The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (25 page)

She wanted to feel him again. She was beyond wanton; it had been mere hours since the last time, and already she wanted to pull him down to her bed, to feel his weight pinning her against the mattress.

This couldn't be normal, this incredible, unearthly need.

“
My
present,” she said, bringing her fingers to the snowy white cravat at his throat. It had been tied simply, thank heavens; she didn't think her trembling fingers could have managed one of those intricate knots that was all the rage among the London dandies.

She then turned her attention to the three buttons at the neck of his shirt, her lips parting as his throat was revealed to her, his pulse beating with a hard, strong rhythm.

She touched his skin, loving the way the muscles jumped beneath her fingers.

“You're a witch,” he groaned, yanking his shirt over his head.

She just smiled, because she felt like one, as if she had new powers. She had touched his chest the last time, felt the hard muscles flexing beneath his skin, but she hadn't been able to do anything more. He'd been so quick to make everything about her. When his hands had run up and down her body, she'd lost control, and when his mouth covered her most private place she'd lost all thought.

But not this time.

This time she wanted to explore.

She listened to the heavy rasp of his breath as her fingers trailed along his taut abdomen. A thin line of hair, dark and crisp, trailed from his navel to the waist of his breeches. When she touched it his entire belly sucked in, almost enough for her to slide her hand under the fabric.

She didn't, though. She was not that audacious. Not yet.

But she would be. Before the night was through, she vowed that she would be.

The food was forgotten as Richard swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down—not roughly, but not gently, either—and Iris felt a frisson of feminine glee as she realized how close he was to the edge of his control.

Emboldened, she let her hand drift back down toward his breeches. But just before her fingertips slid under the waistband, his hand landed heavily on hers.

“No,” he said roughly, holding her still. And then, before she could voice her questions, he said, “I can't.”

She smiled up at him, some flirtatious inner demon finally waking up in her soul. “Please?” she murmured.

“I'll make you feel good.” His free hand moved to her leg, squeezed her thigh. “I'll make you feel so good.”

“But I want to make
you
feel good.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment Iris thought he was in pain. His teeth were gritted together, and his face was a harsh, tense mask. She reached up to smooth his brow, sliding her fingers along his cheek as he turned his head into the cradle of her hand.

She felt him acquiesce, felt a little bit of the tension slide from his body, and her other hand, the one resting so dangerously on his belly, edged under his breeches. She did not go far, just to the springy hair that lay on his flat abdomen. It surprised her, although she didn't really know why, and she caught her lower lip in her teeth and looked up at him.

“Don't stop there,” he groaned.

She didn't want to, but his breeches were flat-fronted and snug, with barely enough room for her whole hand. She moved to the fastening, then slowly set him free.

She gasped.

This was not what she'd seen on the statue at the museum.

A lot of what her mother had said began to make sense.

She looked up him with a question in her eyes, and he gave a jerky nod. Holding her breath, she reached out and touched him, gingerly at first, pulling back when his member twitched beneath her fingers.

He rolled over to his side, and Iris fell with him, only just realizing that he still had his boots on.

She didn't care. And he didn't seem to, either.

She pushed him until he was on his back, then crouched next to him, just looking. How had it grown so big?

Yet another thing in her world she did not understand.

She touched it again, this time letting her fingers drift along the surprisingly silky skin. Richard sucked in his breath, and his body jerked, but she knew it was with pleasure, not pain.

Or if it was pain, it was a good kind of pain.

“More,” he groaned, and this time she wrapped her hand lightly around him, glancing back up to his face to make sure she was doing the right thing. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing fast and hard. She moved her hand, just a little bit, but before she could do more, his fingers wrapped over hers, holding her still.

For a moment she thought she'd hurt him, but then his grip tightened, and she realized he was showing her what to do. After a few strokes his hand fell away, and she was left in control, thrilled by the seductive power she held over him.

“My God, Iris,” Richard groaned. “What you do to me . . .”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she felt a proud smile rising within her. She wanted to take him over the edge, as he had done for her. After so many lonely nights, she wanted proof that he desired her, that she was woman enough to satisfy him. He would not be able to hide behind a chaste kiss on her forehead again.

“Can I kiss you?” she whispered.

His eyes flew open.

“Like you did to me?”

“No,” he said quickly, the word hoarse and wrenched from his throat. “No,” he said again, and he almost looked a little panicked.

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because . . .” He swore and scooted himself up, not quite to a sitting position, but enough so that he could rest on his elbows. “Because I won't—I can't—”

“Will it hurt you?”

He groaned, closing his eyes. He looked so distressed. Iris touched him again, watching his face as his body jerked beneath her. The sound of his breath electrified her, and he looked like . . . he looked like . . .

He looked the way she felt. Overcome.

His head fell back, and she knew the moment he gave in. The tension did not leave his body, but something told her he was through fighting himself. She peeked back up at his face to make sure his eyes were still closed—somehow she wasn't brave enough to do this if she knew he was watching—and she bent over and placed the lightest of kisses on the tip of his manhood.

He gasped, his belly sucking in with his breath, but he did not stop her. Emboldened, Iris kissed him again, allowing her lips to linger a bit longer. He twitched, and she drew back, glancing at his face. He didn't open his eyes, but he must have sensed her hesitation, because he gave a brief nod, and then with one single word, he made her soul sing.

“Please.”

It was so strange to think that just a few weeks ago she was Miss Iris Smythe-Smith, hiding behind her cello at her family's awful musicale. Her world had changed so much; it was as if the earth had flipped on its axis, landing her here, as Lady Kenworthy, in bed with this glorious man, kissing him on a part of his body she hadn't even known existed before. Or at least not in its present state.

“How does it do that?” she murmured to herself.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, blushing. “It was nothing.”

His hand found her chin, turning her to face him. “Tell me.”

“I was just, well, wondering . . .” She swallowed, utterly mortified, which was ludicrous. She was about to kiss him
there
again, and she was embarrassed to be wondering how it all worked?

“Iris . . .” His voice was like warmed honey, melting through her bones.

Not quite looking at him, she motioned to his member. “It's not like this all the time.” And then, second-guessing herself, she added, “Right?”

He let out a hoarse laugh. “God, no. It would kill me.”

She blinked in confusion.

“It's desire, Iris,” he said in a husky voice. “Desire makes a man like this. Hard.”

She touched him gently. He was indeed hard. Under the softest of skin, he was hard as granite.

“Desire for you,” he said, then admitted, “I've been like this all week.”

Her eyes widened with shock. She did not speak, but she rather thought he saw the question in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said with a self-mocking chuckle. “It hurts.”

“But then—”

“Not pain like an injury,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Pain like frustration, like unfulfilled need.”

But you could have had me
. The words hovered unspoken in her mind. Clearly he hadn't thought she was ready. Maybe he'd thought he was being considerate. But she did not wish to be treated like a fragile ornament. People seemed to think she was delicate and frail—it was her coloring, she thought, and her slight frame. But she wasn't. She never had been. On the inside she was fierce.

And she was ready to prove it.

R
ICHARD DIDN
'
T KNOW
if he was in heaven or hell.

His wife, whom he had not even properly bedded, was . . . She was kissing his . . . Good Lord, she had her mouth on his cock, and what she lacked in skill she was making up for in enthusiasm, and—

What the hell was he saying? She wasn't lacking in skill. Did skill even matter? This was every man's erotic dream. And this wasn't some courtesan, this was his wife. His
wife
.

He should stop her. But he couldn't, dear God he couldn't. He'd been aching for her for so long, and now, as she knelt between his legs, kissing him in the most intimate way imaginable, he found himself enslaved by his desire. With every hesitant flick of her tongue, his hips arched off the bed, and he was brought treacherously closer to release.

“Do you like it?” Iris whispered.

She sounded almost shy. Good God, she sounded almost
shy
, and yet she was taking him in her mouth.

Did he like it?
The innocence of the question nearly unmanned him. She had no idea what she was doing to him, didn't know that he'd never even dared to dream she might give of herself in such a way.

“Richard?” she whispered.

He was a beast. A cur. A wife wasn't meant to do such things, at least not before she'd been given time to be gently initiated into the ways of the marriage bed.

But Iris had surprised him. She was always surprising him. And when she cautiously took him into her mouth he was lost to all sanity.

Nothing had ever felt so good.

Never had he felt so loved.

He froze.
Loved?

No, that was impossible. She didn't love him. She couldn't. He did not deserve it.

But then an awful little voice from deep inside—a voice he could only conclude was his wayward conscience—reminded him that this had been his plan. He would use their brief honeymoon at Maycliffe to seduce her, in heart if not in body. He had been
trying
to get her to fall in love.

He should not have done that. He should not have even contemplated it.

And yet, if she did . . . if she did love him . . .

It would be
wonderful
.

He closed his eyes, allowing pure sensation to wash over him. His wife's innocent lips were bringing him unimaginable pleasure. It shot through him with electric intensity, and at the same time bathed him in a warm, contented glow. He felt . . .

Happy.

Now there was something he wasn't used to experiencing in the throes of passion. Excitement, yes. Desire, of course. But happiness?

And then it hit him. It wasn't that Iris was falling in love with him.
He
was falling in love with
Iris
.

“Stop!” he cried, the word wrenching itself from his throat. He could not let her do this.

She backed away, looking up at him with bewilderment. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said quickly, moving away from her before he changed his mind and gave in to the harsh need raging through his body. She had not hurt him. Far from it. But he was going to hurt her. It was inevitable. Every single thing he'd done since that moment he'd first seen her at her family's musicale . . .

It had all been leading to one moment.

How could he let her give of herself so intimately when he knew what was about to happen?

She would hate him. And then she would hate herself for having done this, for having all but
serviced
him.

“Was I doing it wrong?” she asked, her pale blue eyes steady on his.

Good God, she was direct. He'd thought that was what he loved so much about her, but right now it was killing him.

“No,” he said. “You weren't . . . that is to say . . .” He could not tell her that she'd been so utterly perfect, he thought he might lose his mind. She'd made him feel things he'd never imagined possible. The touch of her lips, her tongue . . . the soft whisper of her breath . . . It had been transcendent. He had been clenching the sheets beneath him just to keep himself from flipping her over and burying himself inside her warmth.

He forced himself to sit up. It was easier to think that way, or maybe it just put a little more space between them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out what to say. She was staring at him like a lost little bird, waiting with an almost preternatural stillness.

He pulled the sheet up, covering his arousal. There was no reason he could not tell her the truth now, no reason except his own cowardice. But he did not want to. Was it so very weak of him to want just a few more days of her good opinion?

“I don't expect you to do such a thing,” he finally said. It was the worst sort of evasion, but he didn't know what else to say.

She regarded him with a blank stare, followed by a soft furrowing of her brow. “I don't understand.”

Of course she didn't. He sighed. “Most wives don't do”—he waved a pathetic hand in the air—“
that
.”