Kathryn Smith (22 page)

Now she could lift her hips and she did, but the pressure wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.

“I want to go slowly,” he whispered, tossing the rose aside and slipping his hand between her legs instead. His fingers parted her flesh, rubbing the slickness there, spreading it further and further along the cleft. “But I’m too impatient to have you.”

Impatient? If this was impatient, she’d go insane with lust when he decided to take his time! She spread her legs even further, inviting him to slide his fingers deep within her as he had that night in the garden maze.

“If this were my tongue,” he murmured, the velvet roughness of his voice raising gooseflesh on her skin as his finger slid closer to the center of her ache, “I would lick you until you ground yourself against my mouth, begging for release.”

The throbbing between Blythe’s legs intensified. She was considering begging now!

Then Devlin’s finger touched that hardened spot high up within the hidden recesses of her body, and a cry of delight escaped her lips.

“I would lick you here.” His breath was hot against her mouth as his finger worked its magic. “I would rub that sweet spot with my tongue and suck it until you came.”

Oh Lord, the things he said! They shouldn’t inflame her the way they did, but oh! She wanted it. Wanted him.

As if reading her thoughts, he moved his leg, positioning himself between her splayed thighs. He knelt there, at the opening of her body, the thumb of one hand stroking her “sweet spot” while the other guided himself inside her.

For a second she tensed as his flesh parted hers, but the pressure of his thumb and the incoherent whispers of encouragement coming from his lips made it impossible for her to do anything but relax. As she did, she could feel her interior muscles softening against his intrusion, and her back curved in a supple arch as she opened herself up to the full length of him.

He stretched her, filled her, and it wasn’t enough. She wanted friction, wanted the push and pull of his body thrusting into hers. Her hips began to move.

Moaning, Devlin stretched himself over her, pressing his pelvis fully against hers. He was as deep within her as he could possibly be. He was part of her, and she never wanted to let him go. He braced his forearms on either side of her head as she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him tightly to her.

Slowly, he moved. She could feel his arms quivering with the tension of every controlled thrust. Her hands pressed on his lower back, urging him on, but he just continued his lazy stroking until she thought she might scream. The ache within her was excruciating. Tighter and tighter it wound, sweeter and sweeter the pressure. It was like melting a piece of chocolate in your mouth even though you really wanted to bite and chew it.

“Devlin, please,” she pleaded. She wanted him to give her what only he could. Not even on those dark nights when she gave in to temptation and pleasured herself had it felt this good, this right. If this was a sin, then she was ready to spend eternity swimming in hellfire just as long as she had Devlin and his magnificent body with her.

He stilled. She opened her eyes to gaze up at him. His face was mere inches above her own, so close that she could feel his breath and see that his eyes were not really black, but a deep, rich brown.

He withdrew from between her thighs, only to plunge back in again, thrusting his hips hard against hers, increasing the delicious friction between their bodies. It grew and it grew until finally it exploded in an eruption of sensation unlike anything Blythe had ever experienced before. It tore through her entire body, radiating from that part of her that held them together. Pulse after pulse shook her until she muffled her cries of release with his mouth.

Above her, Devlin stiffened, quickening his thrusts until his own stifled moan joined hers and he was still, his body slumping onto hers. She cradled his weight with her arms and legs, reluctant to let him go, even as he rolled to the side.

He slid from between her legs, leaving a warm wetness behind. Blythe wasn’t worried about the possibility of pregnancy. She might have been inexperienced, but even she knew there was little chance of her becoming with child at this stage in her monthly cycle, and to be honest, even if there was a chance, right now she didn’t care.

It was odd, but after all the little things Devlin had done to make her feel delicate and feminine,
this
was what made her feel like a woman. His woman.

His face was almost completely hidden in the shadows, far from the glow of the candle, but she didn’t have to see him to know that he was gazing on her with the same wonder with which she gazed on him.

His hand came up to cup her cheek. “Marry me.”

Blythe’s throat tightened as she wrapped her fingers around his. She couldn’t. Could she? Making love to Devlin had changed everything and yet it changed nothing. She wanted love. She wanted to be sure.

The light in his eyes dimmed, as though he sensed her un
certainty. “I will not continue to play with your reputation. You say you don’t care what the
ton
thinks of you, but I do. I either wed you or I stay the hell away. You decide.”

Oh, how could he be so unfair? Bound to him forever or not at all. She should have known he wouldn’t settle for anything in between. It was all or nothing with Devlin. She was the one who wanted the best of both worlds. Perhaps she was the one who was being unfair—or at least unrealistic.

He cared what people thought of her. He cared—period.

Was it enough? Could it keep them going forever? It was then that an epiphany struck. There were no guarantees in life, just chances taken or ignored.

Which would she rather risk—a few months or a few years of something special, or a lifetime of nothing at all?

Tears filled her eyes—tears of relief, of happiness, and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Yes,” she murmured. “I will marry you.”

“How long are you going to make me wait?”

Blythe stretched in his arms, pushing the soft curves of her long, supple body against his. “It will take three weeks to have the banns read.”

“Frig the banns. I’ll get a special license.”

Instead of admonishing him for his vulgar language, she laughed—a low, throaty sound of delight. “I want a proper wedding. It will take me at least three weeks to arrange everything.”

It was dark, their candle having sputtered away to nothing sometime during their second session of lovemaking, but even in the watery moonlight, Devlin could see the set line of her jaw. She was determined.

“Fine.” He sounded sullen, even to his own ears.

Her fingers brushed his face. “Why are you in such a hurry to marry me?”

“I don’t want to give you a chance to change your mind,” he replied honestly.

Her tone was soft. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

“You might.”
You would if you knew the truth. If you knew what I am.

Her hand came down to his hip, just above that damn scar, the one the Frenchman’s blade had made as he fought for his life. He wanted to move her hand, but she might become suspicious if he did. She already knew he didn’t want to talk about that one.

“Tell me the real reason you want to marry me, Devlin.”

“Why did you agree to marry me?”

“I asked you first.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

He shifted beside her. “You’ll think it’s foolish.”

“I will not.”

Sighing, he wrapped his arm around her, slipping his thigh between hers as he caressed her lush hip. “When I’m with you I feel alive.” There, he’d said it. It hadn’t been all that difficult. The world hadn’t ended.

She slid her leg further over his. “Did you feel dead before?” It was said lightly, like a bit of a joke.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” It was a choked sound, and Devlin instantly regretted his candor. He brought his hand to her cheek and felt the tiny drop of wetness there.

“Are you crying?” As if he even needed to ask.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“For you.”

She hadn’t cried for her lost virginity, hadn’t wept in his arms for her innocence, but she wept for his. Good God, could she break his heart any more easily? When was the last time anyone had wept for him?
For him?

Love me,
he wanted to beg, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. It was probably just as well because she had al
ready given him so much—it would be wrong of him to demand more when he didn’t know if he could return it.

He kissed her instead, rolling her onto her back as he did so. He was rock hard and desperate for her, and all because of two little words:
“For you.”

Blythe’s thighs fell apart easily. She arched her hips toward him, wanting him inside her just as he wanted to be there. She was ready too, slick with their previous lovemaking and her own need. Sweet Jesus, he hadn’t made love three times in one night since his youth.

He plunged into her, heedless of how sensitive he knew she must be, but if he caused her any discomfort at all, he couldn’t tell. Her long, strong legs gripped his flanks, urging him to thrust and thrust again.

A tingling that started at the base of his spine shuddered through Devlin’s entire body. It felt so good to be inside her, so right. He was home, where he belonged.

Hooking his arms under her knees, he pushed her legs upward so that his stomach pressed against the backs of her thighs. She took him deeper into her body, her internal muscles flexing sweetly, gripping his cock in the most exquisite of embraces.

Love me.

He arched his back, thrusting inside her with every ounce of strength in his possession. The bed actually moved with it. Blythe cried out with it, digging her heels into his back and her nails into his shoulders.

“Oh God, Devlin,” she panted.
“Oh yes!”

She wasn’t ready to come yet, but she was getting there. So was he. There was no finesse to this coupling, no sweetness or tenderness. This was pure need, pure instinct. He couldn’t tell her how her words or tears had affected him, but he could show her the ferocity of his passion, that she was so deep inside him that no matter how much his body pounded hers, he could never hope to plunge to the same depth in her.
He was giving her everything he had, all his strength, all his darkness, all his anger and despair and restlessness, and she took it, arching herself upward, begging for more.

She engulfed him, beckoned him deeper with the promise of light and peace. He didn’t care who heard them, didn’t care if they were caught. He should, if not for his own sake then for hers, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of what they were doing as wrong, not when it was so damn right.

He released his hold on her legs, holding them in position with his chest instead. Her knees hooked over his shoulders, pressing him down. His hands seized hers, holding them out to the sides in a gesture of complete supplication. His full weight was upon her, centered on the spot where their bodies were joined. This was as deep, as connected as they could possibly be, and still it wasn’t good enough. He thrust harder. The bed protested. Blythe whispered words of encouragement, urging him onward.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Faster.
Yes.
”

His back was beginning to cramp. Sweat beaded his brow and yet he plunged forward. The desperation that drove him was spiraling downward, focusing itself into a smaller and smaller space as sensation flooded his veins. He shoved once…twice…thrice…

He exploded. A torrent of pleasure seized him, robbing him of speech, thought, and breath. Like a giant fist it shook him, stiffening his body and arching his back as Blythe cried out wordlessly beneath him, as though the vortex whirling between them had sucked the sound from her throat.

Her muscles pulsed around him, wringing the tension from him, taking everything that poured out of him into the absolving vessel of her body. Her legs lowered, little shivers jerking her body against his. Every clench of her sent him gasping for breath. He was spent, completely drained.

He was completely and utterly at peace. Still, he managed
to find the strength to withdraw from her enveloping warmth. Shaking legs carried him to the washbasin whose outline he could vaguely make out across the room. Wetting a cloth, he came back to the bed and gently washed between her thighs.

“You do not have to do that,” she murmured.

“Yes I do.” How could he explain to her that it was more than removing what he had put there? It was a kind of worship, cleaning that part of her that had taken so much from him and given so much back. How could he explain that this night with her had made him feel as though a thousand sins had been lifted from his soul?

All sins but one.

After he washed her, he took the cloth back to the basin, rinsed it, and washed himself. Then he returned to the bed, crawling under the covers and pulling her against him even though he should be dressing. He needed to sneak out before the servants awoke. Didn’t he?

But he didn’t budge. Instead, he made her slide over to where he had lain so she didn’t have to sleep where the sheets were damp and placed a kiss to her forehead. She was already drifting off to sleep. He’d stay with her a little while and then he’d go.

As his eyelids closed, as he drifted into what would prove to be a deep and dreamless sleep, one thought echoed in the peaceful cavern of Devlin’s mind. It was like a voice whispering in his ear.

Love me.

Dear God, was it possible that she could?

Miles stumbled downstairs at his usual time, despite having been up late with Blythe’s birthday celebration. The sun was still low in the sky, much like the state of the lids over his eyes. Why couldn’t he be more like Varya, who seemed to sleep as long as she needed and woke almost every morning
at a different time, refreshed and sometimes more than a little cranky? She was still slumbering peacefully, snoring softly even though she claimed she never snored at all.

There would be no one else up and about but the servants. He would sit at the breakfast table, sipping his coffee alone until Blythe joined him an hour or so later. It would be nice to have some time alone with her. He wanted to know if she’d enjoyed her party. And he wanted to know if anything had transpired between her and Devlin. Lord, by the time the two of them got around to marrying each other he’d be an old man.