Bound By Temptation (9 page)

She was ready to let him take her here, on the breakfast table.

She knew she should not. This was against everything she was determined to be. But how could
she not? She might be determined to live a more sedate life, but she refused to give up joy and spontaneity.

She pressed closer, wanting more contact than those teasing fingers allowed. Her eyes dropped to his mouth and she imagined it on her breasts. His lips parted as if he read her mind.

She eased from her chair, slipping sideways so as to not break contact, and came toward him.

He made no move, but stared at her, straight into her. It felt as if he looked for her soul. The desire she saw in him was so powerful, but it was not all she saw.

She bent toward him, bringing her lips down on his, closing her eyes as she did so. She did not want to see his eyes anymore, did not want to acknowledge the expectations and beliefs she saw there.

Instead, she kissed him, softly and then more deeply. She let her tongue and lips speak all the words that she could not, dared not.

He met her kiss full-on, sought control, seized it, lost it, seized it. She would not let him win. This was her kiss. She pressed closer, ran her tongue between lips and teeth, teased and played, lured him to her. She could not reach victory through force, only through persuasion.

His hand finally released hers as it swept down her torso, her thighs, her calves, seeking the hem of her skirt.

She pulled back, panting. “No.”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes again, seeking to avoid the look in his. “I mean not here. I will not spread myself between the toast and eggs. And it is already a wonder the footman has not returned.”

“Where then?” His impatience was clear. He thought this some further tease. “Your room?”

She needed to find calm, to consider. “No, this is Robert’s house and that will only cause talk. We will take further refreshment in the south parlor. There is a beautiful rug I really should show you.”

She turned and tried stepping away from him. He resisted for a moment, his fingers tight about her breast, but then relented. It took only the slightest tug to right her bodice. At least her hair remained unmussed.

She walked from the room with confidence, allowing a gentle sway to her hips. The belief that a man would follow was the surest way to make him do so.

She suppressed the desire to turn and give him that one lingering look that assured he knew the sparks between them still burned hot. It was time he learned how powerful anticipation was.

It took but a moment to ask for refreshment. Another to walk the hall, slowly but not too much so, and enter the parlor. She didn’t use the room often. Heavy shrubbery blocked the windows and did not allow for much light. She’d always had a preference for sunlight.

A roaring fire had already been set. She had not been sure it would be, given how infrequently the room was used, but someone must have thought it in need of a drying after the heavy rains of the last days. She hummed in pleasure at the warmth.

Turning, she watched as he stalked into the room after her. There was always the possibility that interrupting pleasure would give too much time for thought and sense. His stance spoke clearly that such worries were groundless.

She granted him one smile as she sat near the fire, spreading her skirts about her. “The maid will be here momentarily. Perhaps you’d like to come and examine the rug? My late husband found it during his travels. I’ve always found it much softer than it looks. Come tell me what you think.”

He did not like taking direction. He wanted control no matter how trivial the consequence. If he had stalked before, he stomped now.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” She felt like laughing. It was all so delicious—his scowl, the warm fire, the pleasure that was to come. Anticipation. It was almost too much.

She let her eyes feast on him. He stood before her so proud and strong, his dark eyes flashing. She’d never realized quite how strong he was before, but now she could see the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips.

He turned and looked at her, still scowling. “I don’t understand why you called for the maid now. Surely it would have been—”

“Better to be interrupted in fifteen minutes when she knocked to see if we required anything? My staff is well trained and would not enter a closed room, but even the fact that the door is closed will cause comment. They are used to my habits. Once I have a warm drink I can linger for hours. They will assume that we merely sit and talk and will leave us undisturbed.”

“You are well experienced in these matters.”

It should not have cut deeply, but it did. She wanted to flash a sarcastic smile and stride from the room, the perfect retort on her lips. But there were better ways to punish him. “And are you not? Experienced, that is?”

“I have the normal experience of a man.”

“A phrase that says much and little at the same time. Would you like to hear of my experiences? Since the day we met you have mentioned them frequently. Is it curiosity or voyeurism? Do you have your own particular fancies? You have already tied me to a bed.” She pouted her lips as she spoke, letting her eyes roam free again. She began with his boots, such polished fine boots embracing his muscled calves. Then her glance moved up along lean thighs and thin hips. She paused there for a moment—he was still aroused—but only for a moment; subtlety was to be desired. A glance accomplished so much more than a stare—she peeked back—yes, her goal was definitely growing.

He stepped impatiently to the side, trying to shift her attention. She would not be moved. She
enjoyed letting her gaze move up a button at a time. “Your coat is beautiful. It is so well fitted, there are clearly no pads.”

“Of course not.” The poor man was distinctly disgruntled.

She pushed out of the chair with a full laugh, glancing at the door before laying the lightest of kisses across his firm lips. “Shh, be patient. It can only be a few minutes longer. Perhaps we will be lucky and Cook will add scones and jam. It is much too soon after breakfast, but one never knows. There are so many wonderful things one can do with jam.”

She could not contain the giggle that bubbled from her lips.

Damn that laugh. He wanted to leave. He knew he should leave. He had no place here, but how could he leave when that magic sound filled the room, that sound that spoke of a joy in living so deep as to be endless? It filled him, sneaking into tiny crevices he had not known were there.

Passion might be suppressible, that laugh was not.

He’d felt stripped when she examined him. He stood there fully clothed in jacket and cravat, and she made him feel naked as a newborn babe.

He was a man, not a boy to be toyed with. How did he let her weave this web of desire—desire and joy? He tapped his toe into the deep plush of the carpet she had so admired.

Damn her. He caught her glance and smirk—her
gaze had finally moved to his face—and held it. He let her see the power of his passion, but also his dislike of that power. He might be its prisoner, but not a willing one.

And even prisoners could fight back. He stepped toward her until the distance separating them was barely proper. He ran a finger across her cheek and down along her chin line. His thumb brushed upon her lips.

She was caught unawares by his movement—still thinking herself the general controlling the action. He ran his thumb across her lips again, feeling the warm breath within. His eyes never left hers. They shone like warm melted honey now.

Listening for the sound of steps, he stole his own sweet kiss—his longer and more demanding than hers had been. It was always important to show your foe that you would go one step farther.

Finally, he heard the maid. He stepped back, but only by a few inches. He lifted one of her hands in his and stroked his thumb across her palm as the maid settled the heavy tray.

“What a beautiful chocolate set.” He drew a little circle along her wrist. “And what delicate scones, and the color of that jam. It must be raspberry. I do love a good raspberry jam. I can eat it on most anything.”

He waited until the maid’s back was turned and then dipped the tip of a finger in the jam. He brought it to his lips, tasting it first with his tongue and then bringing it into his mouth with great suggestion.

He had no time for subtlety.

Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he sought to remove every last morsel of the sweet jam. He dipped it again and brought it to her lips. “It’s nice and tart.”

She resisted for a second, and then gave in, allowing his finger access. He smeared a good quantity on her lips before letting his finger be sucked inside. She gave as good as she was given. Her mouth worked his finger hard, and other, lower parts of his body responded in turn.

It was impossible to tell who was winning.

She stood and stepped away, releasing his finger, and walked to the door. She pushed it shut the remaining inches, and after some slight consideration turned the key within the lock. “Raising suspicion is better than actually being caught.”

He turned and settled into the chair, legs splayed. He allowed his head to fall back as he appraised her.

Clara watched him settle; he gave every appearance of comfort, but she knew better. She could feel the tension in his thighs, knew how hard his muscles would be beneath her fingers. Her hands clenched in anticipation.

She met his gaze head on. He was trying her trick, letting his eyes speak his thoughts, his desires.

She stepped toward him. This next part required planning. If she’d known how the morning would play out she would have worn a different dress, one that did not require help with the laces. She
worried at her lip, considering—but never releasing his gaze.

Then she let the wide seductive smile spread across her face. She didn’t walk toward him, she sauntered, hips swaying and drawing his gaze lower. When she reached him, she turned gracefully and sank to her knees before him, head tilted forward, gracing him with the full curve of her back.

It should have been the ultimate gesture of submission, the kneeling slave girl before the master, but she knew it was a gesture of strength, of confidence. She was so assured of her own power that the outward manifestation of submission did not matter.

His fingers tickled the back of her neck, then clasped it. Her vulnerability was clear as his fingers wrapped completely around. She relaxed her shoulders and bowed her head further, uncowed. His fingers tightened for a moment and then relaxed, trailing down her back to the top of her dress, toying with the knot that held the laces tight.

Her dress fell loose almost before she felt the first pull of the knot. His lips brushed along the trail his fingers had left. With unerring skill he found that exact, small spot on her nape—the spot that had always been her favorite.

She could not suppress a gasp as he nipped, then laved the small injury, leaving his mark. She shivered as his hands slipped between her dress and chemise, moving forward to cup her breasts. His
fingers swept beneath her nipples without touching them.

Oh, she wanted his touch. She was glad he could not see her face. She feared her expression was close to begging.

She pressed back against him. The one aspect of her position she had not considered was her inability to touch him. She edged farther back and tried to think as his fingers began to softly knead, working their way toward the tender peaks.

Control. That was the key. She schooled her features carefully, wiping her face clean of all entreaty. She bit her lips, causing the blood to rush to them, and then let her head fall back, pillowing it in his lap.

She knew her eyes were dark with desire, but his were darker. He was not unmoved by her actions. She rubbed her head back and forth against him, feeling his shaft swell. No, not unmoved at all.

His fingers gripped tighter, his needs more urgent. She rubbed again. Licking her lips with great intent, she turned her head to the side, letting the heat of her breath sink through his trousers. His hands still played, but his eyes were locked on her lips.

She pursed her lips and blew, feeling his body spasm. As he fought for his own control, she turned within his arms, bringing her face full against him.

It was amazing how one move could shift the balance.

She blew again as his now empty hands tangled in her hair. They pulled her back and then pushed her forward. She slipped her hands up his legs, running a finger inside the top of his boots before moving up over his knees and along his thighs. His fingers now gripped her head tight, holding her still.

But her hands still moved. Up and up, her fingers sweeping wide as they approached the crucial territory. She stopped, her fingers framing him. She pushed up, freeing her head from his grasp, bringing her face even with his. He groaned at the sudden pressure of her weight and then groaned again as her lips crushed against his.

This kiss bore no relation to their others. This was all hot fire, need and demand. Tongues dueled and tangled. Lips pushed and pressed. Teeth, oh yes, there were teeth.

She had never been kissed like this before—kissed as if the room could burn around them and still the kiss would go on. Her fingers worked quickly at the fastening of his trousers as his arms swept around her, supporting her.

Then she held him, hot, firm velvet. His hands moved lower, clasping her buttocks and lifting her until she was seated across his knees. God, the man was strong.

And still the kiss went on, mindless, endless—earth shattering. She’d always thought the expression melodramatic, but this was—there weren’t even words.

She felt her skirts lifted, his fingers now trac
ing the tender skin of her inner thighs, his thumbs caressing the soft, moist flesh where leg and torso met, sweeping ever closer to her cleft.

She wrapped her fingers tight around his erection, moving along the hot skin in rhythm to his fingers. They moved closer, positioned themselves. His fingers pressed her soft flesh, opening her to him. She shifted, his tip rubbing hard against her, sending a thousand spears of passion up her torso.