The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (32 page)

He reached for her, for that promise—compelled, unable to resist.

Having no need to resist, not here, in this quiet, private world.

He opened his eyes and turned to her, careful not to jostle her.

She was curled on her side, facing away from him, her head ducked, her face half buried in the pillow, the covers drawn over her shoulder. Her hair lay in wild disarray over the pillows; several tresses lay beneath his cheek, the silk strands catching in his stubble.

The soft fabric of her nightgown caressed his chest. He was already hard and ready for her, his erection tenting the front of his sleeping trousers. But relief was pending and so very near to hand; the tug of desire was so real, so palpable, he gave up trying to think, surrendered all thought of attempting to plot and control the engagement and, instead, simply sank into the moment and let it lead him where it would.

However it would.

Reaching around her, he pressed his hand beneath her arm, then gently closed palm and fingers about her breast. The mound filled his hand; he squeezed and felt her flesh firm. She stirred, the small movement languorous. He continued caressing until her nipple was a tight pearl beneath his palm, then he shifted his attention to her other breast.

She murmured, no real words, just a sound born of pleasure. Then she stretched, her spine arching like a cat, the movement pressing her breast more firmly into his hand and rubbing her derriere against his erection. She stilled for a heartbeat—then, more deliberately, shifted her hips against him, wantonly caressing him. A wordless invitation.

One he had every intention of accepting, but in his own time—or, to be more accurate, according to the rhythm that had laid hold of his senses.

He shifted closer, using the weight of his hips, his legs, his chest to pin her, not immobilizing her but leaving her little leeway to filch the reins.

Lucilla came sufficiently awake to register the sensation of him pressed to her back, of being surrounded by him, held trapped. The veils of sleep still lingered, hazy clouds of comfort, of reassurance that all was well and that no active thought was necessary, yet the feel of him so close, so warm, so strong, sparked her nerves to alertness and brought her senses alive.

Intrigued, dazedly wondering, she caught her breath on a soft sob of pleasure as his hands continued to massage her breasts with a touch that, while firm, was almost languid.

One of his legs lay heavy over hers; he lay half over her. She debated turning to him, into his arms, but…all her intentions fell away as, having opened the front of her nightgown, he slid one large hand beneath the gaping side and wrapped his hard palm—slowly, gently, yet inexorably—about her swollen breast.

Her senses focused solely on his touch, on the simple claiming.

Her breath hitched, and what conscious thought she’d managed to marshal unraveled and slipped away.

Eyes closed, she tipped her head back and let her senses take her, let them and him overwhelm her.

His shoulders against the backs of hers, he raised his head and dipped his lips to the curve of her throat. He traced the taut line with his lips, all the way up to the hollow beneath her ear. Then he opened his mouth and placed hot, wet kisses down along the same line.

All the while, his hand continued to play, continued to knead and claim her breasts.

Until they grew unbearably heavy, the peaks excruciatingly tight.

Until she could barely breathe through the pulsing weight of the heat rising inside her.

With one hand, she reached blindly back, found his face, and with her fingers lightly traced one lean cheek. “Thomas…”

She hadn’t known she had so much need in her, yet it thrummed in that word—that plea.

He murmured something, but she couldn’t make it out; hearing wasn’t a priority, not then, there, in their sensual cocoon.

He drew his right hand from her breasts, but only to curl that arm around her and lift her enough to slide his left arm beneath her. He settled her on that arm, tucking her even more securely against him. To her body’s relief, his left hand replaced his right, sliding through the opening of her nightgown to caress her breasts, his touch just as hot, as heavy, as expertly knowing.

Just as expertly stoking the steadily rising tide of desire he’d set welling within her.

Then his right hand trailed down, over her cotton-clad thigh. Her nerves sparked, then tightened. Reaching past her knee, he found her nightgown’s hem. He slid his hand beneath, cupped his palm to her skin, and ran his hand upward. He paused to caress the hollow behind her knee, then set the back of his crooked fingers to her skin and ran them slowly up the back of her thigh.

She felt the touch to her marrow, tensed, but when he reached the top of her thigh, he drew his fingers away.

The back of her nightgown had risen, caught on his wrist and forearm. He grasped the folds and lifted them higher, pressing them up over her waist, baring her bottom. Prickling awareness flashed over her skin. She felt the brush of his sleeping trousers against her naked curves. Felt the jut of his arousal screened by that last layer of fabric. Releasing her nightgown, he eased his hips back—just enough to set his hand to the globes of her bottom.

And freely trace, stroke, and caress.

Languidly.

Heat built, inexorable and strong—edging toward fierce—yet there was no urgency, either in his touch or in the solid beat of passion she sensed rising within them both.

It thrummed beneath their skins, holding them captive to the slow, steady, swelling beat.

Her skin dewed. A restless empty ache of wanting expanded and filled her.

Then his fingers skated down, dipped to the hollow between her thighs, and delved.

Scalding wetness met Thomas’s senses. Lids heavy, eyes closed, he breathed deep, and pressed two fingers further, finding her entrance and spreading the welcoming slickness over her pouting lips.

Around them, the room lay silent. The only sounds that reached them were of their own tight breaths and the thudding of their hearts.

There was barely light enough to see, and the covers hid all, and they had their eyes closed.

Yet their senses had never been so full, so alive, so overwhelmed. With his awareness reduced to touch and nothing more, her skin had never felt so silken and smooth, so fine and perfect, her curves had never seemed so lush, so delectably formed. So alluring.

And the same sensual restrictions that limited him also limited her. He could only imagine what, in this heightened state, she was feeling…just thinking of that laid a visceral edge to his escalating need.

Their heated, heavy, commanding need.

He pressed his fingers deep, then deeper, stroked, and she shifted her hips, seeking, needing—brazenly wanting.

He drew his hand from her and pushed down the front of his sleeping trousers. His erection sprang free and he pressed closer. Adjusting her upper thigh and the angle of his hips behind hers, he slid the rigid shaft into the hollow between her thighs; he gripped her hip and held her immobile as he aligned the head with her entrance, then he sank home.

In. Deeper.

His weight propped on one elbow, one hand filled with her breast, the other clamped over the curve of her hip, he held her still and steadily forged into her body, until he came to rest engulfed to the hilt in her searing softness.

Her body clamped about his in a welcoming embrace that had him shuddering—with need, with desire, and so much more.

But even as he let his weight settle on her, shifting into the best position in which to ride her, the control that the moment had imposed on him, that had held and set the pace to that point, continued to restrain him.

He withdrew from her clinging heat, almost to the point of losing it, then—slowly, heavily, and deliberately—he surged back, filling her anew, his groin pressing against the lush curves of her bottom.

She murmured and pushed back, taking him deeper yet, but even as he continued the measured dance of thrust and retreat, she, too, seemed to accept the compelling beat.

As if it thudded through both their hearts, down both their veins, not just his.

Beneath the covers in the gray light of early dawn, they continued dancing to the strict beat, so slow, so steady, so heated—so achingly intense. So overflowing with reined desire that it almost choked them. Every nerve he possessed was excruciatingly alive, seared alive by a passion so demanding, so relentlessly commanding.

They could have gone faster at any time, but neither made any move to break the spell. Instead, they clung, each to the other, and let it play out—let it unravel them both.

Sinking her fingertips into his thigh, she held him to her as the tension ratcheted one last notch—then, arching wildly, she came apart on a sobbing cry.

The sound filled his ears, and blindly he followed, holding her immobile and thrusting deep into her rippling sheath.

Release slammed through him. Scoured and emptied him.

He pumped into her surrendered body, felt his seed jet into the dark warmth of her womb—and all tension left him. Abruptly released, he collapsed over her; gasping, his heart thundering, barely aware, he tightened his arms and held her close.

And felt her sink back into him, accepting, holding him to her in her own way.

Ecstasy rolled over him—over them. It stole away the last shreds of control, of any ability to think. In a wave as long and as steady as the undeniable beat that had commanded them throughout, the glory rolled on and through them, and only very slowly receded, finally leaving them wrung out, exhausted, and steeped in pleasure. Shared pleasure, where awareness of hers heightened his, where a thrum of connection remained, resonating within him, even when the fading tide had fully ebbed away.

That connection fascinated, but he couldn’t focus. The dark warmth of satiation beckoned; slumping under the covers with her locked against him, he let go and allowed his senses to slide into that soothing embrace.

* * *

Perhaps it had simply been that they were there, in the Vale, in a place of peace and assured safety, and no longer surrounded by the uncertainty, the questions, and suspicions that now haunted Carrick Manor. Lying in the bed with his arms crossed behind his head, Thomas wondered if that was reason enough to account for the contentment, the abiding sense of rightness and peace that had swamped him after the act and, even now, lay heavy and oddly reassuring within him.

He’d woken five minutes ago to discover morning sunshine streaming in through the window and Lucilla no longer beside him—indeed, no longer in the room. But the sheets at his side still held her warmth; she could only just have left. He was sorry he’d missed that—both the sight and the chance of gauging what she’d thought of their earlier endeavors. Then again, there was no reason to imagine the interlude had affected her in the odd way it seemed to have affected him.

In his eyes, some new element had crept into the moments, something unexpected that he didn’t understand, and as such, it intrigued him and tugged at his awareness.

By anyone’s standards, he was an experienced man. To discover something new in an act he’d indulged in times out of number was a situation guaranteed to command his attention. Admittedly, the first time he’d had Lucilla beneath him had been exceptionally intense, yet now… It wasn’t so much her, herself, as her and him together—possibly in this place—that seemed to be opening new avenues to explore.

Which, for a man of his appetites, was a very real temptation….

Luckily, he had at least a few more nights of compulsorily sharing Lucilla’s bed.

He let a slow grin curve his lips, then he threw back the covers. He swung up to sit on the edge of the bed and paused to assess his injuries. His head no longer throbbed at all; he reached up and traced the lump above his left ear, and was pleased to find it reduced in size and only slightly painful when prodded.

As for his leg, there was definite pain there, but a quick examination showed the redness about the gash and stitches was already fading. Whatever ointment Lucilla had smeared over the wound seemed to be doing the trick; the gash was dry, and even he could see that there was no infection.

Carefully, he stood. He’d left the cane leaning against the bedside table; he grasped the head and tried walking. His stride was less hampered than it had been the day before, but Lucilla’s estimate of several more days before he could risk riding seemed likely to prove accurate.

On reaching the washstand, he set the cane aside, picked up the pitcher, and poured water into the bowl.

He’d agreed to stay in the Vale under duress. Now, however, he was willing to admit—to himself if no one else—that coming there and staying had been the right thing to do. He’d been intending to marry for the last several years, but had dragged his heels over choosing a wife. Although he’d pretended to be seriously looking over the field, in reality he hadn’t yet made the final commitment, not in his heart.

What had Manachan said about him having to learn to think with his heart as well as his head? As usual, his uncle had been correct.

He needed a wife, and when he returned to Glasgow, he would have to act—would have to choose a suitable young lady, propose, and front the altar. And in pursuit of that goal, his liaison with Lucilla would serve to burn away the lingering shreds of his longtime attraction to her. He was well aware that that was passion’s way—resisted and suppressed, it never died, but if allowed to ignite and burn, it would inevitably reduce to cold ashes.

Reducing his deep-seated attraction to Lucilla, if not to cold indifference, then at least to the sort of temperate feeling he could readily leave behind… That he hadn’t done so earlier was doubtless why his memories of her had so consistently and insistently interfered with his attempts to focus on suitable young ladies. She and her inherent passion had never lost their claim on his mind, because he and she had never allowed their suppressed passions to ignite.

Now they had, and the outcome was, indeed, as enthralling as it had always promised to be, but it was only passion. A few more days—a few more nights in her bed—and he’d be able to ride away and finally, properly, get on with his life.