Aching for Always (42 page)

But the eyes . . . The eyes made her hesitate. She closed her mind to the vision and took comfort in the now.

His mouth was exquisite. Her narrow field of experience had not included a lover with such skill. Rogan's reluctant craft in this area paled next to Hugh's.

She could command it. She could command their joining, right now. But the words of her mother's story echoed in her head.
The princess-girl, now an able woman, waited for the man who would share with her all he possessed—his help and his heart.
But was he sharing all?

The chime of the timepiece roused her from her reverie. Ten minutes had passed? No, it wasn't possible. He laughed at the look of wronged surprise on her face.

“You, milady, are inexhaustible. Which is as it should be, for my twenty minutes has begun.”

He climbed to his feet and gave her a hungry look. “I want you to serve me with your mouth.”

When got to her knees, he touched her chin. She lifted it defiantly, and he raised a brow. “You are practiced at this, I see.”

“The best you'll ever have.”

“I shall have to take your word on that—at least for now.” He struggled into his breeks and slipped his shirt over his head. “I have a different notion of how your mouth may serve.”

He stretched out again on the blanket and motioned for her to join him. She lay with her head in the crook of his arm. When she settled herself, he slipped his hands down her dress, caught her nipples and began to caress them again, fanning the still-glowing embers between her legs. She pressed her eyes shut.
Oh, God, this is torture.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Very much.” She shifted, trying to release some of the heat.

“If I chose to do this until the timepiece rings, would you like that?”

“Yes,” she said, breathless.

“Have you ever done this to yourself?”

A flame of heat went through her. “Yes.”

“Have you ever done more?”

Her cheeks stung with rushing blood, though why she should be ashamed, she didn't know. “Yes.”

She could feel him nod.

“Have you lain with a woman?”

She started. “Aren't I supposed to be serving you with my mouth now?”

He laughed. “What do you think you're doing, lass? I want to hear your secrets.”

She shivered.

“Have you lain with a woman?” he repeated.

“Why do you want to know?” She knew the answer but wanted to hear the words.

“The woman from whom I learned what I just did to you said she learned it from another woman. The vision has stayed with me.” He brushed her flesh with his palms, circling and circling. “I have imagined you with her.”

“I see.” At the center of his fantasies. She liked that.

“What about two men?” he asked. “Have you lain with two?”

The thought of Hugh's mouth between her legs with Rogan cupping her breasts was quickly supplanted with the thought of two Hughs instead.

“No,” she said, holding that last picture in her head.

“Have you ever imagined it?”

“No.”

“You're lying,” he said. “You're imagining it now.”

She prayed he would not make her say more. In the tangle of bodies in her mind's eye she could feel Hugh conquering her in every way imaginable.

“When we were in Reynolds's office that night—”

“When you robbed me of the key?” Even then, as he turned her roughly and made her surrender it, she'd sensed she'd wanted him to possess her. She'd wanted him to be the one. But was this the way she'd wanted it?

“Aye. I found a corset there. All of lace.”

She flushed. “Yes. It's called a bra.”

“What had you been doing there with him?”

“What do you think?”

“I should like to hear.” He stroked one nipple and then the other. “In this game, I have the right.”

“It was essentially a lap dance. I needed his help. It was my way of making it worthwhile.”

“‘Lap dance'? I am not familiar with the term, though I admit it is quite descriptive.”

“Well, it wasn't a lap dance, really. That's just shorthand for what I did.”

“I see. And this ‘lap dance,' it is . . .?”

“About as you'd guess,” she said. “The woman straddles the man's lap. She is naked, or nearly so, and he is fully clothed. And she teases him.”

“Teases?”

“Yes. Like this. Now.” Her nipples burned with pleasure. Oh, how she wanted him between her legs.

“And he takes her?”

“No. He is not allowed to touch her. If he touches her, the dance is over.”

“I want one,” he said, getting to his feet. “Show me.”

He pulled her to a standing position, and led her to the stone wall, where he seated himself near the stile. She had never done anything like a real lap dance before, though she had a good idea of what was involved. He leaned against the wooden rails of the stile and waited.

She stood between his legs and clasped his thighs. She could feel the long, coiled strength there. This part of the wall was low and her breasts were at the height of his face. “The objective is to make you hard.”

“You're being imprecise,” he said, and lifted his mouth to hers. When they parted, he said, “Come to me.”

He helped her place a knee on either side of him, then she lowered herself to his lap. She could feel his erection strain his breeks beneath her. The flap of his trousers was loose and moved when she did. The cool brass buttons brushed her skin. She had no underclothes save a chemise, and she knew that was the way lap dances were done, but it felt very wicked to be rubbing his clothes like this.

She ground her hips, and he leaned against the stile, watching her move. She liked the look in his eyes, liked the way his fingers stretched and curled on the stone as she shifted her weight, liked the way the thickness moved beneath her. She saw the desire there so clearly, but wished she could see more. He hid more than he revealed.

He extended a hand to brush away her bodice.

“Ah ah ah,” she warned.

“But—”

“Patience.” She crossed her arms over her head and moved to the music in her head. The bodice and chemise slipped lower and lower until the only thing holding either aloft was the tip of a nipple. With one final shimmy, the dress fell to her waist, and he made a gurgling noise.

“Where is that whisky?” he asked hoarsely.

She fished the flask out of the gown's pocket, and he took it from her hand. He downed a generous gulp, the muscles of his throat moving eagerly, then wiped his mouth, his eyes pasted to her the entire time. She rose upward, brushing her breasts across his mouth and cheeks.

“I thought touching was forbidden.”

“I may touch. Not you.”

“Bugger that.” He brought his mouth to her ear. “I want you ride me. I want to see you squirm like this on the end of my pike.”

“Not during this.”

He was so close, the heat from his body warmed her chest and neck. It must torture him to be so close and not be able to touch her. He lifted his hand again, and she caught it.

“I can't help it,” he said. “It just moves on its own.”

She opened his palm and wove so that only the barest touch of nipple grazed it.

“Cruel,” he said, and she smiled at the power she held over him. His erection had doubled in hardness. It was the hammer of a Greek god now, poised for battle. Every move made him sway and she wanted to tease him the way he'd teased her. What she really wanted to do was break through that reserve, stir his heart, not his hunger.

“I will let you lower your trousers now,” she said, “if you promise to remain absolutely still.”

He nodded wordlessly and shifted the fabric to his knees. The hammer rose triumphantly, and Joss felt omnipotent as she pressed it slowly underneath her, letting its impressive length rake her, yet ensuring he was no more sheathed now than he had been a moment earlier.

He moaned, an animal noise that sent a shock through her.

“This is an abomination.” His words were choked. “I must have you.”

“You may not move.” She took the flask from his hand and dribbled the whisky over her breasts.

“A taste. Please.”

“Not now. Perhaps when we finish.” She lifted the flask and drank. The movement arched a breast almost to his mouth.

“May I finish?”

She rocked across him, as slowly and firmly as the stroke of a hand. “Yes.”

“In you!” he demanded.

“No. That's not how the game is played.”

She could see the struggle on his face. “Poor Samson. You have been shorn of your power. And yet, for this”—she dribbled more liquid on her nipples and a timely breeze hardened them into whisky-soaked rubies—“it might be worth it.”

She was playing with fire, and she knew it. A danger when she had only one thing left to lose.

“You are wanton,” he whispered.

She crushed him in accelerating circles, a lascivious stirring of flesh and fire. He gripped the stones harder and lifted his hips, straining for friction. He entered her in his thoughts—she could see it in those eyes, though the object in question got no closer to its goal than the top of her thigh. He grunted in agony.

Then he grabbed her shoulders and crushed her hips into his lap, pressing his erection against her thigh and bucking them both nearly off the wall. Again he pressed, and again he groaned. She could feel the warmth of his seed spilling against her leg.

Then he clutched her to him, suckling one nipple and then the other, as if his empty stores could be filled from their fount.

She cradled his cheek, hoping he would give her one of his warm, reassuring smiles. “I really like this,” she said softly, “and like you.” But he seemed not to hear.

“You have been far too reckless. And you shall pay the price.” He scooped her into his arms and brought her again to the blanket. In an instant she was on her back, and he was on his knees, breathing with the anticipation of a conqueror. “Samson, am I?” Not an inch had been lost from his steely length, and he lowered himself between her legs.

No
, she thought,
no.
Not with those guarded eyes. Not with that hardened heart.

“No!” she cried. “I don't want to.”

“No?” He stopped, dizzy but hearing the agitation in her voice.

“This isn't right.”

The timepiece chimed and she slid from under him.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SEVEN
 

Not right?
He was still in shock—shock and a state of such unparalleled shame he could hardly speak.

They had dressed in awkward silence, and now he stood stiffly by the stile, his hands tucked under his arms as if he could ward off the self-rebuke. He watched her brush the dirt and grass from her gown, afraid to say a word.

He shook his head. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. I'm sorry. It just . . . isn't right.”

He felt the sting of the words, though they didn't surprise him. She was saving herself for her husband. Hurt and ill at ease, he scanned the horizon, though he had seen or heard nothing of Reynolds since their carriage left London. If he was near, he was keeping his distance. If he was near, Hugh hoped he hadn't seen what had just transpired.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I know it's foolish, given what we already did.”

“And this?” He swept his arm over the blanket, still on the ivy, hoping the gesture would save him from having
to put words to the acts they'd just committed. “Were all of these things unhappy for you?”

She flushed, and he saw she regretted them already.

“No, no, no. It was quite beyond anything I've ever experienced,” she said. “Honestly.”

Meaningless praise.
He knew he was nothing if not a skilled stud horse. But this was one time he had hoped to be more. As the circumstance seemed to require it, he bowed. “'Twas my pleasure.” That, at least, was not a lie.

“I won't ever forget this,” she said, though she looked as if she would give anything if she could.

“Nor I.” He gestured to the horse, the mute witness to their misplaced passion. “Shall we . . .?”

Her face filled with . . . Was it relief? Regret? Sadness? It had been a long time since he'd been clumsy or thoughtless enough to drive a woman to tears. He hoped this would not mark a new milestone for him.

“Yes. If you wish.” She adjusted her sleeves. “Do I look all right?”

“Beautiful. The gown is fine.”

“I doubt the duchess will want it back at this point.”

He considered a jest about the duchess's earthy sense of humor, but abandoned it as poorly timed and gave Joss a weak smile.

He refolded the blanket, then mounted the horse and extended his arm. Her touch was torture. He pulled her up before him so that she could ride a proper sidesaddle back to the house. It would be the last time he would hold her in his arms.