The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (31 page)

“No.” He scoffed. “Of course not.”

“You have done this before, haven’t you?” She pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders.

“Yes, of course.” Indignation sounded in his voice, but he shrugged out of his dressing gown nonetheless and let it drop to the floor.

“Pajamas, Cameron?” She stared at the loose-fitting, striped silk shirt and trousers. “How very progressive.”

“I suppose. I like them. Nightshirts make me feel like a little boy.”

“This is lovely,” she murmured, and ran her hands over his silk-covered shoulders and down his arms. “You don’t feel like a little boy.” She gathered the edges of the silk shirt in her hands and pulled it over his head. His chest was hard and muscled. A smattering of hair covered his abdomen and arrowed down to disappear beneath the silk trousers. She sucked in a sharp breath. “And you certainly don’t look like one.”

“Lucy!”

“Surely you’re not embarrassed?” She ran her hands lightly over his chest, reveling in the hot feel of his flesh and the way his muscles tightened beneath her fingers.

“No, but . . .” He drew in a shuddering breath and she had the distinct impression he was doing everything possible to keep himself firmly under control. Oh, that would never do.

“I wouldn’t think so.” She trailed her fingers along the indentation between his silk trousers and his waist. “This is not new to you after all.”

“You, however, have not done this before.”

“This what?” She leaned forward and flicked her tongue over his nipple.”

“Good Lord.” He grabbed her shoulders and took half a step back.

She stared up at him. “In spite of my obvious enthusiasm at the moment, no, of course I haven’t.”

“That makes it . . .”

“Extremely exciting.” She cast him a wicked smile.

“Yes, but.” He huffed. “There’s a great deal of pressure, you know, when a man is taking a lady to bed for the first time.”

“Goodness, Cameron.” And he thought she talked too much. “I don’t see why.”

“Aside from the obvious reasons, you weren’t especially complimentary the first time we kissed.”

“The first time you said you weren’t prepared.” She shrugged out of his grasp, moved closer, and slid her hand over the front of the tented silk covering his arousal. “You seem well prepared now.” The silk was no more than a whisper and she ached at the feel of him beneath her hand. “Extremely prepared.”

“Lucy.” He groaned and grabbed her hand, then guided it beneath the waistband and down the trousers to his erection. “Feel what you have done to me.”

“Gladly.” Her hand closed around his member, hot and hard and thick. It throbbed in her hand as if it had a life of its own. Shivers of need fluttered through her. She teased him, stroked him, running her fingers along his hard length, and savored the thrill of touching him so intimately.

He rested his head on her shoulder and murmured against her skin. “There’s no going back now, you know.”

“Good.” She hesitated, then whispered, “I would like to see you. All of you.”

He groaned, then straightened. “I have no desire to be naked by myself.” A wicked gleam shone in his eyes. His gaze locked with hers and he quickly untied the ribbons of her wrapper.

“You don’t?” It was her turn to swallow the lump in her throat. Up till now she had felt rather like the seducer and had relished the excitement of exploring him and watching him melt beneath her touch. Now the tide had apparently turned. Cameron had at last given up all attempts at restraint, and she suspected she was about to be seduced and quite thoroughly at that.

“Absolutely not.” He whipped her around and pulled off her robe. He kissed the back of her neck and slid his hands along her sides and over the curve of her hips, leaving a trail of awareness in his wake.

“I suspect you’re no longer nervous,” she said weakly. Odd how she had been perfectly confident in what she was about to do a minute ago; now, she wasn’t quite as sure.

“I never was.” A faint growl sounded in his voice. Without warning he gathered the fabric of her nightgown in his hands and pulled it up and over her head. The night air enveloped her, cooling her heated flesh, and she shivered with anticipation as much as the cold.

He pulled her back against him and she realized he had managed to rid himself of his silk trousers. His erection nudged between her legs and, good Lord, she felt her own moisture slick against him. How very . . . erotic. He wrapped one arm around her waist, his free hand cupped her breast, and she gasped.

“Lucy,” he murmured against her neck.

She melted back against him, losing herself in the way his hand felt on her skin, holding her breast, his fingers teasing her tightening nipple. Her eyes closed, her back arched, and she rested her head against his chest. She’d never so much as suspected that a man’s hand on her breast would feel so incredible.

His hand trailed downward, across her stomach, and she shivered with the intensity of his caress. With every touch her flesh ached for more. She pushed his hand lower, wanting him to touch that part of her now throbbing with need, wondering if she had a heretofore unsuspected wanton nature or if every woman at this point felt this way. Not that she cared or that it mattered. Not now.

He slipped his hand between her legs and held her, cupped her. She could feel her wetness on his hand. She had touched herself on occasion, even though it was most certainly a sin and she would surely burn in hell for it. She had always considered the risk of eternal damnation to be worth it as the sensations were so exquisite. But nothing had quite prepared her for someone else’s touch, someone else’s hand, someone else’s fingers sliding over her. She sucked in a short breath and held it, her attention, her very being, focused on that part of her that ached for his attention. His fingers explored the folds of her flesh, then slid over that point of acute sensation, slowly and deliberately, and she marveled that her legs continued to support her. She could die quite happily like this, lost in a world of utter sensation. A world where she existed only in the touch of his hand and the heat of his body behind hers.

He slid a finger into her and she gasped. Then another, then withdrew and pumped his fingers in again, each thrust better than the last. Behind her, his breath was labored and she realized as intoxicating as this was, it was not enough. Not for him and certainly not for her. She wanted more.

She pushed his hand away, then turned in his embrace to face him. “Cameron, in a strictly practical sense . . .” Goodness, her voice was breathless. “This is far more awkward than it has to be.”

His eyes were glazed and dark with passion. “Is it?”

“Not that it’s not extremely, well, arousing but . . .” She glanced at the bed. “Perhaps—”

He laughed, scooped her into his arms, and carried her to the bed. “We wouldn’t want it to be awkward.”

He dropped her on the bed and stood grinning over her.

“No.” Her gaze slid from his eyes to his, well, his arousal, and it looked much larger than it had felt. She reached out for him and pulled him down onto the bed with her. “Awkward is not at all what I had in mind.”

He pulled her into his arms and his hands wandered over her, skimming along her sides, caressing her stomach, teasing between her legs. He traced the line of her jaw with his lips, then kissed her neck, her throat. His mouth moved ever lower, tasting and teasing with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. He took one breast in his mouth and tugged gently with his teeth and she moaned and lightly bit his shoulder. Her hands caressed the back of his neck and traced aimless patterns on his shoulders and his back and his buttocks, and she reveled in the feel of the planes and valleys of his body. Of hard, firm flesh and well-defined muscle and the searing feel of his naked skin pressed against her own.

His hand again slid between her legs, his fingers caressing and exploring. She wondered if he could feel her throb against him. She slipped her hand between their bodies and found his erection and squeezed him, stroked him. His breath quickened with need, her blood coursed through her veins, and she wanted—no—needed more.

She shifted to wrap her legs around his. “Cameron, I want . . .”

“You,” he whispered, and positioned himself between her legs. “Only, always you.”

He eased into her slowly and tenderly, as if he was afraid she would break. In spite of her desire, she braced herself. She had never done this before, after all. It was her understanding that there would be, well, pain, and she was not overly fond of pain. But she had been assured that any distress would ease fairly quickly. There was a mild stinging, nothing overwhelming, and she wondered if riding astride had made a difference. She had heard that. Still, a certain amount of discomfort was to be expected obviously when a rather large, hard part of his body was invading a relatively uncharted part of hers.

He slid into her, deeper. She angled her hips toward him and wrapped her legs around his, urging him on. He paused for a long moment, allowing her to adjust to the feel of him inside her. Strange and odd and somehow rich. The intimacy, being one with this man, was as powerful as the physical sensations and she uttered a silent prayer of gratitude. She had never suspected it would be this intense, this feeling of being filled with him. As if their souls were bound as completely as their bodies.

He slid back the tiniest bit, then pushed into her again and her breath caught. Again he pulled back, then trust forward. And again. And with each thrust the most remarkable feeling of pure pleasure grew. And need. Aching and relentless. Slowly, she met his thrusts with her hips, rocking against him. And then she moved faster and he moved in kind.

Together they rocked harder and faster. Desire, need, tension coiled within her, like a spring being wound too tight. He pounded into her and she met each thrust with her own, arching upward to meet him. To welcome him. They moved as one in a rhythm as natural as breathing, as right as forever. The muscles of his back strained under her fingertips. Her legs tightened around his, urging him on.

Faster and harder they moved, climbed, seeking, searching. His heart thudded against hers. Her body throbbed around him. An ever increasing, ever faster, ever tightening whirlpool of sheer ecstasy and unbridled sensation.

And something inside her stilled and then erupted, exploded in waves of absolute pleasure that shuddered through her body and arched her back and seized her very soul. And his body too quaked and shuddered and he strained against her and called out her name.

And they collapsed together, arms and legs entwined, bodies pressed together, their breathing still fast and labored, their hearts beating as one. For a long moment they could do nothing but lay wrapped around each other and she marveled at the sheer exquisiteness of what they had shared and what they had found. And knew being one with him was not merely the joining of their bodies but the coupling of their hearts.

At last, with a shared reluctance, they untangled themselves.

“My.” Lucy stared at the ceiling and tried very hard not to giggle. Good Lord, if she was going to hell simply for touching herself, there was probably somewhere entirely worse for this. But well worth it. “You certainly were prepared.”

Cameron snorted back a laugh. “Thank you?”

“Oh, it was a compliment.” She rolled over, folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on her hands. “Most definitely a compliment.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arm around her.

“Is it always that delightful?” She gazed into his dark eyes. “Although admittedly, in the beginning it was a tiny bit uncomfortable, but all in all well worth doing.”

“It’s usually a great deal of fun, yes.” His tone was solemn, as if it was a question of great merit, but his eyes twinkled.

“Oh good. I’d hate to think it was only fun the first time.”

“It gets even better.”

“Something to look forward to then.”

“We have all sorts of things to look forward to.” His tone sobered. “You never did read my note.”

“And I would like to. I expect it contains all sorts of words of apology and even some groveling.”

“Perhaps some,” he said slowly.

“Then it can certainly wait until morning, can’t it?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Yes, I believe it can.”

“We have all the time in the world, you know.”

“The rest of our lives,” he said softly, and her heart swelled.

“Now then, Cameron.” She shifted and slipped her leg between his. “My married friends say there are all sorts of interesting things that can be done between a man and a woman when—”

He choked. “Lucy Merryweather! What kind of friends do you have?”

She widened her eyes innocently. “Just the ordinary kind.”

He raised a brow. “Do proper ladies in America frequently discuss this sort of thing?”

“Well, certainly not in public.” She thought for a moment. “Or around their mothers, although one would think to be a mother you would have to know something about this sort of thing. However, my mother would faint dead away were I to so much as broach the subject of relations between men and women.”

He snorted back a laugh.

“And definitely such a subject would never be spoken of around fathers or brothers or other family members. Goodness, we’d all be mortified. And not around husbands.” She cast him a wicked look. “The discussion is not always favorable.”

“Good God.” He groaned.

“I never thought you were naive enough to think that women did not discuss this sort of thing. I gather men do all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

“Why?”

“Because we’re men.” Even as he said the words the look on his face was more than a bit chagrined.

“You do realize how stupid that sounds.”