Samantha James (18 page)

Without a word, he carried her up the stairs and into her room. Once there, he lowered her to the floor. But he didn’t want to let her go. Not yet. She possessed an allure no man in his right mind could ignore—an allure he could not ignore!

Not anymore. Not since he’d tasted her unbridled longing, the yielding of her body molded tight against his own. She was ripe for the taking, ripe for
him
. The knowledge that she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her was heady and sweet—and stirred him to a state of arousal that was almost past bearing.

The curtains at the window were open. Silvery spears of moonlight flooded the room—while desire flooded
him
. She beguiled him. Bewitched him. Beneath the gauzy silk of her gown, her breasts stood high, enticingly full. Her nipples were clearly visible, her areolas standing taut against the fabric, a sight he found incredibly erotic. His mouth grew dry. Somehow he knew they would be the same rosy pink as her mouth.

Her nearness—her scent—drove him half wild. Desire crowded his chest. A part of him wanted to snatch her close. A part of him longed to plant his stance wide, tangle her legs around
his waist, and drive himself home, hard and fast and furious.

But another part of him—the rational part, thank heaven—wanted to savor every moment, burn every sweet, lingering caress into his mind and make it last all night.

But her eyes were trained to his, her eyes so clear and pure and blue, they made his breath catch and his heart turn over. Slipping a hand beneath the tumbled masses of her hair, he caressed the softness of her nape. His eyes captured hers, probing, as if to unearth every emotion held deep in her soul.

She stepped closer, directly between his booted feet. “Simon,” she said softly. “Kiss me. Touch me.
Love
me.”

Her tremulous little smile turned him inside out. His eyes darkened. Gripped by an irrepressible need, his hands went to the tie of her robe.

Slowly he tugged it loose, then peeled her robe from her shoulders. It slid to the floor. A flick of his fingers, and she was naked before him.

That tremulous little smile never wavered.

His gaze trickled low.

Anne’s climbed higher.

His eyes were riveted on the very tips of her breasts—and hers on his mouth.

Her hands lifted. She laid her fingertips on
his shoulders. “Simon,” she said, his name but a wisp of sound. “Simon, please…”

Once again he was lost.

His arms engulfed her. In one swift move he laid her on the counterpane. His boots hit the floor with a thud. He dragged at his shirt, the buttons of his trousers. Impatiently he kicked them aside.

Anne had levered herself up on her elbow. He saw the way her gaze skipped down his chest, venturing lower…Her innocuous astonishment wrung a groan from him. Her eyes widened.

Her lips parted. “Oh, dear,” she said faintly.

Simon couldn’t hide his desire. He couldn’t hide his craving, not now. He didn’t want to. Tumbling her back, he trapped the sound in the back of his throat…her mouth beneath his.

He couldn’t help but recall the other night in his room. One taste, he had vowed. One touch…It was laughable, the very notion inconceivable.

He almost crushed her against him. The clinging of her arms—her mouth—flung him headlong into a storm. His body was burning, his blood afire. He wanted to be slow and easy and careful. He prayed that he could!

Never had he felt a passion so exquisite, so keenly intense as that which gripped him now.

His pulse was pounding. His mouth opened over hers. Bare, slender arms crept up around
his neck. Blindly she clung. Blindly she gave, her lips parting with no hesitation. He ran his tongue over the ridge of her teeth, winding around hers. His kiss was hot and fervent and rampant. One bare, shapely leg wrapped around his, bringing her mound against his sex. He’d been in a perpetual state of arousal, half erection for days now. Willpower alone kept him from spilling himself in that instant.

She was so willing. So warm. So giving. The way she gave herself over so completely tugged at his heart. Desire rushed at him, like the rush of the wind. With his hand he touched her. With his eyes he saw her. With his mouth he explored her.

His kiss was raw and needy. Perhaps even greedy, for when he kissed her, the world slipped away, like sand beneath his feet.

She was warm. Vital.
Alive
. His mouth slid with hot, agonizing heat down the length of her throat. Deliberately he placed his mouth on the base of her throat, feeling her blood pulse beneath his tongue, her heart quicken. And with each heartbeat, he felt himself grow hard. Harder. Harder than he’d ever been in his life.

Raising his head, he sent a scorching appraisal the length of her body, a devouring gaze that thrilled her to the tips of her toes.

Within her breast beat the clamor of her heart. She felt his scrutiny as surely as if he
touched her. Her cheeks blushed scarlet, but Anne didn’t care. She longed for him to want her. She
needed
him to want her. She needed to see it. Feel it. Hear it.

And Lord above, she did. Her reward came in the flickering heat in his eyes that made her heart soar giddily and her pulse clamor wildly.

It seemed like forever that she’d waited for this night. Waited for
him
. It felt so right. She knew it now more than ever. This was what she needed. What he needed.

“You’re as beautiful as I remember. So lovely, Anne. So unbearably lovely.”

His low, husky whisper made her head spin, her heart stop. She felt it in the marrow of her bones. In every fiber of her being.

Unable to tear her eyes away, she watched as one lean, strong hand swooped low, settling full upon the ivory swell of one breast. She stared in utter fascination at the pale ivory of her flesh. Her nipples stood high and tight, seeming to strain and swell. The tips of his fingers painted circles around both rouged, straining centers, warmly tormenting, again and again until she was half mad with want at his tauntingly elusive caress. She strained high, arching against him, a wordless entreaty.

She nearly cried out when at last he caught one pouting pink nipple in his mouth, his tongue employing the same evocative play as
his fingers. Needles of sensation centered there, at the very point of each breast. Heat gathered warm and damp between her thighs. Dazed, she could only look on as his tongue circled the ruched peak, laving it with the wet wash of his tongue, drawing her full into his mouth and sucking hard. Her breath rushed from her lungs. For one paralyzing instant, she could not breathe, for never had she felt sensation so painfully intense.

Hearing it, Simon raised his head. Something raced across his features, something that made her limbs turn to water.

His gaze impaled her. His jaw was tense, so very tense.

“You make me burn.”

His jaw was taut, his tone fierce. There was a touch of ragged harshness in his voice. Yet hearing it thrilled her to the core.

Laying a finger in the center of his lower lip, she loved the feel of him, mesmerized by his smoldering expression. She gave not a thought that her heart lay in her eyes.

“No more than you make me burn.” Her confession spilled out before she could stop it.

His eyes caught the light like the flame of a candle. “Truly?”

Her throat clogged tight, all that Anne could manage was a nod. Heaven help her, it was true. He kissed her again, a searing, sizzling
kiss that left her utterly weak—and utterly aware of the way his lean, dark hand coasted down her belly.

Her breath was a ragged pant. Eliciting fire wherever he touched, brazen fingertips tangled in the tight curls at the apex of her thighs, ending in a soul-shattering quest—or perhaps it only began. A lone finger stole within damp, sleek flesh—grazing, stroking her furrows, skimming her outer folds, then dipping within soft, pink folds once again. And this time he found the center of her desire, a tiny flange of flesh hidden high in her cleft.

It was shockingly intimate, that caress. Shockingly bald, shockingly bold. Anne felt scorched inside—no, she was melting, there where his fingers circled unendingly. She was slick and wet, drenching his fingers with liquid heat. Should she be embarrassed? She wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Not with Simon.

“I want to please you, Anne.” His look was searing, his touch blistering. He worked with unerring precision. “I want to pleasure you.”

Anne’s throat was clogged tight. Her tongue was all twisted in her mouth. “You will,” she said unsteadily. “You do.”

But she hadn’t known precisely what he meant…until all at once, she felt herself writhing…tightening on his finger. Around it. Pure sensation shot through her.

She clutched at him, feeling herself whimper
ing, crying out his name. He caught the sound of her release in his mouth. His eyes burned like embers, shearing directly into hers.

Dragging his mouth away, he stared down at her. She ran her hands over the knotted contours of his arms. His skin was sleek and smooth. For days now she’d wondered what it would be like to lie in Simon’s arms. Lying naked against him, no barriers between them, nothing but need.

Above her, his shoulders blotted out the moonlight. He was the beautiful one, Anne thought in awe. Mesmerizing, his image was branded forever in her mind

Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “Simon—” His name was a faint, choked sound. A sound of need, an unspoken question he caught in his mouth.

“Anne,” he said.
“Annie.”

His expression nearly made her cry out. She sensed his fierceness, saw it build and race across his face. But it didn’t frighten her. She didn’t fear it. He looked…hungry. There was no other way to put it.

And it turned her inside out, that look.

Their eyes cleaved. Within his sparked a flame; it flared higher with every beat of her heart. Anne could feel the tension in him, feel his restraint in the rigidity of his body above hers, the agony etched on his features. Above her—against her—he was boiling hot. She
couldn’t look away as he raised himself above her. Sensing his desire—seeing it thick and swollen—the bottom dropped out of her belly. A quiver shot through her.

She was entranced. He was inflamed.

“Part your legs.”

His searing whisper demanded compliance.

“Wider…
wider
.”

His thighs straddled hers.

His features were etched with strain. His head bowed low. His forehead touched hers; hot breath rushed past her cheek.

Their fingertips grazed. Touched, one by one. Their fingers weaved…clamped together—his between hers, hers between his—borne down alongside her head.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said grittily. “I won’t.”

His whisper was raw. He felt raw.

Her heart caught, along with her breath. “I know,” she cried. “I know!”

The radiant tenderness in her eyes sent him hurtling over the edge.

It was just as he’d said. She scalded him. She set him afire. She stormed him, and Simon could not fight it. He could not fight
her
.

Their bellies pressed. The round, swollen head of his shaft prodded deep—plowing through dense, damp curls. Sweat popped out on his brow. The urge to thrust hard and deep was intense. Immense.

His entry met with the frail membrane of her virginity.

It spun through his mind that he’d been remiss. He should have readied her further. Primed her for his possession. He rallied, rallied hard, bringing his desire in check—bringing himself in check, reminding himself of her innocence.

A muffled sound rent the air, part frustration, part surrender.

Her voice was muffled against the side of his neck. “You can’t stop,” she cried. “You can’t stop now.”

And dear God, he couldn’t.

With a groan of defeat—a twist of the hips—he claimed her.

He hadn’t known surrender could be such bliss.

Slowly he raised his head. He stared down, down to where they joined. Down where coarse dark hair met fleecy chestnut curls. Down where hot, silken flesh clamped tight around his member. Swallowing his flesh. Swallowing him until he didn’t know where his body ended and hers began.

A tremulous little smile graced her lips. “I knew it would be like this. I knew it!”

But Simon hadn’t known. Or perhaps he hadn’t admitted it.

Awash in an agony of pleasure, his eyes
squeezed shut. Fever shot through him. He was steaming inside. The air was suddenly sweltering—and so was he. He could not leave her. He could not stop. He couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t go slow. Not now. Not with her twisting beneath him. It had been too long.

He wanted her too much.

And she was far, far too lovely.

His hands gripped hers. He kissed her nose, her eyes, her lips. Abrim with dark, sweet pleasure, he plunged deep, a driving possession that tumbled them headlong into the storm.

His mind was a red-hot haze. His body had a will of its own. All he could do was
feel
…and all he could feel was her. Again and again, in mindless ecstasy, in mounting frenzy. The clinging of her body around his turgid flesh was unbearably erotic. His heart aflame, his mouth sought hers; she offered hers with a breathless, sobbing moan.

Shivers raked his spine. A shudder wracked his form. Burning his veins was the scalding rush of his climax. He gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stave it off. Couldn’t hold back. It thundered through him, his seed erupting, flooding her with heat, spurting hot and thick and blistering.

The most intense, powerful orgasm of his life.

Little by little, the strength seeped from his body. Barely able to breathe, he fell on his side
and wrapped her close. One single thought resounded in his mind.

It was like coming home from a long, arduous journey…

All in all, Simon decided, it was quite a miserable day.

Not an hour passed that he didn’t think of what had passed between them last night. Burn for her, yearn for her. And last night…

He remembered how she melted against him—how she melted
him
. How her lips tasted like cherries in the summer. How clinging and tight she’d been. How
good
it felt to be embedded tight in her body. It only crystallized what he already knew.

Over breakfast she smiled so prettily. Throughout the day, he saw her flitting this way and that, twisting her hips just so…He could almost believe she dared him to snatch her up, carry her up the stairs, and make love to her the entire day…hell, the entire month.

Which was ridiculous, of course.

He couldn’t forget. He couldn’t ignore her. He certainly couldn’t pretend he’d never made love to her.

His conscience lashed him. His weakness stabbed at him. He’d vowed to keep her distant, far from the boundaries of his heart. But he was afraid now, terrified he’d made a grave mistake. He should never have allowed her close! He couldn’t
let
her close.

Nor, he discovered, could he lie to himself.

His feelings for Anne frightened him.
She
frightened him. If he was weak, she would slip inside—to his very soul.

The very thought sent him into sheer, stark panic.

He was caught in a tempest, and for the life of him, he didn’t know where to turn! It even crossed his mind to send her back to London, to her family. But he had a sneaking suspicion his lovely bride would resist that tack. Besides, her brother Alec would be breathing down his neck in a heartbeat.

In all honesty, Simon knew he wouldn’t. He
couldn’t. Anne would be humiliated. Embarrassed. He didn’t want to hurt her. Not Anne, not sweet, brave Anne.

Christ, who did he fool? Truth be told, he didn’t want her to leave!

He liked the feelings she put in him. He’d been lost for so long. But now his life had purpose again.

She made him want to hope. To dream. To dare.

But Simon was a man who was afraid to believe in new beginnings, afraid to believe in hope. A man for whom all belief in hope had been extinguished the night he’d lost his family.

Far greater was his fear. Indeed, he’d never known such fear.

Anne would never understand. Simon wasn’t certain
he
understood.

All he knew was this…He didn’t dare love her. For if he should love her, only to lose her…

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t
stand
it. Not again. Not ever again.

Eleven o’clock that night found Simon climbing the stairs to his chamber from his study. In the corridor, his footsteps were straight and unfaltering. He strode straight to his room with nary a glance at the door of Anne’s room.

He was, he realized, feeling rather proud of himself—and quite determined not to give his lovely wife another thought until breakfast.

He did, however, note that she had yet to retire. Which was, he also realized, rather unusual.

Particularly since she had fluttered into his study shortly after nine, yawned hugely, and declared her intent to retire. Naturally, he bid her a polite good night. She then proceeded to flutter over—there was really no other way to describe it—and brush her mouth against his cheek.

Anne was smiling benignly as she strolled from his study.

Simon, however, was not.

His cheek still burned from that sweet caress. Climbing the stairs to his room, he had vowed this would be no different than any other night.

Eventually, the clock downstairs chimed midnight. Hearing it, Simon leaned back from his desk, scowling at the square of light that slanted onto the carpet. His journal still lay open, the entry for the day unwritten. Indeed, jabbed a sneering voice in his brain, what was he to say? That he lusted for his wife, who even now waited for him to bed her? Who ever beckoned, ever lured…Who, to all accounts, was set on her course to oh-so-charmingly seduce him!
And succeeding quite admirably, damn it all!

Flinging down the quill, Simon squared his jaw and set
his
resolve. One night, he reiterated. One night he’d let down his guard and allowed her trespass. He wouldn’t be so careless again. He wouldn’t be so weak.

Every so often over the next hour, he saw the undulating flicker of her shadow as she passed the door in the next room. Finally the light in her room sputtered out. He swore to himself, long and fluently, suddenly furious with himself.

Was this what he was resigned to? A game of cat and mouse that stretched long into the wee hours of each night?

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And so he sought harbor in the only way he knew how—the only way that let him cope.

The whisky he gulped seared his throat, even as the image of his beautiful young wife seared his mind.

An hour passed. Or was it two? Halfway to oblivion, Simon wasn’t really quite sure.

His mood as dark as the night, he stared into the bottom of the glass. Drink wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was Anne.

Under him.

Around him.

Beneath
him.

Bloody hell, he thought. If Anne was willing, why was he so reluctant?

Almost before he knew it, his hand curled around the door handle. He thrust it open. Moonlight spilled across the floor, flooding the way to Anne’s bedside.

So much for resolve,
jeered a voice of dark, brittle humor.

She was lying on her back, the covers tangled around her waist, her expression one of peaceful repose.

Simon had never felt less like smiling in his life. And it was everything but peace that roiled in his chest.

Smoldering—inside, outside—his regard swept over her. His throat grew parched and dry. The gossamer-sheer nightgown she wore hid nothing. With each breath, the cloth trembled beneath breasts that jutted high and round, her nipples rosy against the cloth. A white-hot shaft of longing pierced his middle. He wanted to see them, washed shiny and wet from the heat of his tongue, feel them thrust into his mouth, and hear her moan with need.

All at once he froze.

An acid darkness crept over him. A scathing self-disgust. Sweet Christ, what the hell was he doing? Had he sunk so low that he allowed his lust to cloud his judgment?

He couldn’t do this. By God, he wouldn’t.

The sound of a crash splintered the night.

Anne’s eyelids snapped open. She woke with jarring awareness.

The sound had come from Simon’s room.

Throwing back the sheet, she ran through his door.

“Simon?
Simon!”

Strong fumes of spirits assailed her. It took but a glance to glean the situation. A lamp atop his desk burned low. It cast a tiny sphere of light. A circlet of deep ruby liquid stained the wall to the right of the desk, still trickling to the painted white molding beneath. On the floor were shards of crystal.

Simon sat in front of his desk, his legs sprawled out in front of him. The sound of his name seemed to startle him, but then he leaned back.

“Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

“I heard something.” She moved toward him, careful not to step on the glass. Her gaze slid over him. “Are you all right?”

“All is well and good. No cause for worry.”

No cause for worry? Anne didn’t share his opinion; despite his inebriated state, his speech was as articulate as ever; his focus on her, as steady as ever. But his eyes were bloodshot. Deep lines scored his cheeks. Her heart knotted. An incredible weariness etched his features.

On the desktop, his journal lay open, the quill poised across the pages. Anne knew what
it held…what it meant. It was filled with his heart. His life.

His very soul.

And yet…

He had seen the way her gaze dwelled long and hard on the journal.

“Why do you keep it?” The words welled in her throat. She couldn’t contain them. “Why…when it torments you so?”

Something bleak chased across his face. It was as if, for one awful moment, she saw clear inside him—and what she saw made her heart bleed. She could have cried out for his anguish…and her own.

Then, all at once, everything changed. In that very same instant, she saw him retreat. Sealing away his heart. Sealing
her
away.

He reached toward the corner of the desk—the other glass upon the tray.

Anne was quicker. Her palm came over the top of the glass. “No,” she said.

His gaze sharpened, his shuttered mask fully resurrected. Anne was both exasperated and furious.

And all the more determined.

Her chin came up. She was well acquainted with the iron lock on his control. When he willed it, it was a formidable, unreachable fortress.

Perhaps it was time she acquainted him with her own.

Simon’s gaze swiveled from her face, to the glass—and back again. “Anne—”

“No,” she said again.

Simon glared.

Anne refused to be quelled. She refused to be swayed.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. He was drunk—more than a little drunk, to be precise. He was both incensed—and aroused. A part of him wanted to remove her. Physically, if need be. The way he’d wanted to remove her from the library that day. She prodded, she probed, she pricked him. She knew precisely where to jab.

Still another part of him wanted to drag her down and kiss her until they were both delirious.

“My dearest Anne”—he was glacially polite—“I appreciate your concern, but rest assured I am capable of deciding on my own—”

“You don’t need it, Simon.”

“Don’t I?” He released a brittle laugh. “It’s the only way I can fill my nights—”

“I will fill your nights.”

Something fierce leaped in his eyes, an emotion he couldn’t suppress. Just that quickly, between one single heartbeat and the next, a silence of a very different sort presided. The air was suddenly ripe with expectation. Sizzling tension arced between them, a pulsating awareness, as if the air came alive with currents. She
knew from the way he gritted his teeth that he was fighting it.

“You leave me no peace.”

“You leave me no
choice
.”

His jaw knotted. His gaze trickled slowly down to her lips—and stayed. He wasn’t nearly so aggrieved as he pretended, she realized. Nor was he as immune to her presence as he pretended.

A hand on his chest, she anchored him to the seat. Sinking down, she perched herself on one long, hard thigh, settling into her role as seductress with startling ease. His entire body was taut beneath her. Yet this time, nothing had ever excited her more. Burning silver eyes skimmed slowly over her cheeks, her jaw—then settled on her mouth.

A steely arm curled around her waist. His grip tightened. Reckless abandon swept over her. Perhaps he intended to lift her away, but it was just as she said—she allowed him no choice.

“Kiss me, you fool.”

Her whisper inflamed them both. They were both breathing hard when his mouth released hers. Desire flamed in his eyes, a fevered heat that made her dizzy and weak.

He shifted, fumbling with the buttons on his trousers. Anne’s eyes trickled down, just as he wrenched them wide…

Just as his rod sprang free.

Her eyes widened. Her heart lurched. Simon caught her close. His eyes pinned hers.

“Tempt me,” he said thickly. “Touch me.”

And she did. She touched him there where he’d not been touched in so long…Simon’s breath hissed in; it was an exquisitely painful pleasure.

Her fingertips hovered, discovered his organ swollen and thick, feathering over the rigid upsurge of his sex, up one side, down the other.

He muttered a dark encouragement.

Her stomach clenched. Heat stole into Anne’s cheeks, her entire being, despite all the ways he’d touched her last night. The sight of her hand on that part of him made her quiver. There had been no modesty between them last night.

There was none now.

Her fingertips, wet with a milky heat, curled around and over the straining head, wringing forth a sound low in his throat.

He caught at her hand, molding her against his shape. Curling her fingers beneath his, curling them against him, around him. One by one, clamped tight around his burning member. Engulfed by his hand, engulfed with
him
, he dragged her hand down to his very root…and back up. Again—and yet again, faster and harder, rocking into a shockingly bold rhythm—
an explicit caress, so blatantly sexual, so raw and explosive, her throat locked tight.

His breath grew labored. He was trembling, she realized shakily. A sweet, dark thrill shot through her.
She
made him tremble. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his face. His features were tense and strained, the cords of his neck standing taut. His eyes were silver-bright, a molten reflection of sheer, mind-numbing desire.

The rhythm quickened, apace with her heart.

“Oh, Christ.” With a gasp, Simon jerked back. But he didn’t release her.

He swept her gown to her waist. His eyes were hot and brilliant. Strong fingers cupped one buttock, trailing down…hooking behind one knee. She felt herself turned. Lifted, ever so slightly. Anne drew a long, fractured breath. Oh, Lord, she had never imagined…

Her thighs imprisoned his. She was above him, astride him, cradled
around
him. Her nightgown was bunched about her waist. She was naked above and beneath. Simon’s hands encompassed her hips.

Stunned, her eyes flew wide. Her lips parted, even as his thumbs parted
her
.

“Simon—” His name emerged in a desperate rush of air.

“Open for me, Annie,” came his sweltering,
scorching whisper. “Yes, sweet, just like that…”

Their eyes collided, then lowered. So did her body. Lean hands came up to snare her hips. He brought her down…inevitably down. Inch by inch, he lowered her onto his thickness.

Her feet left the floor. Her thighs tensed. Tightened. It only made them both more searingly aware of how deep he was buried. Deep as a man could go. Deep as
he
could go.