"I wish this more than you could know," he said.
'Then I'm sure I shall enjoy it."
He smiled with a fondness that warmed her heart. "I'll do my utmost not to make you a liar."
"See that you do," she teased.
He laughed and pulled her to her velvet-bound knees.
He had not lied. His kisses were different now, freer,
lusher
, as if her constraints had loosened his own. His moans were louder, his skin more fevered. He rubbed their bodies together with the enthusiasm of
a much less civilized being. "Do you like that?" he whispered. "Do you like my cock against your skin?"
She could not deny it. "It's wet," she gasped as he dragged the throbbing crest across her belly.
"It's crying for you,
Florence
. It wants to fuck your sweet little pussy." He laughed, low and dark, at
her involuntary shiver. "Poor little
Florence
. I don't mean to frighten you with my words."
"I'm not f-frightened."
He laughed again and squeezed her so tightly his penis seemed to burn between their bodies. "I'll tell
you a secret, love. I don't mind if you're a little frightened, so long as you enjoy how I make you feel."
He kissed her before she could respond, deep and possessive, driving every thought from her mind but the sweet, drugging bliss of his touch. His hands were her salvation, his cock the brand that made her his. And she was his, entirely, without a scrap of her soul withheld. Willingly, she surrendered to his wishes, loving that what he wanted was hers to give, loving even the tiny spark of fear. He could do anything to her.
Anything.
But he would not hurt her. She knew he would not. The trust she felt was a pleasure in itself. That she, who had so long feared her shadow, could trust a man with not only her body but her body's satisfaction filled her with a hot, sharp streak of pride. Even to Freddie she would not have granted this. Only Edward could be trusted to know her deepest need.
Indeed, even as she tensed with a shadow of self-consciousness, he moved behind her. She sighed at the heady rush the change of positions inspired. She could not see him now, and he could not see her face. She was freed to feel, to react, with that small bit of modesty preserved.
"Cat," he teased at her tiny, purring moan.
As if to underscore the words, his nails raked gently up her back, from the curve of her buttocks to the base of her neck. She rolled her spine and stretched her arms against the limits of her bonds. Despite the unorthodox situation, she had never been so easy in her body. Her wrists were tied to the bottom of the columns, pulled out from her sides but not raised. Such a simple containment, but what a difference it wrought in her mind! I am lucky to be beautiful, she thought
,
if it makes me the woman this man desires.
"I'm moving closer," he warned. "I'm going to rub us together like the butler and his favorite plate."
He planted his knees outside her calves and slipped his arms around her waist. His chin fit neatly over her head. True to his word, he buffed his front to her back, slowly, firmly, the heavy press of muscle and skin a deep, bone-heating pleasure.
Her enjoyment escaped in a long, melodious sigh.
"Like that?" he said, his fingers drawing circles on her breasts.
"It makes me feel drunk."
"And this?"
One big hand covered her belly, pressing her bottom to the thick hot thrust of his sex. Her head fell back against his shoulder.
"Yes," she said.
"That, too."
He pleasured her as slowly as she'd pleasured him, hands brushing feather-light against the parts of her that felt it most: her nipples, her mouth, the sensitive stretch of bone between her shoulders. He teased the triangle of curls between her legs and drew patterns over the rise of her hips. He touched her until her skin seemed to hum beneath his hands: burning, yearning, straining harder and harder for the next caress. When he finally slipped one finger between the tightly pressed folds of her mound, the contact made her nerves all leap at once.
But even these enticements could not dull her awareness of what he was doing with his cock. He was rubbing it over her: her bottom, the small of her back, the crease where each cheek met her legs. He squeezed it into the tightly bound clasp of her thighs, just far enough to touch her nether lips before he drew it out. She sensed he was exploring her with it, as if his organ were another hand. She could feel the wet, foreign press of the little eye, warm and slick. He was stretched within his skin, hardening like iron as their play drew out.
"Ready?" he said, his voice harsh but still controlled.
"Ready to fly over the edge?"
She could barely move for the waves of longing that weighted her limbs. She managed a feeble nod. For him it was enough. Gone was his teasing then, gone the luxuriant rub of skin on skin. Strength replaced it, and determination. The swiftness of her rise was dizzying. In seconds, her body tensed, coiled with heartstopping pleasure, and sprung free with blinding force. He must have known what was happening to her. His hips jerked faster, pressed harder, and an instant later he joined her in the sweet convulsion. Growling softly, his teeth scored her shoulder as his seed jetted hard against her back.
It was a singular experience, feeling him soften as he held her, knowing they had shared that spasm of joy. He sat back and spooned her against him. This is nakedness, she thought.
Letting someone see you lose yourself to the madness of your flesh.
He kissed the place he'd set his teeth,
then
licked it. Her skin tingled beneath his tongue.
"You bit me," she said, as surprised by his action as she was by her own flutters of intrigue. Obviously, she had much to learn about the secrets of the bedchamber.
Misunderstanding her words, he murmured an apology and bent to release her ties. He checked her
wrists to make sure they weren't chafed. The right bore a mark where she'd unwittingly tugged it at the end. He kissed the fading redness,
then
cradled her hand against his chest. "All right, love?" he said, his pretty eyes concerned.
She'd always be all right when he called her that.
"Just tired," she said, her gratification smothered by a yawn.
The response amused him. "Come then," he said. "I'll get us settled for the night."
* * *
Softer what seemed
like minutes of fitful sleep, he woke to a patter of rain on the domed wooden
roof.
A necklace of small round windows circled its gilded rim. They bled
a pale
silver light that did nothing
to lift his heart. He was stiff from sleeping on the floor, stiff and cold. He had turned away from
Florence
in the night, leaving her to hug the pillows for warmth. He knew he should not linger but he watched her just a little longer: her downy, sleep-flushed skin, her shining spill of chestnut hair.
She was a chick barely out of its shell, a child-woman with her hands curled together beneath her cheek. Could anyone who saw her not wish to protect her sweetness?
He thought of the way she'd taken him in her mouth, all curiosity and accidental skill. He thought of the way she'd let him bind her, the way she'd squirmed and sighed in his arms. Her lust was as clean as the brook that fed the downs. No act could sully her; at least, not the woman she was today.
Lips thinned by a rueful smile, he smoothed the gold satin sheet across her back. Life would change her: disappointments, disillusions, the narrow-minded judgments of the world. One day she'd know enough to be embarrassed by what they'd done. For now, though, she was innocent in the one way that mattered. Freddie Burbrooke would take a virgin to his bed.
Edward didn't credit her tale about Freddie not wanting to marry her. That was just a foolish pang of conscience. In the end, his brother would act as wisdom required. He would marry Florence Fairleigh.
He would safeguard his future and the future of the Greystowe name.
With eyes gone hot, Edward turned from his brother's bride-to-be. He told himself Freddie would take care of her. Freddie would be kinder than a thousand husbands he could name. He swallowed against
the painful thickness in his throat.
One thing only Freddie would not do.
He would not cherish the pure, bright flame that burned within her flesh.
CHAPTER 12
Florence
cuddled her
pillow, hugging the last of her dreams to her breast. She felt quite happily a fool.
All this time she'd been afraid of Edward.
Perhaps he
was
intimidating, even now when she knew he
must care for her. It was a good kind of intimidating, though, an exciting kind.
What an adventure being married to him would be! She was a little sorry to be breaking her promise to Freddie, but it wasn't as if he wanted to marry her himself. She was sure a charming man like him would have no trouble finding a more suitable, less passionate bride.
Poor Freddie, she thought. He had no idea what he was missing. Then again, who was she to judge his nature? No doubt he thought her the unfortunate one.
She extended her arms in a supremely satisfied stretch. Despite her moments of anguish, everything had turned out for the best. She could hardly wait to start making Edward happy.
She would have to wait, though, because her lover was nowhere in sight.
He must have left early to preserve her reputation. It wouldn't do for the servants to witness their licentiousness. Never mind that servants could be as bad;
Florence
understood what was expected. Why force people to know what would make them uncomfortable, even if they did the same themselves? She nodded in agreement to the empty room. Yes, Edward had demonstrated great discretion in leaving the pavilion first.
And, look! He had left her a token. Eyes caught by something shiny, she retrieved his gold signet from between a pair of pillows. It must have rolled off the cushion while she slept.
The ring fit tolerably well on her forefinger, its ruby winking darkly in the rain-dimmed light. Freddie
had not given her an engagement ring, an omission she had not thought about till now. Moved to the
edge of tears, she brought the gem to her lips and kissed it.
"I love you," she whispered, trying out the words. "I love you, Edward Burbrooke."
She shivered suddenly, chilled by an errant draft. The room seemed empty with only herself to warm
it, as much a ruin as the former Greystowe Hall.
I should dress, she told herself, and return to the house. If Edward could be discreet, then so could she.
* * *
When she arrived,
more or less dry thanks to an umbrella she'd found in a big brass pot beside the door, the front hall was empty. Her pulse beat frantically in her throat as she managed to slip back to her room without encountering any servants, though they had, of course, begun the day's work already. Relieved though she was, sneaking around gave her a sense of wrongdoing she did not like. She wished she could simply declare the truth to everyone.
She and Edward were going to be together. The thought was miraculous to the point of being frightening. Even as she longed to get the announcement over with, she dreaded telling Edward's family. She'd been intimate with him, after all, hardly a cause for pride—especially when she hadn't officially broken off with Freddie.
But, oh, it had been worth any amount of awkwardness to share that night! Her cheeks warmed with a particularly potent memory and suddenly she had to see him, immedi
ately and alone, if only to reassure herself she hadn't dreamed it all.
Her heart tripped thrillingly against her ribs as she slipped down the corridor to his office, darting to the shadows whenever she thought she heard a maid. Thankfully, the carpets muffled her eager footsteps. The day was so dark even gaslight could not dispel the gloom. One of the doors she passed—giving access to the cellar, she imagined—was actually seeping curls of mist beneath its planks. She felt as if she'd stepped into another time; or perhaps a fairy tale, where she was the intrepid princess and Edward the dark, enchanted prince. She almost giggled as she passed a niche with a suit of armor.