by Anne Stuart
She wasn’t amused. “I . . . I intend to marry someone extremely wealthy and well bred. Probably with a title.”
The damned man rolled his eyes at that, and her anger pushed the last of her fear away. “Of course you do, love. Why not one of Queen Victoria’s sons while you’re at it? I’m afraid the Prince of Wales is taken but there are younger ones, and Bertie may come down with a fatal disease. You could end up queen of England.”
“This isn’t funny,” she said stiffly.
“Well, you’re just going to have to put up with my amusement if I have to put up with your games. So how do you want me to play it? Am I to be a tender suitor who sweeps you off your feet? A bandit who kidnaps you? Perhaps a pirate?”
“Why don’t you be yourself,” she said sweetly. “An impossible ass.”
He laughed. “As you wish, my innocent one,” and before she realized what he was doing he’d scooped her up in his arms and started toward the house.
For a moment she was too shocked to react, and then she started to struggle until his soft, implacable voice stopped her. “If you keep kicking and hitting me I’ll feel totally justified in returning the favor.”
She kept very still. “You would, wouldn’t you? Hit a helpless female.”
“Never. But you’re not a helpless female.” He must have left one of the French doors ajar, because a moment later they were inside, and he was starting for the stairs.
“I could scream,” she warned him. She wasn’t sure if he really would hit her back but she wasn’t going to take any chances.
“You could. But the sound doesn’t carry to the servants’ quarters from here.”
“Your stepmother would hear.”
“True. She’d love to catch me despoiling a virgin. Should I invite her to join us?”
“You’re disgusting.”
He set her down on the stairs. “That is a rather foul thought, isn’t it?” he said in a deceptively amiable voice. “Where do you want to go? There’s my room, of course. It’s not fancy but it’s quite comfortable. Or I can take you back to your bedroom next to the kitchens.”
“And leave me there?”
“Of course not. There’s also a pretty little house I had chosen for you. I believe it used to belong to someone’s maiden aunt until she died. I had it freshened up, and we can do anything we want there. You can scream as loud as you like and not bother anyone.”
Aunt Tillie’s cottage, Sophie thought with a pang. “Why would I want to scream?”
“Oh, I do promise I can make you scream, precious,” he purred.
She stared at him. “You already make me want to scream, sir. In frustration.”
“I’ll take care of that too. Where are we going?”
“I’m going to my bedroom and my very narrow bed, alone, thank you. You are going straight to hell.”
“Ah, princess,” he said, “I think it’s going to be more like heaven.” His mouth came down on hers.
Oh, God, the other kisses had been disturbing enough. Each time he kissed her she seemed to go a little farther on the road to inescapable madness. This one was a little rough, a demand rather than a question, his hands hard on her, but, instead of freezing, her heart leapt in immediate response. She didn’t even want to think about what she was doing—she pulled at her hands that were locked between their bodies, and slid them around his waist, holding on as he ravished her mouth.
It was hypnotizing, it was heartbreaking, it was everything she wanted and nothing she could ever have, and she deserved it. Just this once she deserved at least a taste of him, of the man she’d watched for so long, the man she’d dreamed about. She wanted, needed, his mouth, his skin, his touch. Surely she could risk that much. She softened her mouth beneath his, and then opened it as his tongue brushed across the seam of her lips, opened it for his tongue.
The shocking pleasure swept over her, and she wanted to melt into his skin. She wanted to kiss him back, but she didn’t know how. All she could do was stand in his arms and let him ravish her mouth, closing her eyes so she could revel in it.
He suddenly broke the kiss, looking down at her, his breath coming in quick rasps. “Who the hell are you?” he whispered, looking shaken. Her wicked Dark Viscount, shaken by a kiss she had barely managed to respond to.
For a moment she could think of nothing to say. She’d tried to tell him the truth but he hadn’t believed her. In the end, what did it matter? Tomorrow she’d be gone. “Sophie,” she whispered. “I’m Sophie.”
A faint smile curved his mouth, one of almost relief. “So you are,” he said, and picked her up in his arms once more, moving up the stairs quickly. She realized then that his white shirt was open, baring a triangle of burnished skin, and she imagined his shock if she moved her head downward and put her mouth against him.
Action followed thought immediately, and she pressed her face against his bared throat, breathing in the delicious scent of him. And then, because she couldn’t help it, she tasted him, her tongue tracing a small path.
It was a good thing they’d reached the top of the stairs, because with a strangled sound he dropped her, pushed her up against the nearest wall, and pressed the lower part of his body against hers. She should have been frozen in disgust, knowing what that hard ridge of flesh was, but instead it made her burn. Her thin, damp chemise was made of such fine silk that its touch on her flesh was one more arousal, brushing against her aching breasts, rubbing between her legs with the thrust of his hips, and she cried out, as something shook her, some strange, terrible need that she couldn’t fight.
“Do that again,” he growled in her ear, “and I’ll take you right here, right now, and I don’t give a damn who walks by and sees it.”
She felt drugged, dazed, but she tried to focus on him. It was hard, because he was pushing against her lower body in a slow, insistent rhythm; that hard, clothed part of him against her soft, silk-covered flesh. “You didn’t like it?” she asked dazedly.
“You know damned well, my sham innocent, that I liked it far too much. I wanted your tongue everywhere on my body, and if you tease me like that I’m not going to wait. If your game includes taking me in your mouth the first time, then you have my blessing, but I’m taking more than that. I’m taking everything.”
“Everything?” she echoed dazedly. She ought to run. This was the disaster that had been looming, that she’d known was coming. Not Alexander Griffiths. But her own, totally demented need for him. It was what she should have run from. It was what she was staying still for.
Her sisters hadn’t told her about this. No one had. She’d been advised on the technical details of mating, which was far more warning than most girls received, but she had two older sisters to fill her in, though to her knowledge neither of them had firsthand experience. And they’d talked about love, and shared interests, and companionship, and comfort.
But no one had said anything about a fire in your blood that burns away any common sense you might have once possessed. No one said you could want a man’s touch so much that your body was in an uproar, parts that you didn’t even name seemed to be aching with longing. No one had said you would throw everything away for a man who mocked you and teased you and then spoke to you in clipped tones like you were a servant, and yet all he had to do was touch you . . .
She no longer knew where she was in the house where she’d spent almost her entire life. He was moving her now, his body still clamped to hers, moving her backwards, and she lost all sense of direction, caught up with the feel of him pressed against her, the sight of his chest, that warm, exotic color that should taste like the sun. They came up against a door, and it opened behind her, and they were in darkness, the curtains pulled against the bright moonlight.
She heard him kick the door shut, and the next thing she knew he’d picked her up, walked a few paces, and sent her sailing through the air to land on a large bed. “Sorry if my virgin princess wants a more tender wooing, but you’ve teased me long enough.” His voi
ce was harsh, and she heard the sound of clothing being torn off.
Clothing. Coming off. Oh, God, she was in trouble. She started to scramble off the bed, but he caught her ankle, hauling her back and coming down over her. She was spread sideways across the mattress, and he was over her, pressing her down. Shirtless, all that skin against her, and he was hot, while she was cold, wanting to shiver in the darkness.
She closed her eyes, stilling the fight that was coursing through her veins. She was no match for him physically. She’d have to outwit him. With most men that would be easy enough, but Alexander was far more intelligent than the pretty young fribbles she’d danced with in her triumphant season in London. She could see it in his fierce, mocking eyes.
There was no way she was going down without a fight. She was going to win this battle, against him, against her own incomprehensibly wanton desires, simply because she had to.
She lay still beneath him. He didn’t move either, but he was breathing deeply, and she suspected, given his ease in carrying her one hundred pounds or so up the stairs, that it wasn’t from exertion. She closed her eyes and gathered her meager defenses.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. “You really are a giant pain in my arse, Sophie. If you weren’t so damned irresistible I would have sent you straight back. But Lefton knew what she was doing when she sent you.”
Again with the employment agency? Why was he so obsessed with it? “In truth I don’t think I’m suited for this position,” she said in what she hoped was a matter-of-fact tone.
“And which position would you prefer? There are so many variations even I haven’t tried them all, and I defer to your professional knowledge.”
She stared at him. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
He sighed. “Sex, my dear. Copulation. Fucking. What we’re finally about to do.”
“Oh, no we’re not . . .” she started, before his mouth silenced hers. She couldn’t do this. She would lull him into thinking she was compliant, even eager to participate in this, and then run whenever his attention happened to wander. A good plan, she thought almost dazedly, the soft, almost familiar bed beneath her, the strong, hot body on top of hers, the mouth ravishing hers as he tried to steal her resolve. He was luring her, she knew it, seducing her with his increasingly intimate kisses, by the heat his very presence seemed to bring forth in her.
She was no helpless twit to lose her sanity in the face of an overwhelmingly gorgeous man. And yet she was. Was it his kisses—he kissed differently, more intimately, with his mouth open, with his tongue seeking hers. She’d gotten over the shock of it—she was drawn by the almost hypnotic power of it. This must be how rich heiresses are compromised by penniless rakes and forced into marriage, she thought dizzily. Even the most stalwart of females would have a hard time resisting a kiss like this one.
But she was the one who was penniless in this situation. She tore her mouth away from his, gasping for breath, and fixed him with a fierce look. “I don’t understand you,” she said. “Why me?”
She had to fight the sudden lurch of her heart at the flash of anger in his eyes. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, there were times he could frighten her. She wouldn’t let this be one of those times.
But annoyance wasn’t enough to make him move from her. Oddly enough, he wasn’t too heavy, just enough to keep her there but not enough to hurt her, and she realized he must be taking some of his weight on the arms that trapped her. “Why you?” he said. “You’re here.”
His flat, irritated voice was enough to make her buck beneath him, trying to get him off her, but it was a waste of time. “Just give me half an hour and I’ll find you someone else,” she said.
“Do we really have to play this game?” His voice was weary.
“What game?”
He sighed. “All right, my precious, have it your way. You’re a lady in disguise as a simple servant, and I’m the wicked seducer you can’t resist. Just tell me one thing. Do you want it rough or gentle?”
Her eyes shot open, staring into his cynical ones. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’ll see how things go then, shall we?” His mouth caught hers again, silencing her protest. She managed to get her hands free, and she slid them up to push at his shoulders, but the shock of his hot, sleek skin stopped her. He was warm, pliant beneath her fingers, and he kissed the side of her mouth, his teeth tugged on her lower lip, and she let out a shaky little moan.
“That’s right, you little hellion”—he moved his head to whisper in her ear—“I promise you, I can make you forget any game you ever wanted to play and give you the ride of your life.”
“Don’t,” she said desperately, clutching at his shoulders, holding on to him.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk.” Just for a moment she wanted to lose herself in the feel of his skin, his mouth, without the sarcastic words tearing her from her dream.
He laughed then, and to her surprise he rolled to his side, bringing her with him, so that she was no longer trapped. It should have been a relief, but like a fool she didn’t try to pull away. Her eyes had begun to get used to the darkness, but even so close she could barely see him. She felt his hand on her calf, catching the whisper-thin chemise in his hand and starting to draw it upward, and when she reached down to stop him, he simply caught her hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing it. “Don’t you ever get tired of fighting?”
“Don’t you?” she countered in a whisper. Put your hand back there, she thought. Don’t let me stop you.
She had no idea whether he was a mind reader or not, but he slid his hand back down her leg to catch the shift again. “You don’t want me to tear this pretty thing off you, do you? If that’s the game you want to play then you should wear cheaper clothing.”
“I don’t want to play any games,” she cried.
“Good. Neither do I.”
She had no idea how he managed to move so fast, so deftly; his hands slid up the sides of her body and stripped the chemise over her head, tossing it away in the darkness, and she was alone with a man, in a bed, wearing nothing at all.
She should tell him to stop. She should tell him exactly who she was—he would jump away from her as if she were pure poison. She’d wrapped her arms around her body, instinctively, protectively, and neither of them moved.
“It’s up to you now, Sophie,” he whispered, his voice a little rough in the darkness. “No more games. Yes, or no?”
He was so close she could feel the heat coming off his body; she could still taste his mouth on hers, feel the touch of his surprisingly calloused hands on her arms. She could roll away from him, hit the floor, and run. She knew it with an instinct old and sure as time. He would let her go. He’d let her go the first time she ran; he would let her go this time as well.
But she didn’t want to run.
For a moment she didn’t move, trying to will common sense back into her brain. It was gone, vanished in the darkness, and there was no way she could summon it back. It didn’t matter; none of it did. The only thing she cared about was Alexander, beside her, waiting for her answer. There was only one answer she could honestly give.
She unwrapped her arms from her body, reached up, and cupped his face, holding him with her strong hands, her thumbs gently caressing his mouth, and she heard the word in her own voice, the word from her own heart, not her nonfunctioning brain. “Yes.”
For a moment he didn’t move, and she had the sudden fear that it had been the chase that mattered—once she gave in, stopped playing the game, as he called it, he would lose interest.
And then he let out a pent-up breath. “Thank God,” he murmured, and kissed her with such sweetness she wanted to weep. His arms came around her, and she was suddenly dizzy as he rolled her over his body, so that she rested on top of him. Her bare breasts were against his warm skin, and instinctively she rubbed against him.
He slid his hands up, and the feel o
f them on her breasts was so exquisite she took in a quick breath. His thumbs brushed against her nipples, and she jerked in surprise, feeling it directly between her legs.
“Don’t worry, my precious little virgin,” he said. “I’ll make your first time good for you.”
She felt relief flood her. He believed her. He wouldn’t hurt her—he would take care of her, cherish her as any lover would. It didn’t matter if his voice was ironic—he always sounded that way. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t her lover, or her husband. For now he would be.
She slid against him, her hips up against his, feeling the hard ridge beneath his trousers, a perfect match for the ache between her legs. It would be all right. She ran her hands up around his neck and pulled him closer.
Her nipples were hard against his thumbs in the warm night air, and he knew he had her. Knew that she’d be wet between her legs, and he wanted to put his mouth there, wanted to with such a fierceness that he could barely fight it. She was the one being paid—even if it gave him pleasure, he wasn’t going down on someone who serviced men for a living, no matter how good an actress she was. It was a pleasure he would have to reserve for someone else.
Her breasts were a different matter. He wanted to taste her, to suck on her, and with a groan he pushed her onto her back, leaned down, and took one hard, small nipple into his mouth.
He felt her entire body jerk, a reaction that couldn’t be feigned, and he ran his tongue over her, then latched on, using his teeth just slightly, and sucked, hard, as he ran his hand down her stomach, and he felt her buck beneath him, her hands on his shoulders, clinging to him.
She had soft, perfect skin. Pampered, delicate, and he wanted to lick her all over. She tasted like the cool, clear water that he swam in, and he wanted more. His fingers slid through the soft curls covering her, and he felt a second flash of emotion hit her body. He moved his hand down, his fingers touching her wetness, and he was the one who groaned in sheer, delicious anticipation.