Tempting the Heiress (24 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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The suggestion sent a lightning bolt of trepidation through her. Before she could express her panic, he kissed her down there as thoroughly as he had explored her mouth. Any thought of flight faded. Falling back into her prone position, she surrendered to his mastery over her willing body. She merely sighed when he slipped two fingers into her. The wetness of her arousal eased the escalating tempo he set while the suction of his mouth constricted the coil in her pelvis. With her hands clenched, she tensed for the unknown.
Brock jerked his head up. His eyes burned into hers. “Let go,” he commanded, his fingers plunged deep.
Amara complied. She came apart in his hands. Choking out his name, she reached for him as her hips bucked with each wrenching spasm. The gentle caresses had been replaced with ruthless expertise designed to wring out her pleasure. When it finally ended, she felt hollow and aching.
Triumph gleamed in those pale green eyes. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he crawled up her body. Not saying a word, he pulled her into his embrace and cradled her while she wept.
There had been other women in his life. A few before he had understood his feelings for Amara, and too many afterward, when in despair he had deemed her unattainable. He cared, yet never loved. Some might have even considered him indiscriminate, though he had given pleasure as often as he had taken it. Until now, never had he pleasured a lover until she was sobbing in his arms. It was rather humbling.
As she sniffled into the handkerchief he had handed her, her sodden gaze was rueful. “I suppose it is dreadfully uncouth crying after the seduction.”
Her subtle attempt to distance herself from what they had shared irritated him. “I was loving you, not offering instruction. I will leave the rules of etiquette to your mother.”
His harshness stung her. The soft look in her eyes hardened with temper. He would spend the rest of the night aroused and alone if he allowed this nonsense to continue.
“Do not think about running off. You may not like the results if I have to chase you.”
Abandoning the notion of sulking exit, Amara reached for her shirt. Brock plucked it from her hands and flung the ball of linen into the fire.
The scent of scorched linen assailed their senses. Appalled, she watched the flames greedily devour her shirt. “Was that necessary?”
“It appears so. Now that I have seen you naked, I find clothing offensive.”
She bit down on her lip, and he would have sworn it was to keep from laughing. “Then be prepared to be offended often, for I shall not give up wearing gowns. Not even for you, Mr. Bedegrayne.”
“It is fortunate one of us can claim prudence. If any man looked upon you thus, I would be provoked to kill him.”
Tugging one of the blankets around her to appease her modesty, she wrinkled her nose. “What a male thing to say!”
“My dove, a man is always earnest about his male thing,” he quipped.
Laughing, she shoved him. In retaliation, he grabbed her by the waist and settled her on his lap. “You are simply dreadful,” she said.
He sobered at a sudden thought. “Is that why you cried? Was I too rough?”
She waged a war between surprise and embarrassment. “No, not at all. What you did—we did … I found it so overwhelming. My tears, they were of joy. You did nothing.”
“I respectfully disagree. It appears I was doing everything right. Want to try again?”
Instead of laughing as he had expected, Amara furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “What we did—there is more to it. You never—”
Not wanting her to dwell on her limited and horrible acquaintance with the male flesh, he distracted her by nibbling on her ear. “No, I did not,” he murmured. “I want to share that part of myself with you.” At the moment, his need rivaled breathing. “I can wait, if we must. If it frightens you.” He was lying, of course, but he was not such a bastard he would push her into something that terrified her. Then again, he was not above engaging in a little gentle persuasion. She had admitted earlier that she had enjoyed his dedicated efforts.
“Will it hurt, Brock?”
The quake in her voice ably snuffed his mischievous machinating. “Never with me,” he said quietly, willing her to believe it. “Do you recall the pleasure you felt at my touch?”
Too concerned about the answer to her own question, she ignored the absurdity of his.
At her nod, he continued. “Joining with you allows us to share that pleasure. There is no pain. Trust me in this.”
“I do.” She returned his kiss, prolonging the contact.
Encouraged, he gripped the edge of the blanket she had wound around her body. Amara slapped his hand and shifted away from him. So his lady wanted to play games. He was primed and quite willing. Brock lunged.
Squealing with laughter, she rolled away and struggled to her feet. She was halfway across the room before he caught her by the waist and spun her around.
“Stop, stop,” she pleaded, trying to catch her breath. “I will get sick!”
“A ruse. I have never met another with a sturdier constitution than yours.” He set her down anyway, but held her close. Brock groaned when her backside brushed against his erection. Within her proximity, he felt like a randy beast quivering in front of his mate just as he readied himself to enter her. The image of tearing away the blanket, pushing her against the wall and taking her chipped at his civility.
Amara must have sensed the change in him. As she turned her head, he took advantage of the tender curve between her neck and shoulder that she offered and sank his teeth into her. She leaned into him, her hand reaching back to touch his face. Last time, he had shown her gentleness. Now he would show her the passion she roused. Brock scooped her into his arms and carried her to the pallet. She fell onto the blankets, losing her hold on the one covering her.
“Do not move,” he ordered while he tugged off his shirt. His hands tore at the buttons on his breeches. In his frenzy, he struggled to free them.
“If you will permit me?” The blanket fell to her waist, as she rose on her knees to assist him. Staring down at her endearingly awkward attempts to unfasten his falls, his blood pounded the beat of his heart in his ears. “There, it is done.” She sat on her heels, her eyes solemnly fixed on his aggressive arousal.
“Trust me, Amara.” Brock peeled his breeches down his legs and kicked them aside. “It will be like before. Only pleasure.”
“I never realized there was—are you not too large?” she blurted out.
Comfortable with his nakedness, he sat down beside
her and pulled her into his lap as he had done earlier. “Stroke me,” he entreated.
He thought she would refuse such a bold command. But she was braver than she realized. His cock twitched as her cool fingers petted the length of him. She pulled her hand away, faltering at his response.
“Explore me. It hurts more when you are not touching me.”
“I do not understand.”
“Let me show you.” Putting his hand between her legs, he pressed his fingers into her nether curls. The dampness coating his fingers was enlightening. “You are so responsive, dove. Touch me again.” He teased her with his fingers, making her squirm.
Amara enclosed her hand around him. Encouraged by his own questing, she measured the length of him. “Smooth, hot to the touch, and yet rigid as a sword,” she marveled as if he were a specimen she was studying. “You are not wet.”
She was killing him and she was not being merciful about it. “You are. You are too generous not to share.” Kissing Amara, he lifted her and arranged her position so that she straddled him. He cupped her buttocks. Rubbing himself against her, the blunt head of his cock was anointed with her yielding wetness. “Take me.” Crushing her to him, he filled her with one stroke.
She dug her nails into the back of his neck at his swift impalement. Her lashes fluttered open and their gazes collided. “No pain,” she whispered, amazed.
“No.” Not the sort that put fear in her eyes. Holding still deep within her, Brock slid his hand from her hip down the length of her leg, wrapping the limb around his waist. His fervid kiss contrasted with the restraint he had
imposed on his body. “We are not limited by rules, only by our originality and endurance.” He rocked within her, proving she could accommodate his loving invasion.
Her blue eyes widened at his upward thrust. “I have always considered you a clever man.”
Amara clung to Brock like ivy on stone. Not that he was trying to get away, she thought smugly. From the approving noises he made, he was quite content with his situation. She followed his lead, and they moved together, slowly at first, savoring the unique joining of man and woman. Rising and falling, Brock forged into her intimate slick depths and what had shimmered just out of reach earlier coalesced into a low blossoming heat. She had always believed lovemaking was solely for a man’s pleasure. Brock had helped her discover a part of herself she had never known existed.
“More,” he muttered savagely, his movements losing their fluid grace. She swung a bracing hand out when he pitched forward intending to shove her on to her back. Realizing what he was about to do, Brock cursed and pulled her upright. Before she could question his indecision, he said, “This way.” Lying back, he tugged her forward.
Leaning over him, Amara folded her legs while she straddled his hips. The change in their position stretched her. Brock clenched his teeth. His hands settled on her hips, coaxing her body into accepting the full measure of his manhood. He looked as if the new position pained him.
“Am I hurting you?”
The shudder began in his chest. Soon she realized he was laughing.
“Exquisitely, dove,” he bit out, guiding her movements with his hands. “Promise you will never stop!”
Lowering her head so her hair hid most of her face, she shyly replied, “You are easy to please.”
“Mayhap my dove thinks her beast is too tame.” Mischievous delight enhanced the green hue of his eyes. “Persuading you to reverse your opinion shall bring pleasure for us both.” He turned his face into her right breast and suckled her nipple. Amara moaned, enjoying the subtle tightening in her breasts.
“Brock.”
“Which strokes give you the most fulfillment? This?” He teasingly kept his thrusting shallow.
Being denied the full length of him aroused and tormented her in ways she had not thought possible. When she tried to press her weight down on him, the scoundrel anticipated her reaction. Smacking her on the bottom, he grinned and held her off with incredible ease.
“Who holds the power?” she queried archly.
“Or perhaps this is more to your liking,” he said, piercing the heart of her. They both cried out.
Having gained her answer, Brock was unrelenting. She might have been the one on top, but he was the one who set their reckless pace. The cords in his neck grew prominent as he drove his hips upward, plunging his thick manhood to the hilt, repeatedly, so that her entire body bucked with each battering thrust.
A sinuous warmth began intensifying in her belly, spreading and constricting every inch it consumed. Without warning, it exploded, similarly to the hammer of a pistol striking the priming pan. Her vision was a blinding flash of white as she was racked with pulse after pulse of
ecstasy. As she endeavored not to collapse on him, his name erupted from her lips in a strangled gasp.
Her writhing cries severed Brock’s arrogant restraint. Rearing up frantically in cadence with her fading release, he stilled, letting his head fall back, and his hips arched to meet hers. They were locked together, and his breath was a hiss between his teeth. Amara held him closer, feeling the rhythmic contraction of his manhood, the forceful gush of his seed against her womb. Brock had described their joining as a sharing of their bodies. She disagreed. It was a claiming.
Sated and sleepy, neither spoke while he absently stroked her back. His manhood had remained turgid after the release. Still, nestled within her, Brock made no attempt to disengage their tangled repose. Finally, he asked, “Have you figured out who holds the power, dove?”
He reached over and flipped the blanket over them. Pondering the answer to the riddle, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Brock was alone on the pallet when he awoke. Stretching out the kink in his right shoulder, he searched the hall for some hint of Amara’s whereabouts. The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting an indulgent grin. Poor little dove, he thought. Waking up naked beside her lover must have triggered a bout of shyness. She was probably upstairs castigating herself for her lapse of judgment while she wiggled herself back into her corset and gown. A gentleman would dress and respect her privacy, he mused, scratching the stubble under his jaw. Unfortunately, for Amara, he threw on and shed his decorum like
a pair of breeches. After last night, he was looking forward to finding her and stripping her of her misgivings and whatever else she was wearing.
“Looking for me?”
She had paused at the threshold. From her expression, she must have been watching him for some time. Instead of donning her gown, she had slipped on his shirt. The sunlight beaming down from overhead gave him enticing glimpses of the naked curves beneath. A flood of possessiveness filled him, knowing only hours earlier he had feasted on the forbidden and she had let him.
Brock had been prepared to coax her from her shyness. He was unsure of the confident woman who stared brazenly at his nakedness. “Where did you go?” he asked, pulling a blanket over his hips. Seeing her rumpled and bathed in sunlight only inflamed his morning arousal.
Amara held up a bean tart. She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “I was hungry.”
His mouth went dry as he watched her tongue dart out, ensnaring a crumb at the corner of her mouth. “Were you planning on sharing?”
She blushed at the question. Belatedly, he recalled telling her that joining with her was a kind of sharing. It appeared she was more ill at ease with their lovemaking than she had wanted him to know. After a moment, she walked over to him. “You may have it all, if you like.” She offered him the tart.

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