Sonata for a Scoundrel (24 page)

He stepped back just to look at her—her glorious hair unbound, her legs exposed and wanton, the shoulder of her dress still slipped down, the enticing edge of her nipple revealed. She was beautiful and sensual, moonlight and starlight. And she was his.

“Turn over,” he said.

“Why?”

So many possibilities, but one perfect reason. “So I can unbutton your dress.”

She turned and pillowed her head on her arms. Her skirts bunched beneath her, her hair a sweep of palest gold across her back.

He kicked off his shoes, then lay down on the bed beside her. Her hair was fine and silken, reaching nearly to her waist. A wealth of softness. He caressed it, spread his hands and let the locks slip between his fingers. The fragrance of lavender-water mingled with the secret scent of her, and he found himself breathing in heavily, as if he could absorb her with every sense.

Brushing her hair aside, he began to undo the row of pearl buttons running down her back. There were over two dozen, but he took his time, watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed, letting the hungry fire inside him simmer.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” She looked back over her shoulder.

“So impatient.” He gave her a smile. “All in good time. The banquet, remember?”

She made a little pout, an expression he had never seen on her before. He knew her face when she was serene, or anxious, or sometimes smiling. But this endearing, half-teasing look nearly brought him to his knees.

“When is it my turn at the table?” She made as if to rise, and he set his hand on her back.

“When mine is over.” He anticipated it would take hours. “Lie still.”

She tossed her head, but obeyed, and another thrill of desire went through him. He opened her gown, pushing it past her shoulders and midway down her arms. The fine material of her chemise followed, bunching at the edges of the corset, revealing more of her exquisite skin. Her corset concealed her lower back, but he bent and pressed kisses along her exposed spine. Moving up to the base of her neck, he nipped her lightly and felt her shiver with pleasure.

“Sit up,” he said.

When she did, turning to face him, her gown slipped down to her waist. The corset curved beneath her breasts, pressing them up invitingly, and he could not refuse. He set his hands at her waist, lowered his head, and feasted. His mouth moved first over one nipple, coaxing it to tightness, then the other. Back and forth, until she was gasping, her hands fisted in his hair.

When he stopped, her nipples were peaked and rosy. So beautiful. He could spend years on her breasts alone—but more awaited.

Her gown pulled off easily, and her petticoats followed, tumbling to the floor. She sat, her hair pushed back, clad only in her undergarments. Feminine, and sensual beyond words. She met his gaze boldly, and smiled. The wolf inside him howled and leaped. He needed her, with a fierceness that could not be denied.

CHAPTER TWENTY

C
lara’s heartbeat sped, even as languorous heat spread through her. Darien watched her with heavy-lidded eyes, his touch nearly making her swoon. He still wore his concert clothes, his cravat loosened, his coat open.

“I think you’re overdressed for the occasion, Master Reynard,” she said.

It was titillating, using his formal title while she sat before him half clothed, her unbound hair caressing her back.

He must have thought so, too, for the fire in his eyes rose.

“I think you are not undressed enough,” he said. “Come here and let me unlace you.”

She rose, her fine cotton chemise whispering against her legs, and a moment later she was in his embrace again. Whatever his intentions of corset unlacing, it seemed that kisses were of paramount importance. His tongue traced her lips, his hands were warm against her naked shoulders, and she felt as though she were melting under the force of his heat.

Darien’s tongue dipped into her mouth, and she opened to him, let her tongue touch his. Sparks of desire coursed through her, the place between her legs damp. She pressed closer to him and felt the hardness of his member against her belly—that mysterious male part that somehow had fit into her own body.

Just as he was turning her weak-kneed with his plunging kisses, she knew he would turn her weak-hearted when he entered her. She wanted it, wanted it fiercely. Wanted
him
, musician and man and, though he could never know it, mate of her soul.

If she could not tell him in words, she would let her body speak. She would open fully to him, give him everything of herself. All the secrets burning in her, all the secrets she could never say, transmuted to pure passion.

His hands tangled in her hair, he kissed her as though he were worshipping some pagan goddess who must be appeased by his kisses. It made her feel beautiful and powerful and humbled all at once. His mouth trailed a line of caresses along her jaw, down her throat, around the base of one ear.

She held tightly to his shoulders, her skin tingling from the brush of his lips. A soft moan escaped her and he lifted his head. Those green eyes regarded her, that firm mouth and sculpted features all the ladies sighed over—that
she
sighed over in the restless hours before morning. A wayward lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and she could finally brush it back; an intimate gesture she’d been craving for weeks. His hair was black satin against her fingers, and she knew she would never forget the feel of it.

He smiled, and she caught her breath. It was a private smile, a smile made for bedchambers and midnights, full of promises.

“You are everything distracting,” he said. “Turn around.”

Even as he spoke the words, his hands turned her in place until she faced away from him. He held her by the hips, the male heat of him just behind her, then bent his head to lay more kisses along her neck. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against his shoulder, giving herself up to the tickling shocks of his touch. She was dimly aware of him moving her, steering her a few steps to the right.

“Open your eyes.” His voice was low and husky. “Watch.”

They were facing the large mirrored wardrobe. Her eyes widened as she saw what was reflected there.

Lamplight played against her pale skin, gleamed on the long fall of her hair. Darien was tall and dusky behind her, one arm around her waist, holding her as the midnight sky holds a luminous moon. She looked like a goddess captured, unwary, by a masterful hunter. Unwary, but not unwilling. A wave of arousal swept through her, and her reflection mirrored it, lips parting, eyes half closing.

“Watch,” he said again, a smoky undertone of wickedness in the word.

He brought his hand up to cup her breast, then ran his thumb over the pink tip. The sensation, coupled with the sight of him caressing her, made her gasp aloud.

“So lovely,” he murmured.

He pulled her tightly against him and began teasing her nipple, all the while watching her reflection’s eyes. His other hand grazed her hip, and he took a handful of her chemise and began to lift.

The light material inched up, exposing her calf, her knee. She swallowed, tasting the heady flavor of desire. It was scandalously exciting, as if she were watching another woman, a beautiful, sensual stranger, being undressed. He toyed with her breasts, while her chemise crept ever higher.

Past her ribbon-clasped garters to the pale skin of her thigh, the lacy edge of her drawers. Darien made an impatient sound. His hand moved beneath the chemise and she felt his fingers loosening the ties of her drawers. They slipped down, cambric and lace rumpling at her ankles. She lifted one foot, then the other, stepping free of the undergarment.

“Very good.” He gave her a hungry smile.

She held his reflected gaze and dipped her head in assent. Here in his arms, he was the master and she would follow wherever he led.

He resumed the slow lifting of her chemise, and her heart pounded. She was naked now beneath it, nothing to shield her womanly places from his avid gaze. The smooth length of her thigh, her hip—and then the first glimpse of the golden curls wound tightly between her legs.

His hand stilled on her breast and she felt tension imbue his body. Here, now, the secrets of her body were revealed. And though she could not share her other secrets with him, she wanted desperately to share this. She reached back, lacing her fingers about his neck, and the movement raised her breasts even higher above the corset.

The woman in the mirror was deliciously wanton, a self she had never suspected, yet could not help but acknowledge. The proof was there before her in the glass—her pale hair unbound, her softly opened mouth and languid eyes, her breasts peaked and eager for his touch, her legs ready to be parted. Heat and a low throbbing pulsed from her center, and she let out a sigh. The kind of sigh the siren in the mirror would certainly give in the arms of her lover.

The sound spurred him to movement. Still holding her tightly, he leaned, snagged a nearby chair, and pulled it in front of her.

“Put your foot there,” he said. “On the seat.”

She obeyed, though it was a position that would expose her even more to him. With a low, guttural sound, he dropped his hand to her hip and pulled the rest of her chemise aside. Ah, she was still partially clothed, but naked everywhere it counted. The lamplight cast soft shadows between her breasts, shone faintly on the triangle of hair between her legs.

Darien was heat and powerful male at her back. The breath feathering past her neck was the only softness about him now. That, and the way his palm smoothed along her lifted leg. His hand slid forward to caress the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

Breath hurried through her lungs now, and she was panting softly as his touch moved closer to the juncture of her legs. When he brushed her curls, she moaned—she could not help it. Her eyes fell closed, and his hand stopped.

Oh yes, she must watch. With effort, she lifted her heavy lids. He met her gaze in the mirror and gave her a nod of approval, then threaded his fingers through her curls and tugged gently. His knuckles brushed lower down, sending a shower of sparks tingling through her. Another moan escaped her lips.

“Very good,” he murmured. “You are an apt student in the arts of lovemaking. Will you continue on as my pupil, Miss Becker?”

She summoned the breath to speak. “Teach me, Master Reynard.”

Again, the formality of the words, contrasted with her shockingly explicit position, sent a wave of arousal through her.

“Excellent.”

He laid his hot mouth against her neck, swirling his tongue in a pattern of pure desire. Lower, his hand brushed between her legs, lightly back and forth. Too lightly. She needed
more
. She tilted her hips forward and felt him laugh against her skin.

Taking his hand away, he brought his fingers up to her mouth. Slowly, he inserted his index finger between her lips. She flicked her tongue along it. He tasted of salt and man, slightly rough in the warm confines of her mouth. Experimenting, she sucked on his finger and felt a quiver run through him.

Finger slick with moisture, he brought his hand back to play between her legs. This time he boldly touched her, parted her, and slid his finger against the softness he found.

“Ah!” A sudden flare of excited relief surged through her. Yes—right there.

A feral light in his eyes, Darien continued to stroke her. The initial satisfaction quickly burned away, replaced by the fiery urgency she recalled from the night before. Need pressed close about her, pulled tighter than any corset.

“What do you see?” he asked, his voice low and unrepentant.

She had forgotten to watch, had been unable to watch, with such sensations running rampant through her.

“I…” She licked her lips and forced herself to look in the mirror again.

Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, partially concealing her breast, though the tip of it peeked out, the nipple still puckered hard with desire. His arm circled her waist, his fingers clenched around her bunched chemise, while his other hand moved relentlessly between her legs. She was spread open to his touch, to his gaze—indiscreet and reckless.

“I see a woman—”

“An incredibly desirable woman,” he corrected.

“Being touched. Pleasured…” She faltered.

“Oh yes. Do you feel pleasure?”

She nodded, knowing that he could sense the sensation building beneath his hands in the trembling of her limbs, in the way her breath shortened as though she had just run up three flights of stairs.

“Let me give you more words,” he said. “Stimulated. Erotic. Aroused.”

Each descriptive sent another throb of heat through her.

He dipped his head and whispered in her ear. “Are you those things? Let me hear you say them.”

“Stimulated,” she breathed, then shivered as he added a second finger to the one rubbing along her slit.

“Erotic.” She felt as though the floor were tilting beneath her.

“Aroused.” She could barely speak the word as the pressure of his fingers increased, sliding insistently back and forth. Back and forth.

Her head fell against his shoulder and she bit her lip, moaning.