Kissed; Christian (10 page)

He needed her now—God, but he had to have her!

He was beyond reason.

Too long he’d denied himself.

She was too sweet... too tempting...

Whimpering, Jessie swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, though she couldn’t have removed her hand had she tried. She knew an overwhelming desire for completion—but a completion of what?

She trusted Christian without fail.

He wanted her in the way that a man wanted a woman, and the knowledge made her lie eagerly before him. He would do nothing to harm her; she knew it deep down in her heart. And he was giving her pleasure as she’d never imagined possible.

His lips seared her flesh, kissing her boldly. When he moved down, nibbling her breast through her bodice, she felt a shock of pure rapture.

Whatever he would do to her, she would gladly allow it...

Anything.

“Let me love you, Jessie…”

The plea echoed through Jessie’s heart. Yes, she adored him. He was her savior, her protector. Anything he wanted of her, she would willingly give—gladly, madly...

She was mindless with need… for all that his touch promised.

His hand found that place between her thighs, and he stroked it lovingly. Jessie’s emotions worked with her body, spiraling her into oblivion. She could think of nothing but the sensations he was rousing within her as his finger slipped daringly within her, then stopped abruptly.

I
t was the only thing that could have stopped him.

Christian froze, cursing roundly.

He’d known it was there, but had blatantly ignored the prick of his conscience. Now it shrieked at him like a banshee out of a mistral wind.

She opened her eyes, silently questioning his hesitation, and the screeching intensified as she gazed up at him so expectantly.

Christ, he couldn’t do this to her.

She trusted him, respected him, saw only the good and honorable in him... and he... he couldn’t fail her.

Sweat slid from his brow as he reined in his lust—a near impossible feat, for he was nearly over the edge.

Still, he hung on, mentally haranguing himself out of his lascivious designs.

Damn... he’d asked that she meet with him here today for this very purpose... and she had come to him willingly.

And yet she was an innocent, and she would be the one to pay if he accepted what she would give him.

Curse him, he wanted to hurl caution to the wind; he hurt so badly.

And she needed him—he could see the passion in her luminous green eyes.

He clenched his jaw, resolved.

She needed the release he knew he could give her. Nay, he
needed
to give it to her, by damn.

He intended to give it to her.

He stroked her body, gently but insistently, and felt her respond with abandon. Her face screwed in the most erotic expression he had ever had the pleasure of spying, her eyes closed, her jaw clenched.

“I-I love you!” she gasped.

The unexpected declaration lashed him as soundly as a physical blow. Pleasure so keen it was pain shot through him, and yet he wanted her to say it again, and again... and again.

Working feverishly to bring the declaration to her lips once more, pleasuring her, he swore to deny himself, and suffer as he watched the rosy flush of sexual rapture blossom upon her cheeks. Her bottom lip caught firmly between her teeth and she concentrated so intently upon the pleasure that she drew the tiniest trace of ruby red blood. Leaning forward, he lapped the salty droplet away, healing her mouth with his kiss.

He couldn’t help himself; he kissed her eyes, then her nose, her mouth... losing himself.

Again his conscience shrieked at him.

She trusted him to keep her safe—safe from his lechery. He would loathe himself did he rob her of her virginity, her virtue. He would despise himself beyond bearing if he hurt her. His finger slipped within her body once more, as though to be certain, but the filmy barrier remained to taunt him.

He grimaced, shuddering.

Bloody damn, but he couldn’t do it... Still, he could not leave her wanting either. Struggling with the needs of his own body, he worked to give her the release she required now, taking pains not to damage her maidenhead in the process. He’d brought her past the point of return, and it would be his penance to go without for himself.

“Oh, my God!” she cried, unaware that she had, and then her body shuddered in release.

Christian, aching as he was, watched the emotions that played across her face, and felt strangely triumphant in that instant.

Jessie lay unmoving for the longest while, her eyes closed tightly against the brightness of the day.

A hand moved out of her skirts—Christian’s, she acknowledged with growing mortification.

She flushed as strong fingers smoothed down her garments, repairing them. Desperately she tried to understand what had transpired between them, but shame washed over her, warming every inch of her body.

Something was wrong.

She sensed it.

She could scarcely bear to open her eyes and face him now. What must he think of her? Was she defiled? If not precisely defiled, what then was she?

If she was now disgraced, what could she do? Never would she think to lay the blame upon Christian’s shoulders, for she had silently invited him—nay, pleaded for him—to take whatever he would.

Dear God, would he depart from her life now that he’d taken the only thing of value she’d had to offer?

Eliza had said he would.

She felt sick with dread. Confusion.

“Jess?”

Her eyes flew open to meet his. He was looking at her strangely. Was it pity she spied in his gaze? Disgust?

Her voice failed her.

She choked on her emotions. Did she really wish to know what he was thinking? His expression was such a peculiar one. Why had he come into her life? she wondered. Before she could stop herself, she asked him, “Why did you come, my lord?”

For an instant, Christian was taken aback by the innocent question.

The look in her eyes told him she had no inkling what it seemed she was asking. A rueful smile curved his lips, for he hadn’t, didn’t she know.

“I mean to say... I know that my father—”

“I’d as soon not discuss your father,” he snapped. His jaw working, and then he said, softening the angry sting of his words, “If you don’t mind... not now.”

“O-Of course,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

Seeing her anguished expression, the way she turned from him, Christian felt his gut twist.

After a moment, her long lashes fluttered open, and she turned to him. He wanted so much to reach out and wipe the corners of her eyes with his thumb—before the regrets could come. He didn’t think he could bear it if she cried. If possible, her eyes became greener, brighter, in the wash of unshed tears. Their gazes held, and then hers skidded away.

He swallowed the lump that tried to strangle the words into oblivion. “I came,” he began, hating himself for being so callous with her feelings.

She waited expectantly, her chin lifting, her eyes alight with hope as she awaited his response.

Ah, Christ... he had the greatest desire to kiss those eyes closed once more lest she discern the fateful emotions that warred so violently within him, to feel the silky curl of her lashes against his lips, to soothe away her troubles once and for all. She didn’t deserve the grief that lay in store for her... the heartache he was sure to give her.

Damn her brother for an uncaring ass.

She needed someone to protect her.

The question was... could he be that man when he was the greatest thing she had to fear?

“I’m—” His voice caught at her hauntingly tender expression. She went so still that he suspected she’d ceased to breathe.

God damn him to hell, the reassuring words would not come, no matter that he desperately wanted to speak them.

Anything he said right now would be binding. Was he ready to drag her along his life path, when his life was never more uncertain?

“I’m not sure,” he said finally, shaking his head, gritting his teeth against the lie. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes swam with tears as he said again, softly, “I don’t know, Jessamine.”

Bloody hell if he didn’t.

Tossing down the last swig of his brandy, Christian poured himself another, emptying the second decanter for the night. Disgusted with himself, he set the snifter down and lifted the container, staring down into its crystalline depths as though somehow he might find the answers revealed to him amid the acrid-sweet fumes within.

What the devil was he supposed to have said to her? I came, Jess, my love, because your whoreson brother offered me a tidy little sum to break your goddamn little heart?

Turning the decanter, he examined the beautiful etchings, a delicate floral scrolling pattern. The extravagant bit of glass had graced Hakewell’s library for as long as he could recall.. his father’s... his father’s before him... damn them all to hell.

Damning himself as well, he hurled the decanter at the lapping flames across the room, aiming too high; it struck the mantel with a deafening crash, shattering into a profusion of multicolored shards.

He shouldn’t care—had trained himself not to—but the simple truth was that he was fast losing his heart to the little twit. God’s blood, but he should wed her and end the torture once and for all.

Wed her.

The thought wasn’t altogether unappealing.

Scowling, he resisted the urge to glimpse over his shoulder to be certain there wasn’t some demon angel perched there, whispering noble suggestions into his ear. There was nothing noble about him, and he’d be doing her a disfavor, bringing her into his life... his world... his disgusting secrets...

Secrets that could destroy him.

Secrets that could devastate her.

The firelight cast the room in an eerie light, basking all it touched in deep orange-red hues. Squinting against the shadows, he slouched backward into the elaborately carved damask chair, surveying the room before him. Upon entering, he’d drawn the curtains to let in the muted afternoon light, but the sun had long since set and the night mist cast an opaque veil over the half-moon rising.

His gaze shifted from the window to the vast shelves of books occupying the far wall. This should have been his study.
His
, and not Philip’s. Everything might have been different then, if only his brother had not stolen his birthright. Aye, for then he might have wed the late... great... son of a bitch’s daughter all those years ago, without the dissent he was now plagued with.

Damn.

Retrieving the snifter from the desktop, he swirled the amber liquid within, envisioning his life as it might have been; the anger that might have been forsaken, the loathing he might not have felt...

He imagined coming home to sweet Jessie, imagined her waiting, tucked prettily between the sheets—their sheets. He imagined taking her the first time, the second time, every time thereafter. His lust was rekindled just so easily, if indeed it had ever been extinguished; blazing white heat shot through his veins.

Christ, the ways he would have her...

What did he care what had passed before? What might have been? She still could be his... if only he might cease brooding long enough to ask for her hand in marriage.

And she needed him.

St. John desired her for one reason, and one reason alone... because Christian had been denied her. It hadn’t hurt matters much that she’d turned out to be such a beauty. And even if Christian wasn’t the reason... everyone knew the way St. John dealt with his women, bloody whoreson that he was. Why would a wife be treated differently? Christian felt an incredible violence stir within him, imagining St. John’s hands upon her—anyone’s hands, for that matter.

If he were to hurt her...

He couldn’t live with it.

But what if Jessie’s fool brother denied him?

Again.

His eyes, narrowed thoughtfully, for he’d simply have to see to it that Westmoor didn’t refuse him.

And what will you do if he doesn’t cow? a voice within taunted. Drive him to suicide as you did their father? Clamping his jaw shut, he groaned, as though to deny the nagging presence that was bent on giving him conscience.