile that held a measure of unexpected tenderness curled his lips upward. “Come inside my house, sweetheart. It will be heaven. I promise.”
He held his hand out to her. Serena stared at his palm, broad and warm. Accepting his invitation would lead her down the path to adultery and sin. Rejecting it meant missing the fulfillment her body craved—and more importantly, the child she wanted and the heir Cyrus needed.
Given those choices, and her fever-high need, Serena touched his fingers, then placed her trembling hand in his.
CHAPTER THREE
Serena emerged from the carriage before the gray stone structure of an elegant Hanover Square town house. The rain had all but faded to a haze of wet fog.
Her gaze climbed up Lucien’s dark sleeve, past his wide shoulder, to his profile. She studied his straight nose and the inky sideburns hugging his ears. An implacable jaw sat beneath the sculpted splendor of his lips, she noted as her feet carried her closer to his front door. Her body, both inside and out, shook with anxiety, but more with the desire he had aroused, with the craving to know more of his drugging touch.
A moment later, the coach and the footman disappeared. She and the stranger stood alone in the courtyard. Her ears detected his breathing, in harmony with the night’s sounds.
She glanced at the town house’s towering wall before her. Irrationally, she wished the stranger would guide her there, put her back to that wall, and gift her with more of the hot, wondrous kisses he had given her in the coach. Instead, he led her forward, holding her hand, twining their fingers in a gesture of further intimacy that warmed her.
The door opened before them. A tall, portly servant greeted his master politely. “Good evening, my lord.”
“I assume the others have sought the comfort of their beds?”
“Indeed.”
“Good. Do the same, Holford, and send my valet on as well. I’ll manage out of my own clothes this evening.” His voice held a repressed smile.
Holford’s eyes never strayed Serena’s way, but she knew he noticed her all the same. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
“Would you care for refreshments before you retire?” Holford’s voice was both formal and polite.
“Nothing, thank you.”
Holford inclined his head forward. “Very good, my lord.”
As the butler left, Lucien escorted her into the entrance hall. The contrasting dark and light ceramic tiles of the floor were exceeded in beauty only by a towering white domed entry. Boot heels clicking on the hand-painted tile, Lucien led her past a marble table of obvious Chinese origin.
At the room’s rear, through an archway, they mounted a curved staircase. Covered by a resplendent red carpet, it led up to the first floor. Lucien mounted the first step.
Serena hesitated. He looked back at her, saying nothing. His green eyes held a promise of pleasure she found more persuasive than words.
With her decision firmly in mind, she followed.
Lucien ascended with a stiff-kneed gait, leaning on the carved walking stick in his grip with every other step. What had happened that he needed a cane?
“Is your knee well?” she asked him hesitantly.
“As well as this weather allows,” he responded without facing her.
“Can I help?”
He turned slowly to face her, his expression stiff. “Does my limp bother you?”
Serena swallowed, certain she had touched upon a sensitive subject. “No, I was merely concerned.”
He raised a dark brow. “Thank you, but my injury was a departing gift from the war. There is nothing you can do.”
“You served?”
He paused. “Three years in Portugal.”
Her gaze roamed his tense profile, taking in his strength. He hadn’t shirked his duty to his country or paid another to take his place. He’d been brave and responsible, even though his service had cost him dearly. A new respect dawned within her.
He turned away and began mounting the stairs again. Down a long hall, past a French Rococo pier glass and table, he escorted her to the library. The silence within the small room was complete, seeming to echo off the mahogany bookcases lining the walls on her left and right.
Without a word, he led her to a plush ivory-colored sofa beside the fireplace. On a waist-high marble table rested several decanters. Lucien chose one, poured two glasses of the liquid, and crossed the room to her.
He sat beside her on the sofa, hip to hip, and handed her one of the glasses.
Trembling, Serena raised it to her nose and sniffed alcohol.
“You need a good drink. Go on,” he said.
Serena hesitated, watching as Lucien brought his glass to his mouth. He drank, his lips caressing the glass as he drained the liquid in long gulps. When he finished, Lucien set his glass on the table beside him.
His unnerving gaze landed on her. Serena transferred her glass from one hand to the other before lifting it to her lips. Anything to avoid his stare.
She recognized the drink as a light, dry wine; it was the kind of thing Aunt Constance had approved of upon certain occasions. Perhaps this circumstance qualified.
Lucien rose to pour himself another. To calm her reawakening anxiety, Serena took another sip.
She cast her eyes around the library, studying the globe in the floor stand, the ceramic busts within the bookshelves, and the Oriental rug of rust, ivory, and various green hues. All shouted wealth and power, the kind which she had been born and married to. Might this stranger know Cyrus? If so, and she conceived, would Lucien confront Cyrus or, God forbid, the
ton
, about the Warrington “heir’s” true sire?
With that alarming thought, she set her glass on the table beside the sofa and rose. “It’s getting rather late. Would it be possible for you to see me home now?”
Surprise registered with the lift of his brows. “If that’s your wish.”
Lucien crossed the floor to stand beside her, leaning on his walking stick with every other step. “I don’t mind telling you I’m disappointed. The way you returned my kiss, I thought . . .” He sighed. “You seemed to want me, too. Was I wrong?”