A Season of Seduction (8 page)

Jack pulled the counterpane and blanket down and laid her on the soft sheet, propping her head on one of the pillows. She gazed up at him as he hooked his fingers under the fabric of her dress, and she promptly forgot all about Mr. Sheffield.

“I don’t want to tear it,” he said when the material snagged over her bottom.

She lifted her hips, and the soft muslin slid over her pelvis, down her legs, and off her body, leaving her completely bare.

She focused on keeping her breaths even as his hands went to the falls of his trousers. She pressed her lips together and clutched the sheet beneath her in her fists as he kicked off his shoes and the wool slid down his narrow hips. Once he removed his trousers and stockings, he crawled onto the bed beside her.

He gathered her against him until they were pressed together from head to foot, face to face, his heavy erection nudging her thigh. “I’m going to take my time,” he murmured, as if to himself. “It might kill me, but I will take my time.” He cupped her cheeks in his palms. “Remember what I told you earlier.”

“Remember…?” she asked faintly.

“I wouldn’t hurt you for anything. Remember that.”

“I… yes,” she breathed. “I’ll remember.”

He kissed her tenderly, sipping at her lips as if she were ambrosia. She gripped his hard shoulders, her mind whirring, the aching need spreading through her body like a sweet poison.

Grazing over her skin, his hand left her cheek and traveled down her neck and chest to her breast, plumping and kneading, his fingertips scraping over her nipple, making her squirm and gasp into his mouth.

Moving his hand to the curve of her hip, he pulled her more firmly to him. Unable to help herself, she ground her body against him, needing him closer, wanting more.

“That’s right,” he murmured. His hand slipped lower, right to the center between her legs, and she nearly lurched off the bed.

“Too fast?”

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

His hand tightened over her mound, and she gasped. Lightning blazed through her, hot sparks of pleasure.

His fingers pressed deeper. Becky held on to Jack for dear life as he began a slow glide over her sensitive, slick skin. “Oh,” she gasped, her body arcing toward him.

She kept her eyes open, fixed on his face, despite the urge to slam them shut. His gaze remained on her, steady and determined. “I want you to come for me.”

She made an incoherent noise. She’d been close earlier when he’d lavished attention on her breasts. Now, she didn’t know if she could. The sensations were too powerful. Almost overwhelming.

His gaze, so focused on her, so steady. His sex, growing ever harder against her thigh. She squirmed against it, seeking it as she sought his touch. Light from the candles danced across his broad shoulders, making them shine bronze.

He was so beautiful. And his eyes were dark with want, brimming with lust. His lips were parted with need, his breath releasing in harsh rasps that drowned out the sound of her own exhalations and filled the room with his desire.

Yet he didn’t push her down and make her his. He worked her slowly, patiently, until she whimpered. Her fingernails scored his shoulders. Her body shuddered from head to toe. The feeling—oh, it was beautiful and wicked and so heady she thought she might burst. It was a glowing sun of pleasure expanding within her, sending exquisite flames licking through her veins.

“Oh,” she whispered on a moan. “Oh.”

His fingers tightened over her, the pressure increasing. He pressed on that sensitive area, and she squirmed away, gasping, “Too much.”

She would crawl out of her skin if he continued. He didn’t. He gentled his fingers, tracing circles around that too-sensitive spot. Still, he studied her, watched her closely.

He was learning her body, she realized. Learning what made her groan, what made her squirm. What made her come.

He slipped a finger inside her, and she sucked in her breath and pushed her forehead onto his shoulder. She trembled as he moved inside her, learned about her most secret places, her unspoken desires, the places that made her sob with a need for release.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Come when you’re ready.”

His fingers pumped deep within her. She thought she might be torn apart, or that she might scream, or yell at him to stop or go harder, faster, do something to free her, to release the tension that had built so tautly inside her that her skin prickled with the need for relief.

She heard the roar of blood through her veins, her own harsh breaths, and his rasping exhalations overlapping both.

With a gut-wrenching sob, she came. The hot, tight ball condensing within her suddenly burst, exploded into a million sparks of agonized pleasure that shot through every nerve in her body. She froze, unable to move, to speak, to breathe, as it rushed through her, more powerful than any physical sensation she’d ever experienced.

He didn’t stop. He stroked her through the powerful orgasm as her body clutched his fingers like a vise. She began to shake, her hands grasping at his back, trying to find purchase, and finally gripping his shoulders again. He was her lifeline. He kept her grounded, whole, kept her from falling completely apart.

“My God,” she heard him say, as if from a distance. “My God, Becky…”

The contractions in her body slowly began to recede, and his expert fingers continued to keep her from falling, bringing her down gently back onto the soft sheet.

She was gasping, she realized. Loudly. Sweat—or was it tears?—caked a strand of hair to her cheek. Fresh tears leaked from her lids, and he kissed them away. “Don’t cry. Please, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

A loud creak sounded from just outside the doors that led to the sitting room, and Becky froze. Jack jerked into action. He pulled away from her, tearing himself out of her grip and throwing the covers over her, hiding her body.

The doors banged against the inside walls as they opened. Assorted gasps reached Becky’s ears. Panic surged, a cacophony in her head. Still in bed beside her, his torso bare but the sheet pulled up over his waist, Jack turned to the doorway.

She clutched the bedcovers to her neck.

“Rebecca!”

Oh, God. It was her brother’s voice.

Chapter Four

F
our years ago, Garrett might have yanked out a gun and shot Jack on the spot. But Becky’s brother was a changed man, a calmer, happier one, less likely to jump into action without thought. His wife had come far in taming him.

Nevertheless, a powerful undercurrent of violence resonated in his voice.

Becky turned to the door and gasped at what—or rather
who
—she discovered standing there. Not only her brother. As if that wouldn’t have been horrible enough. No, it seemed half the population of London crowded the door.

Becky’s cousin Tristan stood behind Garrett, fury darkening his features. His wife, Sophie, was at his side. A large group of people Becky didn’t recognize stood behind them.

“What is it? Let me see!” Lady Borrill thrust aside a slender young man and burst into the room. Others closed in behind her.

Becky had been in a life-or-death situation before. She’d combated overwhelming panic and remained strong. But at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to shrink until she was pea-sized and disappear beneath the covers, or better, vanish entirely and never show her face to any of these people again. She stared dumbly at them, unable to move, to speak. Her hands clutched the bedclothes so tightly, her nails dug into her palms and broke the skin.

For a long, charged moment, silence ruled. Then, all at once, noise erupted. Some murmured, others shouted, their words tumbling together. Garrett strode toward Becky and Jack, his face white, his lips tight, his fists bunched, looking for all the world as if he meant to murder Jack Fulton with his bare hands.

Sophie lunged forward and grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back. She spoke, but Becky could not discern her words in the din.

She could discern Garrett’s words, however, as he shook Sophie off as easily as a horse might flick its ear to rid itself of a fly.

“You bastard,” he snarled, raising his fists. “That’s my sister you’re defiling.”

“What the devil are you doing?” Jack demanded. “Leave this room. Now!”

Garrett surged toward the bed. “I’ll kill you.”

Sophie had turned to see the crowd gathered behind them, and Becky heard her groan of dismay. “Oh, dear.”

Garrett froze, his features a tight mask. Then he sucked in a breath and whirled around. When he spoke, his voice was a low, menacing command. “Get the hell out of here.”

Nobody moved.

“Now!” he bellowed.

People leapt into action, and within seconds, the crowd cleared and the door closed, leaving only Sophie, Tristan, and Garrett in the room with Becky and Jack.

Again, Garrett advanced on Jack.

Jack surged up, raising his hands. “I’m happy to fight you, duke, but is this the time and place?”

“Yes.”

Tension radiated from Jack. “Let’s do this in a civilized fashion. Will this constitute a formal challenge? Pistols at dawn?”

“Fists,” Garrett snapped. “Now.”

Perhaps Kate hadn’t tamed her brother as much as Becky had thought. Fear for Jack finally gave her back her voice. “No, Garrett,” she breathed. “Leave him be.”

Garrett’s light blue eyes flicked to her and then away. His stance didn’t change, nor did his demeanor. As usual, she hadn’t affected him at all. Kate was the one person who could cool him, who could defuse his fury, but she wasn’t present.

Tristan moved to stand beside her brother. He grasped Garrett’s shoulder, keeping him—only temporarily, Becky knew—a safe distance from Jack.

Garrett’s icy blue eyes flicked again to Becky, and a muscle jerked in his jaw. He looked at Jack. “Get off the damn bed.”

Jack obligingly slid off, holding one of the pillows to his groin. The sides of his buttocks hollowed and flexed as he stepped away from the bed. Becky was helpless against the tiny flash of arousal at the sight.

Garrett pointed imperiously through the doorway leading to the sitting room. “Go in there and get dressed,” he said to Jack.

Jack retrieved his trousers and glanced at Becky, who offered a quick nod. “As you wish.” He strode out of the room.

Garrett bent and picked something up off the floor. It was the nearly transparent gown that Becky had worn. “Get some clothes on her.”

Tossing the dress to Sophie, he marched into the sitting room. Tristan followed, shutting the doors behind them. Becky shuddered. At least she could be moderately hopeful that Tristan would prevent her brother from eviscerating Jack.

Lady Borrill had told them. She must have recognized Becky and then gone to Tristan and Sophie, who had been at a dinner with Garrett. Heavily pregnant, Kate hadn’t been feeling up to going out tonight and had decided not to attend. But Garrett, Sophie, and Tristan had all gone to dinner in the same carriage. Somehow, Lady Borrill had communicated that Becky was here, involved in something not quite respectable, and of course Garrett had rushed to the scene, dragging along everyone else, without thought of the consequences.

Becky’s brother was heartily indifferent to propriety. If he believed his sister was in danger, he’d charge into the fray without considering the consequences.

Becky swallowed down a choking sob.

Pressing her hand against the stylishly loose blonde knot of hair at her nape, Sophie hurried to the edge of the bed, the coffee-colored skirts of her evening gown swishing and her brow lined with concern. “Oh, Becky.”

Becky knew she didn’t mean to have that tone of censure in her voice. Still, Sophie never failed to make her feel like a naughty child. “Just give me my dress, if you please, Sophie.”

Silently, Sophie handed it over, her lips pursing when she saw the sheer quality of the fabric as it fell over Becky’s breasts. She looked around the room, evidently on the hunt for something for Becky to wear that would more adequately cover her.