The Taste of Innocence (19 page)

His lips curved. “Consider it in the light of a wedding gift—one of the benefits that will accrue once you marry me.”

She found herself smiling; he was incorrigible in pursuit of a goal, but of his determination she’d never been in doubt. Yet she was surprised—first that he’d been so attuned to her troubled thoughts before she’d said one word or even met his eyes. More, that he’d been so immediately focused on what was troubling her that not one iota of his customary sensual predatory intent toward her had shown through; instead, he’d been the embodiment of a chivalrous knight intent on slaying what ever dragons had dared to darken her path.

A fanciful thought, yet, as she studied him through the shadows, that image lingered. She stirred, then, wrapped in moonlit dark, moved to him; lifting her hands, placing them on his chest, she slowly slid them up to his shoulders as she stepped closer still.

As she boldly pressed herself to him, stretched up, and lightly touched her lips to his. “Thank you.”

She drew back, just enough to focus on his face—to see the change in the austere planes as desire infused and etched his features. The tone he’d employed in discussing the orphanage, brisk, businesslike, his investor’s voice, had reassured her even more than his words. She now knew all she needed to know on the physical plane. Only one question remained.

And she wasn’t averse to grasping unexpected opportunity and turning it to her purpose—to gain the answer to that one remaining question.

Lowering her gaze, she let it fasten on his lips. “That’s a very generous…suggestion.” Hands on his shoulders, she pushed; he hesitated for an instant, then acquiesced and allowed her to steer him back—until the back of his calves hit the sofa. At her prodding, he sat.

She followed, one hand on his shoulder as she brazenly flicked up her skirt and lifted one knee, then the other, placing them on the cushions on either side of his thighs. Her shawl fell disregarded to the floor as she sat, then edged forward along his hard thighs, leaned in, breast to chest, and kissed him.

Flagrantly, blatantly enticing; she was sure she didn’t need to specify that this was her chosen way of thanking him. Nor did she think, as their lips parted, then fused, as their tongues found each other’s and dueled, as his hands rose to close firm and strong about her waist, that she needed to explain which path she wished to follow.

This time, however, she intended to reach the end.

Charlie sat back, content with her direction, perfectly content, with her lips ravishing his, to follow her lead, to let her lead for the moment. To let the taste of her innocence wreathe through his brain.

Between them, he opened her bodice, bared her breasts for his delectation, then closed his hands over them, heard her shattered sigh, felt her flesh warm and firm beneath his palms, and rejoiced. Her lips taunted and challenged. Inwardly smug, he drew her up, one arm across her hips; bending her back, he set his lips to her flushed skin, and heard her gasp.

He set about orchestrating a symphony from her, one of sensual, abandoned moans and short, breathy gasps, punctuated by near-sobs of entreaty. Each sound acted powerfully on him, fed and lured his prowling hunger, made it yearn and strain all the more to break free, so it could feast, so it could gorge on her and be sated. More deeply and completely than ever before.

Of that last he was certain, although how he knew he didn’t know, yet instinct, sure and absolute, assured him it was—would be—so.

But that wasn’t part of his plan, not to night. To night was for twisting the sensual rack one notch tighter, for turning the screws of their sensual tension just a tad more—enough to make her wild with wanting, enough to make her agree to be his.

Soon. She had to agree soon.

That was the only real thought in his brain as he feasted on her flushed breasts, as her soft cries of delight fell on his ears, as he felt her fingers twine and tangle in his hair. She was responsive, and made no move to hide it, no effort what ever to conceal from him all that he made her feel.

Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids as he raised his head enough to look down on the rosy mounds he’d captured, enough to gloat over their beauty, enough to feel sharp, lancing satisfaction over their swollen roundness, their sumptuous weight, at the tightly furled nipples he slowly rolled between his fingertips.

She sucked in a tight, tortured breath. Her fingers, locked in his hair, tightened, then clenched. She tugged and he lifted his face—so that they could kiss again, so he could raise one hand and frame her face and sink into the luscious haven of her mouth. So he could taste her again and enjoy.

He did, then abruptly found his head reeling. Between them, she’d reached down and found him, hard as steel, as rigid as iron. She touched, then pressed her palm to his aching length, through the fabric of his breeches boldly caressed.

And he was lost. Caught and swept adrift on an upswell of sensual heat, on a sharply rising wave of burning desire.

Before he could catch his breath, before he could summon enough wit, let alone will, to catch her hand and remove it, she slumped against him, bare breasts to his now equally bare chest—when had she managed that?—and murmured, her voice low and sultry, a siren’s whisper in the night, “You want me—why?”

He couldn’t think, so he didn’t answer.

Her hand shifted, fingers seeking, sliding. Eyes closed, he clung to sanity, tried to remember his plan…he’d had one, hadn’t he?

“You don’t want to marry me for money—I’m not that wealthy and you’re already rich.”

The words feathered over his lips as she supped, sipped, then let her lips drift to trace the line of his clenched jaw. All the while her fingers played. His tensed on her back, then slid to her sides and gripped; he should lift her away, at least enough to gather his scattered wits, but she was swaying, just a little side to side, against him—the feel of her breasts caressing his chest was too tempting. He hesitated, not wanting to cut short the feeling, not yet, not until his parched senses had drunk their fill.

“You’re not marrying me for dynastic reasons, either.” She purred the words into his ear, for one instant closed her hand, then eased her hold. “My family’s not important enough for that. If anything, the Conninghams are a trifle low on the scale for an alliance with the earls of Meredith.”

Her statements reached him through a steadily rising tide of desire; arguing was beyond him, not least because all she said was true.

“And you’re certainly not marrying me for any cachet I personally might bring you—I’m not a diamond of the first water, no spectacular beauty, no toast of the ton.” She raised her head and looked into his face. “I’m not and never have been a trophy to be won.”

He tried to frown. That was wrong. He might not have seen her naked yet, but his senses in respect to womanly beauty had been educated to the highest degree; when he finally had her naked in his arms, she would be a goddess, skin pearly white, every curve a delight, every line of her body created just for him—solely and deliberately to sate his senses. “I—”

She laid a finger across his lips. “You want me.” Her hand shifted, stroked; there was no point arguing. “But why?” She tilted her head, through the moon-washed shadows searched his face, his eyes. “Why do you want me?”

Then she waited. And he realized he would have to answer. That with her hand, small, warm, intensely feminine, cradling his rampant erection, with his senses reeling, with his hunger clawing so close to his surface, he no longer had any other option; he no longer possessed the strength to deny her, to turn her straightforward, direct, and highly pertinent query aside.

He also couldn’t lie—not to her, not here and now with the heat of passion shimmering all around them. The lick of flame was almost palpable on his skin as he drew breath and managed, “Because you’re you.” His voice was low, a dark, gravelly rumble to answer her sultry siren’s call. He looked into her eyes, then let his gaze fall to her lips. He licked his, and confessed, “You are what I want.”

There were no other words he could find to express what she made him feel, what he felt for her. How he felt about her and only her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman before. The feelings, now she’d forced him to look, were strange, different, not anything so simple as the customary desire a man felt for a woman, a desire with which he was amply familiar. This was something different, and if he were truthful, always had been. He’d told himself it was because she was the one he’d chosen to be his wife, but that begged her question. What was this he felt?

All he knew was that it was stronger, that the passion flared hotter, the desire ranging that much more deeply and widely, all-encompassing in its power.

It had continually surprised him, and now, sitting in the moonlit dark with her so close, so wantonly enticing, with her direction—the fullness of it—there in her eyes, he discovered that it was even stronger than he’d thought.

That it wasn’t fueled solely by his need but by hers as well, and together, combined, their mutual wanting held power enough to turn his head.

She hadn’t said anything, but had studied him; now she smiled her siren’s smile, as if his answer had been sufficient to pay her price. That softly glowing smile stated that she was, if not completely appeased, then satisfied enough, more, that she wanted to go forward and yield more, seek more, learn more. Of him. And herself. Of them together.

Shifting sinuously, she swayed close, offered her mouth—and he took. Greedily, hungrily, he plunged them back into the heat that hovered, unabated. Cradling her head, he kissed her, increasingly explicitly, and she kissed him back, and the heat closed around them. Engulfed them, infused them.

The flames built, then roared and drove them.

Between them, she undid the buttons holding the placket of his breeches closed; her small hand slid beneath the fabric, and found him.

He sucked in a breath at that first innocent touch; his control quaked as her grip firmed, then her fingers eased and she stroked, and he felt like growling.

Releasing her waist, with a quick tug he raised her skirts and reached beneath. Found the soft flesh between her thighs and caressed, then lightly probed.

She shuddered, caught her breath, then her fingers trailed tantalizingly down his length. Closing her hand about his turgid flesh, she gently tugged.

Her meaning couldn’t have been clearer.

And this time he had no ability, no thought in his head, to deny her.

Just a small adjustment of her body over his and he could draw her down and sheath his erection in her slick softness; despite the potent attraction, he knew that this time it couldn’t be that way. Not for her. Not the first time. He was too large, too engorged, for her to take him easily that way; she might balk, and find it too difficult to go on…

Deftly he turned her and tumbled her down to the cushions. She went readily, reassured when he moved with her, willingly surrendering to the pull of one small hand gripping his shoulder. He settled between her thighs, spread wide on either side of his hips, the fingers of one hand still buried within her sheath, his other hand cradling her head, keeping her immersed in their kiss.

He hadn’t intended their first time to be like this, on a sofa in the summer house with the night dark about them, a coupling accomplished beneath layers of clothes, his and hers. He would have preferred to be naked, to have her naked, too, but it was too chilly to undress; while the heat of passion had allowed him to bare her breasts, to not even notice that she’d bared his chest, the night was too cold for them to dispense with further clothes.

Beneath her skirts, she guided his erection to her entrance; drawing his fingers from her sheath, so hot and wet and ready for him, he caught her hand, twined her fingers with his, and drew them away.

And sank slowly, carefully, into her scalding heat.

Her breath hitched. She tensed, then through the kiss caught her breath and fought to relax, to reverse the instinctive tightening. Her fingers clutched his. He pressed in, steady, sure, not too fast yet not so slow that she had time to think too much. Then he reached the barrier that was her maidenhead; with one powerful thrust he breached it, with the movement forging deep into her body.

She cried out, the sound muffled between their lips, and tensed. He held still, giving her time to adjust.

Giving himself time to still his whirling senses. To assimilate the feel of scalding velvet gripping him so tightly. To grit his teeth and hold against the powerful, all but overwhelming urge to ride her, hard and fast. As some part of him had wanted to do for a very long time.

He’d told her it would be like this, with her legs spread, her knees clasped about his flanks, with her body open beneath his, with him sunk to the hilt within her, filling her.

His senses continued to reel, more affected than he’d imagined they could be. Rational thought was far beyond him, but snippets flashed over the surface of his mind. He was dimly aware that this wasn’t his plan, that complying with her wishes had gone counter to his aim. Yet his plan no longer mattered—not as much as appeasing her, as satisfying the want, the desire that had risen within her, that he’d evoked, lured forth, and fed. In that moment nothing mattered as much as answering her call and filling her as she wished.

She wanted, her heightened desire now sharp and keen, and he wanted, fiercely, compulsively, to satisfy her need, to bring her to glory and share in her delight.