A Well Pleasured Lady (17 page)

“
You
speak of politeness?” she sputtered. The fire of her frenzy rose while his fingers pressed the bottom of her foot. It tickled, and more, it combined with every other sensation as stimulation.

She didn't want stimulation.

She jerked her foot away and stomped it on the floor to remove the trace of his touch.

His fingers moved up the cleft of her buttocks until they touched the base of her spine, an intimacy that made her forget her foot and try to swat him with her hand. She struck only the wad of her skirt bunched around her waist, and she realized he could easily pull the full bell over his head and hide beneath like a boy playing tent. The impotence of her position played havoc on her remaining composure. “You like humiliating me, don't you?” she asked, accusation making her voice tremble.

“Is it humiliation you're feeling?” His open lips left a trail of dampness as he explored the skin no one had seen since she had been a babe. “It doesn't taste
like humiliation.” His tongue swabbed her on the crease where her leg met her behind. “It tastes like excitement. Am I exciting you, Guinevere Mary?”

“I hate you,” she said, and she meant it.

“But am I exciting you?” he insisted. “I'm kneeling behind you, begging for a crumb of compliance. You can feel me. Don't you want to feel me?”

Until he said it, she had refused to think of it. He
was
kneeling behind her like a supplicant. And why? Why would a man like him behave so oddly? What was he gaining from this game he played?

What was she losing?

Nothing, except her innocence. And worse, every last shred of her remaining detachment.

“Guinevere Mary,” he crooned. “Answer me. Tell me how you crave my touch.”

“I don't.”

“You lie.”

Of course she lied. How could she remain insulated from experience, from life, when his hands kept stroking her? Something inside her was melting. It expanded within her and flowed between her legs, slow and damp and warm, and if she didn't do something soon, he was going to discover the harvest. She didn't think she could stand that. It embarrassed her that her body rebelled against her mind's dominion. And although she'd never heard anything about this phenomenon of moisture, she suspected he would view it favorably, even jubilantly, and damn him, he'd already had too many victories this morning.

Slowly he slid behind her, moving from the outside
of her thighs to the inside. He alternated his touch with those distracting openmouthed kisses, but still she knew enough to fight the way he spread her wide with his skillful fingers. Her legs trembled from the constant pressure to keep them close together, and she closed her eyes to concentrate on her effort.

Then she opened them, because when she cut off her sense of sight, she experienced the melting all the more acutely.

His fingers stroked the thin fair hair on her legs. He was getting close, too close, so close. He fondled just the ends of the curly blond hair over her privates, but the sensation reached her skin, then deep inside her. He was going to touch her soon, and she was a tangle of terror and a craving so strong she trembled with it.

Touch. His touch. A feast of touch to a starving woman. And when he gave her the ultimate touch, she would surely burn to a cinder.

Mary had to regain control to save her life.

And even as she thought it, Guinevere mocked her with the chant
It's too late. You'll never get control back as long as you live.

“Please.” Pride crumbled. Mary's voice cracked. The length of the wall wavered before her gaze. “Don't. Don't do this. You hurt me more than I can possibly express.”

His thumb paused. “Hurt you?” He sounded shocked. His fingers flexed, kneading the muscles of her inner thighs.

She held her breath. Had she saved herself with her appeal?

“No, I don't hurt you.” Now he sounded positive and angry again. “Don't try guilt with me, Guinevere Mary.”

She had enough intelligence left to be afraid—right before his finger swept inside her.

This time she put her fists to her mouth to muffle her scream, because this wasn't a scream of outrage, but of pleasure. She didn't want him to hear that; it would confirm his suspicion she was a wanton. Or worse, it would puff him with vanity. Make him laugh at how easily he'd manipulated her…

His finger slid out, then in again. He'd found the moisture, and he used it ruthlessly to ease the shock of his caress. Or else he used it ruthlessly to give her even more sensation. She didn't know which. She didn't know anything.

She whimpered. Her eyes closed, her head fell forward. The cool wall supported her cheek again, and she wished she were lying down. It would be better than trying to stand while he created such turbulence that her knees almost gave way.

With the thumb of his other hand, he opened her folds.

She was open now, completely open. He could touch wherever he wished. And he would, too. That was why his thumb hovered over the nub normally protected from exploration. “Please.” Her breath wavered so much, she could scarcely speak. “Don't.”

“
Don't
is a challenge.”

She couldn't see him. She hadn't seen him through
this whole ordeal, but she didn't need her sight to know what he looked like. This was Sebastian. Sebastian, with his hard-bitten features and darkened bruises. With his broad shoulders that concealed such strength. Sebastian who tormented her, Sebastian who pleasured her, Sebastian who
dared
…

But when he stood and swung her around, his face provided a shock. Her head struck the wall as she tried to jerk back from the taut emotion that pulled his muscles tight. His midnight eyes glittered, and he handled her relentlessly, crowding her deeper into the corner. As if he had the right to, he pushed her thighs open and slid his hand under each one. The muscles in his neck strained as he lifted her. Her knees touched the walls as he stepped between her legs.

Had she thought herself open before? No, now she
was
open.

Reaching up, she grabbed his hair and yanked, and he grunted. Grunted, and took the chance to kiss her. He used his tongue to give her a message, and she heard it as clearly as if he had spoken. She could batter him as she wished; he'd be inside her regardless.

She punched at his arms until something touched her below. Touched her in the place where he'd slid his finger. Aghast, she stared at him.

Solemnly he stared back—and he pushed.

When had he opened his breeches?

Then—how did he think he could put that thing inside her? He'd just begun, and already she burned from his entry.

“Don't!” She tried to wiggle, and he let her. He let her, because as she wiggled and he loosened his grip on her legs, she was inexorably forced down on him. The pain grew stronger. Pressure grew as irresistible force met immovable object.

Then the immovable object snapped.

Abruptly he was inside her, all the way inside her.

“Don't!” she cried again. Tears brought a husky edge to her voice and she brushed at her face with her shoulder. She didn't want him to see her crying, but there was no place to run, no place to hide. This act was the most intrusive she'd ever endured in her life.

And that was at least part of the reason he'd forced her. She knew from the way he watched her, as if every wince gave him power. Damn him, damn him, how did he know that she hated the loss of privacy almost as much as she hated the turbulent emotions?

Leaning over, he licked the moisture from her cheek. “They're worth more than your maiden-head,” he said. “Your tears are gold to me.”

“How can you be so cruel?” she demanded. “Why does it give you pleasure to make me suffer?”

“Suffering. Joy. Passion. I don't care what emotion you show, as long as you show it to
me.”
He braced his legs and held himself still. “Are you still in pain?”

She was. Of course she was. If he moved, she thought she would die. But her thoughts darted about, trying to figure an escape, knowing none existed. “And I
was
a virgin,” she blurted.

“I wasn't…right,” he acknowledged.

“That isn't the same as saying you were wrong.”

“No.”

He stood between her legs, chest heaving, holding her by her nether cheeks, and as deeply inside her as he could go. He didn't look regretful, and he certainly didn't apologize, and irrationally, she found herself glad of that.

Rather, his eyes glistened as if he were under intense strain.

He said, “You can punch me
now
if you want.”

His lips were full, and he wet them as if he wanted to admit his fault. Then he leaned forward and kissed her, and she realized he didn't want to admit his fault at all. That was too difficult. He just wanted to have her hit him until his guilt and her resentment had been satisfied. Then they would go on and finish what they'd started.

The discomfort was easing. The sense of fullness gave her an odd sort of satisfaction. And God help her, she wanted to finish, too.

Lust. She was in lust.

“Go on,” he urged, “punch me.”

She put her hand up to his face. He flinched back, but she just laid her palm flat against his cheek. “Later.”

It burned. The sensation was too intimate.

Mary burned. This entanglement was calamity.

Yet the faint moan that broke from her wasn't caused by pain or embarrassment, but by the shimmer of sensation as Sebastian shifted her. He lifted his knee and braced it against the wall, then with his free hand he opened her as he had before. She whimpered even before he touched her, anticipating the shock.

“Don't close your eyes,” he warned. “Don't you dare try and hide from me.”

The strain on his face told the truth. He might have started this out of fury, but he was involved now. He'd laid claim on her, but she'd returned the favor, and now they were so tangled she didn't know how to escape.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” she whispered.

“I do.” His mouth curled in the most beautiful
smile she'd ever seen. “I just hope I have the stamina to do it right.”

Gently his finger dabbed at her, and she arched back as if lightning had struck.

“God in heaven.” He sounded worshipful.

“What?” Grabbing at his shoulders, she took bunches of his coat in her fists.

“I can feel your muscles clench on me when I…” He touched her again.

She could feel it, too. This wasn't the massive assault she'd envisioned, but a thing of delicacy, of perception in each individual nerve.

“A little more, Guinevere Mary.” His husky voice fought a battle between satisfaction and frustration. “Let's do this a little more.”

Her inner muscles rippled.

He flexed.

She shuddered.

He lifted her.

It hurt.

“Don't,” she said urgently.

He laughed, his tone a little off. “Too late for that. You should have been saying ‘don't' before.”

“I was!”

“Let's see.” He pretended to think. “You boxed my ears. You tried to run away. You objected. Hm. So nothing could have stopped me, and nothing will stop me now.”

Furious once more, she snapped, “You are abominable.”

He looked down where they were joined. His hair fell around his face in strands. Then he looked up into her eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But only with you.”

He shifted, planting his feet firmly on the floor and holding her with his hands, then he lifted her again. His eyes half closed in ecstasy.

“You look like you did when you ate the bread pudding.” She gurgled with laughter, and she realized hysteria threatened.

He opened his eyes all the way, observing her. “You're a tasty morsel,” he whispered. He moved in close to her, so his pubic bone touched where his finger had been before. “And I'm better than all the dreams you never allowed yourself.”

Then he kissed her, a full-bodied, passionate kiss. The touch of his lips and the puff of his breath in her mouth stilled the laughter. Her blood leaped and lust came billowing back. He
was
better.

His kiss had broken rules, but why should that surprise her? Sebastian broke rules. Sebastian did whatever he needed to get his way.

He milked passion from her mouth, and her muscles clamped down on him as if her flesh sought to return the favor.

He bit back a groan, then started moving her. With each stroke, he roused more of that rapidly expanding bundle of nerves. Steadily he probed, backed away, probed. Now she was grateful for the dampness that had embarrassed her. It eased the way, made this ordeal almost pleasurable…

Another whimper crept from her. Pleasurable? Her
lungs, her heart, every organ in her body, flared with excitement. The walls slid against her back. The room wavered before her vision. Each action led him a little deeper, when she'd thought there was no deeper left to go.

“So good. Better than I'd dreamed.”

He was murmuring, and she thought vaguely he was trying to comfort her, to keep her from killing him now when he was vulnerable. But her body had taken over from her mind. The only violence she considered was squeezing him between her legs. She flexed her knees, adjusting herself as he moved, trying to pull him inside when he wasn't really trying to escape.

He didn't seem to mind, or even notice. He just kept talking. “That's it, sweetheart. A little more. A little tighter.” A gasping laugh. “Couldn't be tighter.”

She was shivering continuously. She had goose bumps, but she wasn't cold.

He agreed. “But hot. You're hot. Can't you feel it? Feel it, honey? Can you—”

“Yes!” Grabbing him by the shirtfront, she shook him. “I can feel it. Now, shut up and hurry!”

He didn't need to be told twice.

The cords of his neck pulled taut with strain as he lifted. Her legs and arms trembled as she worked, trying to help, to get this
right.

“I can hold you.” His voice quivered from the motion of their two bodies dancing to this primitive rhythm. “Just feel it, damn it. Relax and feel it!”

She couldn't relax. She couldn't stop moving. She heard cries: her own. She saw her lover's face: intent, exultant. Need built. She felt constriction where they matched. Again, then again. Suddenly sound, sight,
everything,
blacked out, and only sensation remained. Rapture overwhelmed her. She twisted, writhed, trying to get away, to get more.

“That's it, sweetheart. That's it.” He pounded at her, talking, gasping, giving. “Hot. God!”

She heard Sebastian, but she didn't really. She processed only the fire, the bliss. She screamed.

All inhibition, all discipline, all Sebastian, disappeared under the massive upsurge of pleasure. She beat on him with her fists, struggled with him to reach satisfaction, and he just grinned with savage enjoyment.

Grinned until he stiffened, thrust on her harder, and gave a shout that matched the fervor of hers.

His head pounded in the aftermath of exertion. Exertion, and the most fabulous sensuality he'd ever experienced. And it was with her. Guinevere Mary Fairchild, of the house of his greatest enemies.

And he didn't care. He'd claimed her now. Let no one step between them.

The pounding in his head grew louder. He glanced at the door. It wasn't in his head at all. Someone wanted in. Damn that maid, she'd called in assistance.

Gently he withdrew from Mary's body, not wanting to leave but needing to set the situation to rights.
He wouldn't put it past those idiots to break down the door.

“I'm going to let your legs down, sweetheart.”

Mary barely blinked, and he wanted to chuckle. Not with scorn, but with celebration. He'd done this. He'd changed the prim housekeeper into a creature of fire and light. What a triumph to take her so far…on her first time.

“Can you stand?” he asked gently.

She nodded, and he lowered her legs and propped her in the corner. With his hands on her waist, he supported her while she gained her balance.

He'd known Mary was a virgin from the moment he'd put his finger in her, but from what he'd overheard of her conversation with her maid, Ian had tried to change that, and Sebastian had been furious.

Yes, he had known immediately Mary had been too tight to have ever been with a man, but like the bastard he was, he'd continued to assault her. Creating those unfettered reactions in her despite her resistance had fed his sense of power.

Not pretty sentiments, but he didn't lie to himself about his less attractive traits. Those traits had helped him survive when everything else in his life had died. He got what he wanted any way he could, and he had wanted Mary Fairchild.

“Come, Mary.” He slid his arm around her. “Let me put you to bed.”

“Not likely.”

Startled, he studied her.
She
was alive, and the
spark had begun to return. Even as he watched, she was throwing off the lassitude of sexual satisfaction and returning to her starchy self.

So now he knew. Guinevere Mary was never pliant, except for approximately five minutes after sex. If he wanted to extract promises or demand obedience, he'd have to do it then.

“You should lie down,” he said.

“You would think so.”

Yes, she was recovering almost too quickly. She pulled back from him, but he wouldn't let her. She was trying to reassert her independence, was Mary, and he would have none of that. He controlled her with his hands as firmly as he would a defiant two-year-old.

“What makes you think I'm so weak I have to lie down after that?”

He kept moving her toward the bed, and he allowed an edge of exasperation to creep into his voice. “Even
I
had to lie down after my first time. In fact, my first time occurred while I
was
lying down.”

She jutted her chin. “Women are hardier than men.”

Obviously. “I had hoped to have this discussion in a more relaxed milieu.”

“Relaxed?” She jerked her head toward the door, which now shook beneath the persistent pounding. “What is it they want?”

He had manipulated her so they stood beside the bed, but she took no notice. She was ignoring him.
Ignoring his touch, ignoring his gaze. Pretending to be elsewhere? Annoyed, he swung her into his arms, tossed her lightly on the bed, and imprisoned her between his arms—just as he had done before. “I imagine they'll want to know that what just happened didn't happen.”

She blushed. Really red, from the edge of her collar to the top of her forehead. And he was glad to see it. He didn't like to think he'd gone through an earth-shattering experience that had left his partner only briefly incapacitated.

“And failing that, they'll want to know when the wedding will occur.”

Now the color drained from her face.

“Didn't you think of that?”

She looked up at the ceiling.

He cupped her chin in his palm and turned it toward him. “Didn't you?”

“I wasn't thinking,” she snapped.

Good.

“But neither were you, I would guess, or we'd not be in this situation.” She tried to sit up. “If you'll let me off the bed, we will do what we can to remedy our plight.”

“I am anxiously awaiting your suggestions.”

“I'll smooth my gown, you'll comb your hair, we'll let them in and deny any wrongdoing—”

“What will we say about those bloodstains on your thighs?”

She flinched, but he was abruptly as furious as he had been before.

“They match the ones on my—”

“No!” She clapped her hand over his mouth. “Don't say it.”

Grasping her wrist, he pulled it away. “Don't say it? Not saying it won't change the truth. What's done is done, and I'm
not
a Fairchild. I pay my creditors. Lying is not a way of life for me. I don't destroy my neighbors.”

“What did my relatives do to you to make you so bitter?” she demanded. “I should know. After all, I
am
a Fairchild.”

He cursed himself for mentioning their family's differences, but the rancor had burned in him for so long, it was a part of his very soul. “It doesn't matter. I'm a Durant, and I'll do the honorable thing. I'll wed you.”

“No.”

She was trying to be her usual firm and housekeeperly self, but he saw the tremor of her chin. “We will mend the feud with our union.”

“No.”

The pounders on the door had become shouters. They were making enough racket to wake a corpse—or to thoroughly announce Sebastian's presence in Mary's chamber. “Where will you run with your ruined reputation?”

She pushed her hair out of her face and held it in a tail at the base of her neck. “Where will you run when you're wed to a Fairchild?” she asked, revealing a streak of ruthlessness to match his.

“To bed.”

She let her hair drop back again. “That won't change who I am!”

“I will make you a Durant by infusion.”

She stared at him, unsure what he meant or perhaps skeptical about his ability to jest.

But it
was
a joke, although he didn't blame her for her uncertainty. He wasn't like the men who danced attendance on her. He cared nothing for the social arts and had found little to amuse him in life. But he would be a better husband for her than the others. He knew the truth about her; no one else did.

“Why don't you want to marry me?” he asked more gently. “I'm not an easy man, I know that, but I'm rich—”

“So am I,” she answered quickly.

“Not nearly as rich as I.” A fact for which he was ecstatic.

Still, he didn't fool himself that their disagreements were over. He knew very well that lust was a poor reason to succumb to marriage. But he didn't have a choice; he had to have Mary.

“I can't marry you. There'd never be respect between us, or love”—her lip curled with as much scorn as ever he'd seen in an expression—“or even truth.” She faltered on the last word.

So she wouldn't tell him the truth? Her distrust stung him, and he levered himself off of her. With an expression of acquiescence, he said, “As you wish.” He stalked toward the door. “Let us face our audience.”