Wanting more.
To his immense relief, she did. She made no secret of her desires, let them rise to meet his freely, slid deeper into his arms, pressed against him, and invited.
Satisfaction. Satiation. Consummation.
He knew that was where they were headed, that it was already impossible to change their course—that there was no real reason, at least none in his overheated brain, they should. She was a widow, and he was free. There was nothing to prevent them from indulging the passions that flared so hotly, so powerfully, between them.
But tonight he had another goal he hoped to achieve along the way. Passion was, in his experience, the only force strong enough to override her stubbornness. The only lever he could use to get her to tell him something that, for whatever incomprehensible reason backed by her feminine will, she refused to divulge.
So he gave her what she wanted, but held part of himself back. Enough to remain in control. Such as control was when they were together like this, wrestling in the flames.
That’s what it felt like, all greedy hands, heat and fire. Igniting at a touch, built by each passionate caress until it spread like wildfire beneath their skins. And they burned.
He waited until they both were—then waited some more.
Waited while he sat her on the edge of the big library desk, bared her breasts, then tasted his fill.
Until she was gasping; until, head back, she was clutching his head to her, reveling in his skill, in the increasingly hot caresses he pressed on her. He hadn’t been celibate for the last five years—not since he’d discovered she’d married. He’d learned a few things she didn’t know in that time, things he was very ready to share with her.
Things that would put her in the state most conducive to him getting some answers.
She was sitting on her gown, effectively encasing her legs and hips in stiff bombazine. He touched her through the fabric, caressed until she moaned, then with a scorching kiss—one that nearly cindered his plans—she made her wishes known.
In response he eased her off the desk, propped her against it, then drew her skirts up as he went to his knees before her. She blinked down at him, her eyes heavy with desire and clouded with lust, arched a brow when he caught her gaze. He inwardly smiled, knowing she’d relish the sight of him on his knees before her. She’d relish the sight even more when he was done.
He lifted her heavy skirts up and back, exposing her long, long legs; running his hands up the long curves from her calves to her hips, he pushed the skirts high, then tucked the fabric behind her so it was trapped by her hips against the desk’s edge—out of his way.
So that the only veil between him and the curls at the apex of her thighs was her filmy silk chemise. He ran his hands up beneath it, and she shuddered.
He looked up and saw she’d closed her eyes; a line of concentration furrowed her brow. He let his hands explore her jasmine-scented skin, the swells and hollows he’d first claimed so long ago; he hadn’t taken the time—had had no time—to reacquaint himself with them last night.
Tonight he took his time, until she grew restless. Until her hand tightened in his hair and she settled against the desk, parting her thighs. He glanced up at her, caught a glittering glimpse of gold and green from beneath her lashes. He smiled, and accepted her invitation, watching her face as, with the backs of his fingers, he lightly stroked the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs, then turned his hand and slid his fingers into the haven between, and caressed. She closed her eyes. He found her entrance and circled, time and time again, until her breasts were heaving, until her fingers tightened painfully in his hair. He slid one long finger into her, penetrated her to his full reach, then stroked slowly out. The tension holding her didn’t ease, but her grip on his hair did. He pressed in and stroked again, and eased closer.
Letitia shuddered. Pleasure spilled down her veins in a never-ending stream, one he continuously fed. The sight of him supplicant at her feet went some way to deadening her irritation with him—this, once again, wasn’t supposed to have happened.
But it had, and she wasn’t about to argue. Wasn’t about to deny herself the pleasure he and only he could give her.
Especially as he was so intent, and so assiduous, in doing so.
He knew how to pander to her senses; he clearly hadn’t forgotten. He knew just when to wait, when to take, when to demand. When to command.
Her hand in his hair helped keep her upright as the telltale tension, all fire and bright, glittering sensation, built and rose inexorably within her—fed, expertly orchestrated, by his caresses, explicit and increasingly intimate.
Then he grasped her thigh and parted her legs farther. She felt him shift. A shiver of expectation slid down her spine as she waited for him to rise, to lift her and impale her.
Fill her.
Instead she felt the rough rasp of his beard on her inner thigh, simultaneously felt his hair brush her belly, through her hand on his head realized he’d pressed his face closer.
Then she felt his tongue and realized why.
“Christian!”
She fought to lift her lids, managed to crack them open a sliver, enough to look down and see….
On a moan, she closed her eyes again. Let her head fall back, felt her fingers clench in his hair.
As he did diabolical things to her with his tongue. With his mouth and his teeth and that wicked tongue made love to her there.
Her senses stretched, expanding to take in the novel sensations, her body, her nerves, greedily rejoicing.
He knew what he was doing—knew how to wind the sensual rack he’d placed her on tighter and tighter until she thought she would shatter, only to ease off, let the tension slacken, draw her back from that glorious edge just enough to keep her from falling over.
And then he’d push her forward again. Stoke her fires, build the sweet tension until she was just about to—
His mouth left her. His breath washed over her swollen flesh as he breathed, “Did Randall ever treat you to this?”
She frowned. “Of course not.” Then she realized and amended, “He wasn’t…” In the end, she gestured. She couldn’t think well enough to lie.
His wicked tongue rasped slowly over where she was most tender and she gasped. “Accomplished?”
“Much of a lover. For God’s sake—”
“Is that what you held against him?”
“No.” She struggled to open her eyes, to drag air into her parched lungs so she could tell him what she thought of his methods of interrogation, but no doubt sensing her intent, he went to work with his mouth again, and she couldn’t find the strength.
Couldn’t fight her way free of the drugging sexuality, the sheer eroticism of his actions, especially once he brought his hands and clever fingers into play as well.
Then he drew back to suckle, oh so gently, on the delicate bud just beneath her curls, at the same time testing, teasing, the entrance to her sheath with two large blunt fingertips.
“But you did dislike Randall.” He made the statement quickly, while changing the angle of his attack.
She decided no answer was required.
Another minute of excruciatingly exquisite pleasure passed, then he lifted his head. “Why was that?”
He had her balanced on the cusp of the storm, on the bright sharp edge of the peak of oblivion. She had to tip over, had to have that one last touch—
She opened her eyes and looked down into his, breasts heaving as she dragged enough air in to say, “I didn’t dislike Randall. I hated him. With an absolute passion.”
A passion as strong as her love for Christian, but that she kept to herself.
She glared as well as she could. “Satisfied?”
His lips curved—intently. “For now.”
Between her thighs, he shifted his hand, thrust his fingers deep—and she shattered.
Finally, finally, finally.
Letting her head fall back, she gloried in the waves of intense pleasure that rolled through
her, sharp, bright, primitively right. She didn’t question that last, simply acknowledged it.
He rose to his feet, caught her as her knees buckled, supported her when she slumped against him, and with his hand still buried between her thighs, spun the pleasure out and out, until it faded.
She sighed and settled against him—waited for him to release his erection and take what he wished of her, take his pleasure in her, slake his desire for her.
Instead he held her trapped between his hard, aroused body and the edge of the never used library desk; bending his head, he whispered against her hair, “Why did you hate Randall?”
She let her lips curve but kept them shut. That was one question she wasn’t going to answer. Would not answer, no matter what he did.
No matter what state he reduced her to.
When she said nothing, he cajoled, “Leti-tia,” drawing her name out as he used to do.
Rather than learn what he might try next—and as she still needed a moment more to regain control of her limbs—she informed him—teased him with, “Justin was right. I would happily have killed Randall if I’d been the sort of person who killed people. And while I wouldn’t do anything so scandalous as to dance on his grave—although the temptation did occur to me this evening—I certainly won’t be shedding so much as one tear on his tombstone.” She paused. “Which reminds me—I better order one.”
Raising her hands to Christian’s upper chest, she pushed, leaning back as she did so she could see his eyes. “Shall we get on with this?”
The look he gave her was that of a man pushed too far, but she knew how to fix that. How to circumvent any inclination to argue or question her further.
Bracing one hand on the planes of his chest, she lowered the other, flicked the buttons at his waist free, slid her hand into his trousers and curled her fingers about his hard length.
His jaw clenched. She could see him debating how long he would let her play before he again took charge. She smiled, leaned into him, moving him back a fraction, then sank down.
To her knees, just as he had.
Locking both hands around his heavy member, she admired her prize—then opened her lips and applied them to the blunt head of the thick shaft, lightly licked, then slowly slid her lips down, taking him in as she’d heard the act described, hoping she was doing it correctly.
From the sound that strangled halfway up his throat, given the way his hand clutched in her hair and held her rather than pushed her away, she wasn’t far wrong.
She’d heard about this years ago, had had more than a decade to fantasize about having him at her mercy. Now at last she had him where she wanted him, she wasn’t about to let him go without learning a great deal more.
Without confirming firsthand what drove him to desperation.
She set herself to that task with her customary enthusiasm.
Christian couldn’t breathe. Both his hands had lowered to tangle in her hair. The desk beside him gave him some support; without it he might have collapsed in shock, in complete and totally unexpected sensual overload.
Her mouth on him there…he’d never even imagined it. Not all ladies were aware of the act, nor keen to devote themselves to a man’s pleasure in that way.
Letitia clearly saw advantages—he should have known she would, but he hadn’t thought…couldn’t think….
Her tongue curled around him and he heard himself groan.
Her small hands found his sac, weighed, toyed, then caressed—and he knew, despite the carnal delight, that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—last much longer.
He fought to give her as long as he could, to take the delicious torture, but then she became more intent, and he had to slip a finger between her luscious lips and prise them from him.
Pull her up against him, grasp her hips and hoist her up.
She needed no directions; she wound her long legs about his hips, angled her hips and sank down as he thrust up. He buried his aching erection in her heated sheath, felt her stretch and take him in, then cling. Clutch. Caress.
They’d come together in this fashion on long ago nights, in illicit interludes in darkened parlors and gardens. In gazebos and conservatories.
Memories rolled through him, but they couldn’t dim, couldn’t touch, the glory of the moment. She arched, head high; hands on his shoulders she rose up on him, then her eyes locked on his and she slid down, down, taking him all as she lowered her head and brought her lips slowly down on his, wound her arms around his neck—and surrendered.
Let him have her as he would.
Let him lift her, then slowly impale her again, let him battle desire and need to drag the moments out, to savor her body in all its feminine glory freely yielded.
In that instant she made him hers again, totally captured his soul again, for as her green-gold eyes, heavy-lidded with passion, met his, there were no barriers, no shields, no screen to veil the reality that shone in their depths.
He held her steady and rocked into her; her lids fell and he thrust again, deeper, filling her completely.
Thrust again and felt the mouth of her womb.
Felt it and her sheath contract, felt the ripples of her release caress his entire length, held his breath, tried to rein in his galloping heart to cling to the moment for just an instant more, but she pulled him over, took him with her.
They shattered together, tumbling headlong into the abyss of satiation.
Warmth surrounded him as it never had with any other woman. Her warmth, her fire, her passion.
All he’d craved for the last twelve years, and she was in his arms once more.
He slumped back against the desk, holding her in his arms, unable to move, too sated to care.
Letitia eventually stirred. She could, she knew, grow seriously addicted to the feeling of golden pleasure, the inevitable sensation of aftermath she always experienced with him, flowing like sweet honey through her veins.
Such an addiction would not be wise.
But she didn’t see any harm in gorging on what he freely offered.
Of course, he’d thought he would get answers to his questions by reducing her to mindless, quivering need. So she’d given him answers, much good would they do him.
She should be furious, but the revelation that she could, if she wished, sweep him away—sweep aside his control and reduce him to mindless, quivering need—went a long way toward dousing her temper.
Indeed, as she wriggled and he obliged and, moving very carefully, disengaged and set her on her feet, she couldn’t help feeling a trifle smug.
Unfortunately, her limbs were still too exhausted—wrung out and boneless—to support her; she wobbled, but he grabbed her, gathered her in and settled her against him. Feeling strangely like purring, she nestled against him and let contentment claim her.
Let her mind assess where they now were, and what she should say, how she should go on.
Eventually, summoning every ounce of censure she could lay her tongue to, she coolly informed him, “Your inquisitorial methods did not impress. Don’t try to question me like that again. And just to make sure we’re quite clear on the matter, there will be no more payments of any sort until you find Justin.”
She paused, thought, then frowned. “Incidentally, in light of the down payments and incentives you’ve already received, have you learned anything yet?”
Christian inwardly sighed. With one hand he absentmindedly readjusted his clothing while he told her about Tristan and their inquiries. “Tristan called around this afternoon.” He glanced at her face as he said, “Did you know your brother is no longer—indeed, may never have been—the profligate rake he’s purported to be?”
She frowned in quite genuine puzzlement. “No.” She met his eyes. “What have you—or your friend—heard?”
“It appears that, sometime since coming on the town, or thereabouts, Justin has…turned over an unexpected leaf. He’s in reality highly circumspect in his associations, and conservative to a fault, especially wi
th money.”
Because he was watching, Christian saw the comprehension flare in her eyes—at the mention of money. But the Vaux were wealthy, always had been. They were major landowners, in similar circumstances to himself. “It appears,” he continued, “that with Justin there’s no gambling, that he’s not the least interested in frittering away his patrimony as the bulk of his peers are. Admittedly none of his friends couch it in miserly terms, but rather that he simply isn’t interested in losing large wads of cash, and they can’t recall that he ever was. He also seems to have developed a monkish attitude to women, not complete abstinence but…”
Still studying her face, he summed up Tristan’s and his own findings. “Justin seems to have taken a very mature line from a relatively early age. As if something happened that shocked him to his senses much earlier than is the norm.”
She reacted to his guess that there’d been something—some event she knew of—that had affected her brother as he’d described; he saw speculation light her eyes.
Equally saw her expression close as she shuttered herself against him.
Shutting him out, despite what they’d just shared.
Despite the fact he was searching for Justin.
He caught her gaze, asked anyway. “Do you have any idea what happened to make Justin…so different from what one might expect?”
She looked at him and baldly stated, “No.” She was lying, and knew he knew she was.
Before he could say anything more, she drew back out of his arms, shook her skirts into place, then, buttoning up her bodice, calmly walked away from him.
Toward the door.
She spoke as she walked, facing away from him. “I’m sure you know your way out by now. Do lock the door behind you.”
His lips thinned. “Letitia.” He waited until she paused, but she didn’t look back. “Whatever you and Hermione do, don’t forget about Barton.”
“He’s still out there?”
“Yes. I spotted him when I came in.”
“He’s obsessed.”
“Very possibly. Catching Justin would help his career.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head, still without looking back. “I’ll bear that in mind—and warn Hermione.” She proceeded to the door. Opening it, she went through; turning, she looked back at him as she reached for the doorknob. Met his eyes across the room. “Good night.” Her lips curved slightly. “Sleep well.”