Luck Be a Lady (9 page)

“Stop talking,” she hissed.

With a soft, infuriating laugh, he reached for his waistcoat. She crossed her arms—there was no need to get so far ahead of him, after all—and stared at the spot directly over his shoulder.

No. She would not let him embarrass her. She fixed her attention on his long fingers, watching as they made a clever dance down the buttons of his waistcoat. The item fell to the floor. He shrugged out of his braces, then pulled his shirt and undervest from the waistband of his trousers and lifted them over his head.

Her mouth went dry. Men wore fewer layers.

“Well?” he asked. He raised his arms, turning a slow circle to display his bare upper body. “Any complaints?”

None,
she thought fervently, then recoiled at the thought. But he was built . . . superbly. His broad shoulders and upper arms were powerfully sculpted; his belly was lean and taut, segmented into bands of muscle. A dusting of dark hair framed his flat nipples—and another patch of hair, a narrow, dark line, began below his navel, leading downward into his waistband . . .

“You will do.” She meant to say it very flatly. But there was a fracture in her voice, a hitching gulp for air, that she did not recognize. She felt, all at once, acutely aware of how she stood, how she balanced her weight on her feet, how certain parts of her body felt the cool air more keenly, inexperienced as they were to its touch. A shiver skittered over her skin. It felt like . . . excitement.

Get this over with, before . . .
Before what? She felt shaken as she unclasped the fastenings of her corset. She could not bear to look up at him now, not even when she heard his breath catch.
Just get through this,
she told herself.
A physical act, the body means nothing, your mind
is what matters.
She heard the slither of cloth from his direction, but she focused only on finishing what must be done—the loosening of her bloomers, the clinging fabric of her chemise that seemed to resist the scrabble of her hands . . .

Once naked, she remained staring at the carpet for a moment. She would not blush, nor flinch, nor give him any sign of her nerves. She lifted her chin and looked at him.

He'd caught up to her. He was . . .

“Flawless,” he said softly.

She cleared her throat. But no retort, no setdown, supplied itself. No man had ever gazed on her nude form before.

Nor had she seen a man in his natural state.

“Bit pink, though.” He lifted his gaze, his smile roguish. “I won't hold it against you.”

Was that an attempt at humor? She could not tell, for his expression confused her—his smile so easy, his gaze narrow and fierce, devouring as it swept down her again.

He'd seen enough. She should dive for the sheet—but that would look like fear. She had more pride than that.

She forced herself to look down his body. His thighs were sculpted with muscle, and the appendage between them . . . It was growing and lengthening before her eyes.

God in heaven. If it continued to enlarge, they would face another impediment to this marriage.

“Do I suit?” he murmured.

Flawless.
She would not repay him that compliment, even if it lingered on her lips for a moment. He had forced her to this mortifying reckoning, hadn't he? He
deserved no praise. “I don't know yet,” she said very coolly. “Turn around, and I will judge.”

With a shout of laughter, he swept her a low bow. God in heaven, she had not known a man's thighs could flex so.

She would have liked to find some small fault to remark, but his backside offered none. He had not a trace of spare weight on his body, but his bottom was . . . fuller and higher and tighter than she might have expected. Very different from a female bottom. Her palms itched to cup it, to see if it felt as muscular as it looked.

Why, she was an animal, after all, to behold a man's bottom with such interest!

He pivoted back. “Well, mistress?”

“You'll do.” She broke for the bed, sliding beneath the cover. “Make haste.” His ironical look prompted her to continue, “My brother is attending a dinner this evening, you see.” As he came prowling forward, she spoke faster, a nervous babble. “And it seems wise to speak with him before he—” He grabbed the sheet and yanked it off her. “What are you—”

He put one powerful thigh onto the mattress, bringing his member into her field of vision. She turned her head away, scowling at the wall as she scrabbled for the corner of the sheet. “I will remind you, sir, this is a matter of necessity—”

“Agreed.” His hot hands cupped her face, his mouth pressing against her ear. “And it will be quick, I fear.” His tongue licked into her ear.

She gasped. What was he
doing
?
And . . . what was amiss with her ear? For his lips felt . . .

Wonderful. Amazing. She had never known that an
ear could be a source of pleasure, but as his clever lips played over her lobe, she sighed and relaxed.

The full weight of his body came down atop hers. The alien sensation riveted her. He was so much larger. His skin felt so hot. “Here's the thing,” he said very softly as he smoothed his knuckles down her throat. She felt the roughness of his palm against her shoulder, then her waist. “Necessity or not, there's no use in making this painful.”

“It is . . . always painful the first time. Isn't it?” She knew that much, though
painful
was hardly the word for the strange feeling shivering through her.

He drew back, frowning. “It needn't be.”

She looked up into his eyes, so close to her own. His irises were an extraordinary shade, the color of winter frost, the faintest hints of green stippled through bands of silver. His lashes were long, ink-black, curled as extravagantly as a girl's. The bump in his noise looked larger from this proximity.

She watched herself reach up to touch it. Why not?
He
was touching all of her. “You broke it?” she said unsteadily, a little drunk on her temerity. Touching a man; lying naked beneath him.

But he didn't seem to mind it. “More than once,” he said, and kissed her neck.

She was not certain what to do. But there had been nothing malicious or unkind in his expression, and his lips were soft. Besides, the consummation had to occur. So she closed her eyes and held still, permitting him to do what he must.

His soft breath warmed her mouth as he raised his head. “By God. Your skin tastes like . . . magic.”

She didn't need to be humored. “Soap, you mean.” But her voice wrapped very raggedly around the words.

His mouth quirked, an amused little smile. Then he leaned in and kissed her lips. It was very . . . pleasant. His tongue touched the seam of her mouth—rubbing, coaxing. He seemed to . . . want inside of it. Why?

She had envisioned a cold, perfunctory bedding. But with each unexpected touch, each startling moment of pleasure, he was stoking her curiosity, unseating her vow to remain aloof, even here. “Is this necessary?” she whispered.

“A man can't perform on command, Kitty.”

Kitty
?
She scowled. “I do not appreciate vulgar nick—”

He grinned, flashing white teeth, and licked into her mouth.

Her strangled yelp came out like a snort. This indignity kept her occupied for a moment too long—a moment in which his mouth did something wicked to hers, so their tongues tangled. As simply as that, she at last understood the way of kissing. She understood why people favored it.

It was not an assault, after all. Not gross or indelicate, as she had feared. His lips felt . . . incantatory. Patient, persuasive, creating a drugging laxity in her body. Tentatively, she kissed him back. He made an encouraging noise, low and somehow dirty, which made her flush. His chest pressed flat against hers, but he held the majority of his weight on his elbows, keeping their lower halves apart.

That small consideration seemed to be a message: she could kiss him for however long she liked. What lay below—that part of him currently canted off to the side, out of contact—would pose the real problem, but in the meantime . . . she needn't worry.

Not to worry.
What a rare and extraordinary indulgence. Eyes closed, she lost herself in this wondrous kiss, which was teaching her so much. No wonder the maids proved so wayward with the footmen. No wonder the hostesses consorted with the clients . . .

His hand closed on her breast. She gasped. “Shh,” he said into her mouth, and then, with his thumb, he began to rub her nipple, chafing and then pinching lightly.

Nerves fluttered. But he was allowed to do this, she reminded herself. Just this once, it was not wrong of her to permit it.

With that thought, the tethers of tiresome necessity—rejection; resistance; the need to remain cold and aloof, lest gentlemen misunderstand—fell away. What remained was sensation: the gentle abrasion of his rough skin; the damp heat of his mouth on her neck. This odd, tightening demand inside her. An ache in her breasts and between her legs.

Not weakening, no. Desire felt like a new kind of ambition, a rising awareness of some ineffable goal that demanded her effort. She needed to touch him.

Wondering at herself, she threaded her hands through his thick hair. So soft! The curve of his skull evoked a weird surprise; he, this great strapping man, was just as human as she, made of flesh and sinew and bone, just as mortal. She slid her palms down his broad back, the smooth hot muscled thickness of his upper arms. Had he been made of marble, and two thousand years old, she would have touched him so, feeling for flaws—so she would say—but secretly marveling at the genius of what she felt.

Nature was an artist, too. The sharpness of his el
bows, chiseled into such fine points; the prominent veins of his forearms, irony embodied, a delicate tracery that proved his strength . . . What a piece of beauty a man could be!

His mouth tracked down her collarbone, scattering her thoughts. As his hand remained busy at her breast, teasing and pulling, his mouth found her other nipple. He flicked it with his tongue.

She gasped, for it felt divine. Her body wanted to splay open, to yield to him.

Yield.

Her eyes opened. She was staring at a white ceiling trimmed in handsome gilt molding.
Gilt.
Who picked out their molding in gilt? Tacky, a gambling den, God above, he was nudging her thighs apart, he had read her mind. At last, finally, she felt clearheaded—appalled—this stranger, this criminal, was colluding with her body against her, dividing her will from her desire—

She forced her thighs closed. “This isn't necessary!”

He released her nipple with a wet pop as he looked up. “Maybe not for you,” he murmured. “But if you need me to perform . . .”

She felt herself turn as red as a flag. “Surely you're ready by now.” She darted a look down his body, but he adjusted his hips to conceal the proof.

“Not yet,” he said. “I'll let you know when I'm warmed up.” With a half smile, he took her nipple into his mouth again—holding her eyes as he sucked her.

The sight undid something in her. Once, while cataloging the library of a country estate, she had flipped through a pornographic book, very quickly, horrified by her own curiosity, and by the feelings the filthy pictures had stirred in her.

But this was even filthier. Yet she could not look away. His long, muscular body stretched over hers, his black hair ruffled, his golden flanks sprawled with unselfconscious disregard, his entire focus now on the breast to which he ministered. He looked content to stay atop her forever, tasting and sucking and teasing her, as with one hand he smoothed over the pale slope of her belly, venturing lower and lower toward the curls between her legs . . .

His fingers slid through her curls, delving through folds that she had barely dared touch herself. And she had no choice but to let him.
No choice,
God be praised! No choice but to accept his touch, to gasp and arch upward voluptuously as he ravished her with small, precise, delicious touches, expertise and skill, the devil's own instinct for how to make her whimper. He touched a spot that seemed to hold all the most sensitive connections of her nerves and sinews, and her entire body tensed like a bow drawn tight. So delicately he touched her, again and again and again, rubbing and stroking and murmuring in a low, hot voice as she gasped, this quaking, unbearable pleasure winding her tighter and tighter, so soon enough, she would snap . . .

“Wet as a river,” she heard him say hoarsely, and then his body came fully atop her, and she felt the blunt nudge of his manhood against her sex. Anxiety fractured her daze and made her stiffen.

He kissed her mouth again. “Not like that,” he whispered into her ear. “Here, feel me.” His hand reached between them, covering her sex completely, his clever finger finding that spot, again. “Feel this.”

She bit back a groan. “Just do it.”

His tongue curled around her earlobe, making her
shiver. “Don't be bossing me in bed,” he said, very low. And then he pushed.

A burning sensation. Discomfort, yes, but also so much more . . .
Here
was what she'd wanted, this animal fullness, this profound possession. But he did not complete his penetration. Half buried inside her, he looked down at her, as little ribbons of sensation radiated out, spilling down the backs of her straining thighs, her shaking knees. “Hurry,” she managed.

“Cry out for me,” he said, “and I'll finish it.”

She bit her lip hard. She would not cry out. She had more dignity than that. “This is—stupid.”

“Be that as it may.” His voice sounded strained now. “You'll cry out, or I'll go no further.”

“Fine.
Ha
!
”

For a moment, he went still and silent. And then he ripped himself off her so suddenly that she did cry out, in surprise and confusion.