My Reckless Surrender (22 page)

The hand on her chin shifted to stroke her jaw, trailed down her neck to rest against her collarbone. Her frantic pulse leaped as his fingers drifted across the base of her throat. Her breasts tightened and swelled against her bodice, yearning for the touch of his hand, the benison of his lips.

She'd wanted him from the first instant she'd seen him, but unaccountably what they'd done over the last days fed that desire instead of satisfied it. It was as though, having got what she wanted, all she wanted was more.

God save her, he was like opium.

He kissed her again, tiny busses to the corners of her lips, in the philtrum, on her chin, across her nose. She knew this was war. He sought surrender, and he intended to get it. To that end, she'd expected him to employ the passionate arts he wielded to such devastating effect. Instead, he seemed set to tickle her into willingness.

Except every kiss knocked a chip off her defiance.

He kissed her fluttering eyelids, between her brows, her temples. Her lips tingled for the touch of his, but he avoided anything deeper than these playful kisses.

Could one die of sheer frustration? If so, her days were numbered.

She growled softly. Her fists tightened so hard that her nails dug into her palms. The sting helped maintain a shred of resistance. “I won't change my mind,” she said in a husky voice, spoiling the impression by tilting her head to prolong his lips' contact with one cheekbone.

“I see you're an unshakable rock of determination,” he whispered against her face, resting one hand on her nape. He wasn't even pretending to compel her to accept his kisses anymore. More galling, she wasn't pretending she didn't enjoy his attentions.

He continued in a wry voice. “Nothing will make you relent. Not wind. Not rain. Not ice. You're like a great monolith of the ages. People will come from miles around to admire you. Like Stonehenge.”

He was impossible. She couldn't contain a muffled giggle at the idea of Diana Carrick rising in solitary glory from Salisbury Plain to the amazement of onlookers.

“Stop it.” She wished she sounded firm and determined, like the monolith he'd just called her. But even in her own ears, she sounded breathless and close to yielding.

“Stop what?” He nipped at her earlobe. Response jolted her.

“You know.” The urge to grab him and force him to kiss her was a swelling torrent. She managed to control it. Just.

She reminded herself she was angry. He'd betrayed her. But nowhere near as badly as she'd betrayed him. Best to end everything before bitterness and recriminations. Before she hurt him.

The imperative came from a long way off. A soft echo of voices she'd heard long ago. Much more immediate was the tall, gorgeous man teasing her with the possibility of pleasure and in the process giving more pleasure than flesh could withstand.

“No.” He blew gently in her ear and continued his nuzzling exploration down her neck.

His lips brushed a particularly sensitive nerve near her
shoulder, and she released a breathy moan. She waited for him to concentrate on that place, but he hovered close without making contact.

He really was punishing her.

“Tell me,” he said softly, his words brushing her skin. She trembled and her heart raced at a dizzying pace.

She swayed toward him. She strove to bolster her pride, but the lure of his touch was too strong.

“Tell you what?” she asked dazedly, not following the conversation. She hardly remembered what the fight was about. All that mattered was he stopped toying with her and kissed her properly.

“What I'm doing.”

“You're seducing me.” She wasn't sure whether it was accusation or request.

“See? I said you were clever.” Amusement lurked in his deep voice. Her lonely heart yearned toward that warmth, beckoning as a snug bed on a cold night.

“Too clever to fall for a rogue's tricks,” she said with complete lack of conviction.

He laughed softly and pressed his mouth to that throbbing nerve in her neck. She'd reached such a pitch of desire, her body clenched in immediate response.

“So I'm not succeeding?” he asked against her shoulder. His voice was thicker than usual.

“What do you think?” Close as she was to giving in, she wasn't yet there.

“I think I need to work a bit harder,” he murmured.

One hand slid up her rib cage, trailing fire even through the rich silk of her gown. He stopped just short of her breast. Her nipples tightened to the point of pain, and she bit her lip to stifle her excited moan. Her legs wobbled, and she reached out to grab his shoulder. Just for support, she assured herself.

“Ashcroft…” The word was an undisguised plea.

“Yes?”

Diana knew what he wanted. Her so lost in enchantment, she forgot about ending the affair. She summoned her last scraps of resistance. Not enough to make her move away but enough to defy him. “You won't win, you know.”

“I've still got a few weapons in store.”

At last, at last, he curled his hand around her breast, his palm pressing the pebbled nipple. She shuddered, and the moan finally escaped in a long, low keen. Against her will, she pushed into his hand.

“You don't play fair.” The frantic beat of her heart made speech almost impossible.

“Nobody said I did, my love.”

“You shouldn't call me that.” She only just kept contact with reason.

Heat radiated from him like a great forest fire. His hand dropped to her bottom, urged her forward. Under his teasing, he was all desire. Against her belly, he was hard and ready. She drew a shaky breath full of musky male arousal. This seduction seduced him too.

“Don't you like it?”

“No.” She twined her arms around his neck.

“I can see that.”

She gave a protesting wriggle and heard his breath catch. Her helplessness receded. He was hungry for her. More than hungry. He was famished.

“Why don't you kiss me?”

He didn't cooperate, blast him. “Patience.”

She slid one hand up his strong neck in a gesture even she recognized was a caress. She tugged sharply on a lock of hair. “Stop teasing me.”

Still he resisted. The laughter drained from his eyes, and he moved away slightly to study her. She was such a fool, but the distance between them felt like absence.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked in a raw voice.

“Yes.”

Immediately, she saw he didn't believe her, although she spoke the truth. “Then I'd better kiss you before it's too late.”

Her lips stretched in a triumphant smile. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Ashcroft,” she said warningly. “Charming as your conversation is, I've had a surfeit this evening.”

It wasn't true. His words enchanted almost as effectively as his touch. But if he didn't place that beguiling mouth on hers in the next second, she'd scream like a banshee.

“Close your eyes,” he said again and with such rich persuasion in his voice, she couldn't help but obey.

Without her sight, she felt vulnerable. She expected him to continue teasing. He knew it drove her to the edge of madness, and he was in a mood to toy with her like a cat toyed with a sparrow.

She'd fluttered against his claws until exhausted. Now she waited in fatalistic stillness.

His hands glided up to her shoulders and tightened. His mouth opened over hers with unconcealed need. Her lips parted to give him access. He kissed her rapaciously.

For a few seconds, she was quiescent, then she kissed him back, stroking his tongue, returning for a longer foray. Tasting the deep, rich flavor of Ashcroft.

He was like manna. Would she starve without him?

He curled his arms around her waist, dragging her against his body. He was shaking, as much victim to this storm as she.

Soon, kissing wasn't enough, although she continued to press her mouth to his in desperate craving. He pulled away, panting, and she opened dazed eyes.

He was pale and drawn, vibrating with urgency. Without releasing her, he swiftly glanced around the room.

“Ah,” he said in satisfaction.

The world rocked as he swung her around and lowered her onto the delicate pink sofa. She felt the thin padding beneath her back and against her side, then the impetuous weight of Ashcroft's body.

He grunted against her lips, shifted, and tensed, bumping the back of the sofa. “Damn it, this couch is made for midgets.”

She laughed. Like the rest of the library, the sofa was constructed on the small side. Certainly far too small for what Lord Ashcroft had in mind.

“It doesn't matter. You can't make love to me here. Laura might come in.” She tried to squirm into a sitting position, but his body trapped her.

He wriggled to find a more comfortable place kneeling over her. Without success, she noticed with the beginnings of genuine amusement. The great lover's sudden gaucheness touched her heart in a way his self-confidence couldn't.

The best he could manage was resting on one knee between her and the back of the couch and supporting himself with his other leg on the floor. The position looked uncomfortable, unwieldy.

“You're naïve if you imagine Miss Smith isn't aware what we're doing,” he said dryly. “She's no fool, that lady.”

“Nonetheless you're not…having me on the sofa.”

He smiled down at her. “Care to place a wager?”

“You're so sure of yourself, aren't you?”

“I'm sure of you,” he retorted, and nuzzled her shoulder, pushing aside her bodice.

She trembled, and moisture bloomed between her legs. Her body recognized and welcomed the pressure of his. Her body didn't care about pride or principle. Her body wanted him to shove up her skirts and take her.

He raised his head, his nostrils flaring. His smile turned deeply sensual, and heavy lids lowered over his eyes. She
knew that expression. He meant to take her without delay.

“Ashcroft,” she protested, flattening one hand on his shoulder and pushing.

He didn't budge. Of course he didn't. He had no intention of going anywhere. He had every intention of satisfying the lust that lit his face.

How had they come to this? She'd thought to throw him out with a flea in his ear. Instead, she was flat on her back, her body preparing itself in wanton swiftness for his.

“You know you want to.” He settled himself more securely and threw one leanly muscled leg over her skirts.

Somehow, he made himself at ease on the minuscule piece of furniture. She had no idea how. She'd have thought it mathematically impossible.

“You're such an arrogant ass,” she said with a lamentable lack of force.

“Aren't I indeed?” he agreed amiably enough.

His new position leaning on one elbow left the other hand free. He brushed her hair back from her face with a gesture whose tenderness made her heart ache.

His hand dipped across her face, down her throat, across the bare skin above her bodice. She knew exactly where he headed. Her skin tightened in anticipation.

His fingers insinuated their way under the gold braid, slipped lower to brush her nipple. The crest tightened. Her hand curled in the soft blue wool of his coat. Her breath came so hard, it emerged in shaky sobs. With her other hand, she grabbed his wrist.

“Should I stop?” he asked with an idleness contradicted by the simmering light in his eyes, hot jade between the thick lashes. He stared at her bosom with a concentration that made gooseflesh break out all over her.

She bit her lip, knowing if she agreed to his touching her breast, she agreed to this encounter reaching its conclusion.

It was impossible to fight him and herself at the same time.

She should tell him to go. If she insisted, he'd relent. If she insisted as though she really meant it, unlike her pathetic attempts so far. She couldn't blame him for dismissing those as coy prevarications.

She drew breath, ready to reject him.

Instead, two unsteady words emerged as she released him. “Don't stop.”

Oh, she was hopeless.

He sighed with satisfaction and plucked at her nipple, shooting vivid sensation through her veins. She shifted restlessly, seeking relief, but nothing quenched the flood of desire.

Still tormenting her breast, he bent his head and kissed her. She responded with all the unspoken, disastrous longing in her heart. She loved him, and she was grimly aware she was running out of time for his kisses.

After a long interval of delight, he wrenched his mouth from hers and rained kisses across her neck. He slid her dress out of the way. The air was cool on her naked skin.

She cried out softly when his lips closed on her nipple, then cried out again when he drew hard. She thrust her fingers into his hair and pressed his head closer.

The sensation was purest torment, purest pleasure. Feverishly, she cupped him. He groaned against her skin and tilted his hips, pressing into her hand. Even through his breeches, he felt like a furnace.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed as he turned his attentions to her other breast. She surrendered with a wholehearted enthusiasm she should regret but couldn't.

Suddenly the tiny sofa offered ample room. He bunched her skirts, lifting them so the evening air chilled her thighs above her stockings.

His face was buried in her neck, and her dress was up around her waist. One hand trailed teasingly across the top of her leg. She ached for him to touch where she burned, then for the more profound invasion.

He knew that, the devil, and taunted her with delay.

She arched to encourage him to shift his fingers those last few inches. Her hand tugged at his breeches.

Suddenly he went still.

“What is it, Ashcroft?” she asked in a choked voice.

Surely he didn't mean to deny her. That would be cruel, and everything she knew insisted he wasn't a deliberately cruel man. Teasing and infuriating, certainly, but not cruel.