Revealed (41 page)

When Marcus turned back to her, he held for a moment, stopped and stared, a silly, lopsided grin playing across his mouth.

“What?” she asked, his smile making her smile.

“Nothing,” he said, his grin full force now. “I was just thinking that this will be very, very different from when you were last in my bed.”

She blushed, her eyes roaming about the room, her gloved hands folding on her lap, propriety being her default position. He noticed this quickly, for he came over and knelt before her. He took her hands from her lap and, his eyes never straying from hers, deftly flicked open the buttons at her wrists, tugged the soft fabric down her elbows, off her hands. He kissed the back of each hand, then their palms. Then he laced his fingers in hers, rose up, and kissed her mouth.

Her slippers came off as she slid back on the bed, Marcus following, pursuing, his mouth never leaving hers. He laid her back across the pillows, fanned out the full length of her hair. The sleeve of her gown drooped, her delicious shoulder exposed to his hungry eye. Marcus suddenly realized that he had never seen Phillippa as less than proper. Even when she was in a sarcophagus, she was coiffed to perfection (if dusty). Now she was tumbled, in disarray, her lips swollen from his kisses, her shoes and gloves free. She was wanton. And she was all his.

This sudden knowledge made him powerful, greedy. With a wicked grin, Marcus took advantage of her gown’s loose bodice, pushing the other tiny cap sleeve down her shoulder. Then, with aching tenderness, he worked the rest of the bodice down, allowing her breasts to spring free.

The cool air hit her like a thousand pinpricks of shock. Her small, pink nipples puckered upon exposure, as she swiftly sucked in her breath. His hand came up to cover her left breast, his thumb and forefinger teasing the stiffened peak.

Oh, that hand. She did have an uncommon fondness for it.

She leaned into his attentions, as his mouth broke from hers, and he kissed his way down her neck, over her collarbone, to the crest of her right breast, kissing her there, his teeth grazing across that terribly sensitive spot.

Such were Marcus’s skills that she didn’t even notice when his free hand began creeping up her leg, fingering the ties to her stockings. It was only when his clever hand had deftly removed the tie, and it crept still further that the dot of fear in her belly began to grow, and she froze again.

Marcus felt it the minute she began to withdraw from him. But this was too precious to lose. Gently, he stilled his attentions but did not move his hands from their hard-won positions.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice merely a whisper, and a shaky one at that.

He lifted his head from her breast and sought her eyes. It was only then that he saw the shine to them, tears threatening to fall.

He lifted himself away from her, forced himself to roll to one side, propped up on one elbow.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said, and as much as it killed him to say it, he meant it.

“No!” she cried, her hand reaching out to touch his chest. “I want to, desperately,” she said with a blushing smile, causing him to smile ruefully. “It’s just . . . I’m just . . .”

“You’re nervous,” he concluded softly.

“I . . . I haven’t done this in while,” she began, her eyes steady not on his face but on her hand as it drifted softly to and fro over his chest. “And that was only my husband, and he wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .”

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his hand stilling hers, holding it against his heart. She could feel the rapid, steady beats, the life flowing through him. “Look at me.”

She met his eyes and saw there only tenderness.

“It’s just me,” he said.

And she knew. She knew everything would be all right. It was just him. And just her. There was no judge nor jury here. Marcus would not despise her for lacking the sophistication she so ruthlessly cultivated in society. For once, she could be herself. Nervous, silly, shy, bold, happy: Whatever she happened to be, he would match her.

“It’s just you,” she replied, relaxation sliding over her in waves. “And it’s just me.”

With his easy nod, she took his body and pulled him back on top of her, relishing his weight.

Her newfound freedom to act as she pleased, to take as she pleased, made Phillippa bold. She delighted in running her hands over the muscles in his arms, the varied planes of his back, the thin scar on his side. While he returned his attentions to her breasts, she reached down and cupped his buttocks, pressing him against her. Her legs twined around his, letting their most private areas touch, with only layers of cloth between them.

The necessity of those layers of cloth was debatable to Phillippa.

Reaching between them, she found the buttons to the fly of his trousers, fumbling them open.

Now it was Marcus’s turn to go still.

He quickly grabbed her hand, just as she was about to graze the smooth length of his shaft, which, he knew, would have spelled disaster.

“Hold on a minute,” he said his voice strained with the effort.

“Why?” she asked with a naughty lilt. “After all, it’s just you.”

Trust her to throw his words so skillfully back at him, he thought ruefully.

“And I want to see you,” she continued, her voice low and silky.

“Yes,” he replied, burying his forehead in her shoulder, “but if you do that, this will be over before we begin.” He lifted his head, kissed her deeply, and brought her hand up from dangerous territory. “And I want you to enjoy this.”

“But I am enjoying this!” she cried, causing him to cock his eyebrow.

“Trust me, you’re not.” But then a wicked fire lit his eyes. “But don’t worry, you will.”

And then, with one deft movement, Marcus sat Phillippa up, pulled her gown and shift over her head, and exposed her completely.

Naked except for her stockings, Phillippa desperately wanted to cross her arms over her breasts, burrow under the sheets. But Marcus wouldn’t allow it. He held her arms wide and looked his fill. The way his eyes raked over her, caressed her, took her in, sent a spiral of awareness low in her belly, spreading warmth. Gently, he laid her back down, their tongues mating as the feeling of his skin on hers set every nerve on fire. Slowly, he let his hand slide down the soft length of her torso and cup her mound. She rose to greet him, indulging in that wicked pressure that made her head swim.

She made a soft noise, spurring a relieved Marcus onward. He had no claims to being a lothario, so well-practiced in the art of love as to be bored. No, his attention was very much held. But while his experience was not expansive, what he’d had was education enough to know that lovemaking was not about his pleasure; it was about hers.

And so with as much grace as he could remember, he worked his fingers into her slick wetness, slowly mimicking the motions his manhood yearned to make, while his thumb found and teased, tortured, tormented the tiny bead hiding at the front of her sex.

Surely, this dizzying sensation that Phillippa felt was not normal. Surely, the pulsing of her body, the sensitivity she felt all over and one place in particular meant something was wrong. But good Lord, she did not care. Moans soaked through whispers, and all she wanted was whatever she was struggling toward and Marcus’s hand—that diabolically clever hand, caressing her, urging her forward, filling her with need—to take her there.

Suddenly, she felt her body fall over the edge, and she cried out, her breath coming in short, jagged bursts. She radiated energy, warmth, the crash of wave after wave of pleasure causing her to clutch tightly to Marcus’s body, to grasp his thighs with hers.

Marcus held her as she came, his cheek pressed right against hers, her cries nearly causing him to lose all control. Only his trousers saved him, and thoughts of boring, basic military maneuvers. It was the most marvelous sight he’d ever witnessed. He grinned against her cheek, kissed her temple, her eyes, as her shudders began to subside.

He held her there for almost a minute as she stilled, and then with a grin, she began to giggle.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, his grin matching her own.

“I finally understand,” she laughed, “why people make such a fuss over this.”

Her easy laughter had him chuckling with her. “I know you must think me silly,” she continued, but he cut her off with a deep, drawing kiss.

“I think,” he finally said, after he had managed to render them both a bit breathless, “that you’ve never been more beautiful.” He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her on top of him.

This time, when his hands went to remove her stockings, she did not stop him; instead, she relished his touch, her skin still vibrating from the pleasure he had given so freely. And this time, when her hand went to the buttons of his trousers, he did not stop her, instead letting her work his trousers free of his hips and legs. He let her pull him free and guide him into her.

“It’s just me,” he said, when Phillippa didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

A slow smile spread across her face. “I don’t think there’s anything ‘just’ about you,” she said, raising her hips and then settling back down onto him again, a torturous, agonizing slide down his shaft.

It was all Marcus could do to not crash into her right then. Grabbing her hips, he rolled her onto her back, rolling with her.

“Phillippa, darling,” he whispered, threading his fingers through her hair, worshipping her face with featherlight kisses, “I need you.”

“I need you, too.” She opened herself up to him, her thighs rising to his flanks, wrapping around him, as he slid deeper into her.

This was different than the pleasure he had given her before, she thought. It was heady, this fullness. With every push, with every plunge, he stoked the flames of her desire. And with every moan, with light caresses of her hands, she brought him closer to the edge. He wanted to fight it. He wanted to hold himself away from her, still have her and be able to resist her all at once.

But it was no use.

“It’s just me,” she whispered in his ear, as she clung to his body, that now-familiar tingle growing, urging, pulling her from deep within.

That was all it took. Those three little words. He could feel himself breaking within her, so, reaching between them, he found her nub and sent her soaring.

“It’s just me,” he replied, as she shattered around him. Marcus let out a shout and, holding her tight, joined her in the fall.

They lay still, cocooned within the sheets, wrapped around each other. To move would ruin the perfect quiet, dissolve the contact they each craved.

Marcus could feel her heart beating beneath his, as his mind began to clear of the bewitchment she had cast over him. God, she felt good. If he never left this bed, it would be too soon. She was everything and the only thing. He nuzzled her ear, taking in that scent of her that felt so much like coming home.

Light fingers ran up and down his back languidly, as she placed tiny kisses on his collarbone, his neck. And suddenly Marcus felt panic.

“I’m crushing you. I’m sorry,” he lifted his weight from her, the cold air rushing cruelly into the void.

“Don’t you dare leave,” she whispered, pulling him back down to her. He grinned into her hair, happy that she was as unwilling to quit their contact as he.

“In the spirit of compromise, then,” he breathed into her ear, as he rolled onto his side, taking her with him. She giggled girlishly as he tucked the sheets around her backside, his hand coming to rest there appreciatively.

“I had a feeling you’d be good at this.” She smiled. “Those clever hands,” she remarked, as said hands began roaming over the rounded flesh, hitching her leg up higher around his.

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short. I find your talents most remarkable.” He grinned back at her, capturing her ear between his teeth, grazing her neck.

“Yes, but for once, it is you who are the one with the reputation to uphold,” she answered.

“I am?” Marcus queried, his eyebrow coming up.

“They say the Blue Raven is an expert lover, stealing a lady’s virtue and secrets at the same time.”

Marcus froze in his movements, lifted his hand away from her side. “Phillippa, love,” he began, pulling back to look at her, “I should tell you—”

“That the reports of your deeds are exaggerated?” she finished for him. “I know, you told me before. But in terms of your
prowess
, I am happy to confirm the reports in their entirety.” Marcus could feel himself blushing at this laudable ovation of his efforts, as she continued. “And truth be told, I’d be terribly jealous if I thought you’d made love to hundreds of ladies like you have me.”

“Phillippa, it’s never been like this for me, with anyone,” Marcus said quickly, holding her gaze with his. “Do you understand? But I need you to know that—”

He was silenced again, this time with a long, chaste kiss that removed the words from his lips and filled his soul with light.

“I do understand,” she whispered breathlessly and kissed him again.

He would tell her, he promised himself. He would. But right now there were no words. Right now there was only the room and the bed, their cocoon. The yearning they felt for each other, the grappling for fulfillment, and the long, dark night.