The Art of Ruining a Rake (35 page)

He divested himself of his remaining clothing. She sat back on her heels and watched hungrily as expanses of skin were bared to her. He was wonderfully tall, gifted with broad shoulders and, as he pushed his small clothes, breeches and boots completely off, blessed by lean, muscled buttocks. The impulse to rub her hands all over him nearly overcame her. This was her delightful, witty, beautiful man.

He laughed huskily. “Patience, Lucy-love. You’ll have your turn.”

Oh, yes. She would. She’d touch him everywhere. She smiled softly and savored her body’s building desire. This was Roman, the man she’d wanted more than her own virtue. He was naked. He was coming to her.

 
Yes.

She left the bed and stood before him. Clasping his biceps firmly, she spun them around until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. Then she pushed him backward, forcing him to sit.

It was her turn. He couldn’t treat her with such courtesy and devotion as he had tonight and not make her want to tear down the walls between them, starting with their clothing.

He was so tall that when seated, his face came level with her breasts. She moved to stand between his legs and draped her arms over his shoulders. This was heaven. Standing here, being here with him, seeing him wanting her. Briefly, she rested the side of her cheek against his guinea-colored curls. Just to feel their silkiness and inhale the masculine scent of him. Then she ran her hands lightly over his naked shoulders and down the planes of his smooth chest.

His eyes fell closed. His lips parted and he exhaled deeply, as though releasing every last knot of tension in him. She paused, astonished. He reacted as if she were the first woman to ever touch him.

Before she could become distracted by that notion, he set his hands on her waist. With his eyes still closed, he leaned his head to one side, exposing his throat. She traced the strong, sinewy muscle and dipped her finger into the dent at his collarbone, then traveled along the V of his chest from one side to the other. A dusting of hair surrounded his nipples.

At each juncture, he sighed with gratification. His poignant satisfaction made her ache with longing. Was it her? Or did he savor every coupling like this?

She couldn’t ask that question. Not of herself and certainly not of him. She turned between his legs, giving him the back of her dress. “I need your help. Please.”

A growl sounded low in his throat. Yes, this was better. If he’d been at ease, he was alert now. His hands cupped her shoulders. They moved down her back, narrowing until they came to the dip of her waist. Before she realized what he was doing, he splayed his hands over her buttocks. She inhaled swiftly. The feel of his hands on her derriere was more intense than she’d remembered.

“Do you like that?” Without notice, he flicked her skirts up and set one hand on the back of her thigh. His skin seared through her stocking. One finger hooked the delicate strip of her garter. The back of his large knuckle dragged up her leg.

He reached the indent of her buttocks. He continued to pull the thin strap of garter taut. She was damp between her legs, so wet he must be able to feel it. Then the tortured garter caressed her thigh as it fell into place. His left hand flattened across her belly, pulling her slightly backward. His forehead rested hot and hard against her lower spine. It was unbearable, not being able to see him. Having him touching her at his leisure and being able to do nothing.

His fingers slipped between her legs. By impossibly small measurements, he worked them forward. Finally, his index finger touched her sensitive nub. Another long finger slid inside her.

“Roman!” she gasped, though her voice broke so it hardly made a sound. Anticipation built inside her as he eased a second finger into her. She was going to explode if he didn’t…if he didn’t…

“Good,” he encouraged huskily, simultaneously sliding in and out of her and flicking across her wet, swollen bud. “Let it come.”

Just the sound of his coaxing was enough to send her sailing toward completion. She reached back for his knees. Clung to him while wave upon wave built to a climax. Just when she needed it most, he pressed two fingers tightly against her, doubling the pleasure that wracked her.

But she wasn’t done. She wanted more. Thicker, fuller.

Deeper.

Her numerous layers of clothing were deftly handled. He pulled her, naked, onto the bed. His body touched hers everywhere, a glorious caress of skin and man. His erection pressed between them.

They were here. Sharing in something she couldn’t quite name, but she was sure he felt, too. Any doubt she’d felt was replaced by the certainty he needed this coupling with her as badly as she needed it with him.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you now.”

“First,” he said, nuzzling her cheek with his nose, “you must admit you like me.”

Oh.
The request drizzled through her like warm chocolate. He kissed her just below her ear, then lower, working his way to her breast and the dusky nipple primed for his tongue.

He licked it slowly. Then he groaned and—with a flick of his wrist between them—fit himself between her legs and thrust into her. “I can’t wait,” he said as he filled her so completely, tears of relief came into her eyes. He thrust again, and again and again. “I love you. You’re built for me.”

She clamped her lips together as he continued to ravish her, lest she admit sentiments she couldn’t risk saying.
I love you, too. I want this. Forever.

“I love you,” he said again. “I think I’ve always loved you.”

Sweet, sweet agony. He hadn’t
always
loved her. But she accepted his sentiment was in earnest, even if it wasn’t precisely true.

“I need you,” she answered, pushing her hips up to meet his. Her hands gripped his shoulders. She let herself have this moment, looking into his eyes until she thought she would drown in their depths. He did love her. Even if he hadn’t, or wouldn’t, or couldn’t, always.

“Need?”
He gritted out his dissatisfaction, frustration evident in his crystalline eyes. He leaned forward until he slanted over her. Curls brushed across her cheek as he drove into her. “Need?”

She hugged him until he crushed her.

“Tell me,” he insisted, growling into her ear. “You love me.”

“I—”

He thrust into her harder. “You love me. You must love me if you want
this
.”

“I do want this,” she rasped. “And you.”

“But do you love me?”

“I—I don’t know!” She turned her head away. She couldn’t bear his growl of betrayal.

He slowed his rhythm. Not stopping, but no longer pounding into her with fierce demand. “You
do
know,” he murmured, easing into her. Pulling out. Seeking entrance again. “You know the truth.”

Her body thrummed with the frustration of having been so near to ecstasy and then stalled. She tried urging him faster with her hips, but he denied her.

“Savor it,” he whispered. “No need to rush.”

Oh, great
Zeus
. His upper body caressed hers with each slow parry. Every muscle, every movement seemed heightened with awareness.

Slowly, she risked looking into his face. Then his eyes.

“That’s it,” he said, searching her for the words he so desperately wanted to hear. “Let me be with you. Don’t push me away.”

Her heart constricted. She gripped his shoulders until her nails bit into his flesh. Her lips parted. She gasped with increasingly urgent appeal. The rhythm built again, slower this time, but somehow more important. He dropped his weight fully and nestled his cheek against hers, so their every ragged breath became one.

He was making love to her. With his eyes. With his words. With his body and with his soul. He offered everything he had, and she greedily wanted more.

Perhaps it was time to offer him something in return.
 

“You’re
mine,
” she whispered, encircling his neck and hugging him close. Her body strained toward his, drawing him deeper inside her, as she pressed kisses to his jaw, his ear, his shoulder. “Mine. Mine, mine.”

He cried out his release. “Yes, Lucy.
Yes.
”

Her name on his lips pushed her over her own edge. She rode with him, locking him tight as if she’d never let go. He clutched her equally fiercely, squeezing her until her ribs threatened to break. “Oh, Roman,” she gasped. “My darling Roman. I never… I never dreamed… So wondrous.”

As they both became sated, he eased against her. His weight began to settle over her. She relished the rightness of him covering her as he gathered her into his arms and pulled her close. His nose nuzzled her neck. “Yes, my Lucy-love.
You
are everything I ever dreamed, too.”

Chapter 17

LUCY AWOKE THE next morning cuddled against a warm, hard male body. She barely managed not to bolt upright in disbelief.
He hadn’t left.

The misty beginnings of light filtered through the open window. Just enough to remind her what she’d done last eve: make love with Roman. Gingerly, she clutched the coverlet to her breasts and shifted to an elbow to peer at the man sprawled in her bed. He, too, was under her coverlet. She nudged her foot in the direction of his leg. Her toe encountered his hairy calf. Great Zeus! There was a
man
in her
bed.

Roman.

One of his arms draped over the edge of the mattress. The other fell halfway across her thigh. She dared to glance toward the hearth where Carson always laid the fire early and was both relieved and embarrassed to see her maid hadn’t come yet. Where was Carson? Had she been instructed not to enter?
Oh,
did Trestin know Roman was
here
?

Lucy could only hope she never knew the answer to that last question. She drew the coverlet back, intent on rising before she became too comfortable with the feel of Roman beside her. Her teeth instantly chattered. Without her chemise in reach, she was about to have a very cold trip across the room.

She did her best to ease herself from Roman’s embrace and crawl to the foot of her bed. The last thing she wanted was for him to catch her darting across the room nude.

She needn’t have worried; he didn’t stir in the least. Hastily, she selected stockings, a chemise and her favorite peach-colored wrapper from her wardrobe. Without Carson, she couldn’t possibly don anything more complicated than this gauzy cover-up, though she’d dearly like to have something more substantial between herself and Roman when he did awaken.

She wasn’t ready to entangle herself in his arms again. Not until she’d had time to think.

She tiptoed to her dressing area and drew the curtain closed. The
sshhh
of the fabric sliding along the curtain rod sounded deafening to her, but Roman’s breathing didn’t break. She pulled her chemise over her head and her wrapper around her middle, then ran her fingers through her hair. A few pins clinked to the floor. She bent and scooped them up, then wound her hair into a bun and poked the pins through. It would have to do for now.

She padded to the cold fireplace and was glad to see orange embers glowing in the back of the grate. Carefully, she selected a log from a basket beside the hearth and placed it on the ashes, then prodded the embers with a poker. To her great relief, the log caught. If it hadn’t, she supposed she wouldn’t have had a choice but to crawl back into bed with him. The surest way to keep warm without a fire was under that coverlet…

No.
She tore away from her blond Adonis and went to her escritoire. While the gloriousness of last night remained fresh in her mind, she ought to try capturing her emotions on the page. Surely, her manuscript could only benefit from the exultant and petrifying feelings warring in her heart.

She arranged a crisp, blank page in front of her. For a good quarter hour she deliberated over her first word, until she became convinced the blank page was an evil, judgmental brute. Better to go on from a page she’d already started. Rifling through the finished sheets, she found one only partially covered in scrawl. There. Starting from scratch was too difficult, but this was almost like continuing a thought she’d already begun. Surely she could manage now.

Boldly, she wrote:
What it is like to make love to a man; Chronicles of the Morning After, from the Point of View of a Woman
.