To Desire a Devil (23 page)

He didn’t pretend shock. “Not yet.”

“But why not?” She widened her legs in invitation. She could feel that part of him, pressing against her thigh. “Isn’t that
what comes next? Isn’t that what you want?”

“Not yet,” he said maddeningly, and placed his mouth against hers again. But this time he didn’t stay there. He caressed her
with his open mouth, with his soft lips, as he trailed downward over her throat. He licked the upper slope of her breast and
then took the nipple in his mouth.

She gasped. That small point flamed with pleasure, each strong suck a pull that tugged at her center. She arched, clutching
at his head, feeling his shorn bristles beneath her palms.

He shifted, licking his way to her other breast, and tasted that nipple as well. At the same time, his thigh still pressed
against her.

She arched up. “Oh, please, now.”

“Not yet,” he whispered, his breath blowing over her wet, sensitive nipple.

He raised himself on straight arms and brought both legs between hers. She was spread wide now, eager and waiting for the
inevitable conclusion to this.

But it didn’t come. He reached down to position himself, laying his penis against her wet folds. Then he bore down, pressing
himself against her most sensitive point.

She twisted, panting, under him. “What are you doing?”

His face was grim, the cross earring shining dully at the corner of his jaw. “I’m preparing you.”

She glared at him through slitted eyes. “I
am
prepared.”

His lips curled, not quite smiling. “Not yet.”

He bent and caught her lower lip between his teeth, gently biting as he rocked against her. And something combusted down there.
A flame flickered and flared, growing steadily, spreading through her belly, threatening to burn out of control.

“Stop,” she cried, but her voice was muffled beneath his lips. He opened his mouth over hers and swallowed whole her moan
of ecstasy.

“Now,” he said when he lifted his head. “Now it’s time. Put me where you want me to be.”

He caught her hand and brought it between their bodies, guiding her to his hard, slick flesh. He wrapped her fingers around
his heat and then took his hand away. He looked at her. “It’s up to you.”

She blinked. “But I don’t know—”

“Do you want it?” Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip. She realized that he was holding himself very still.

She licked her lips. “Yes.”

“Then”—he nudged her with his hips, his length sliding through her fingers, his eyes half closed—“do it.”

So she guided him to where she thought he should be, feeling the width of his head slip through her folds, wondering if this
was quite possible. She looked up at him, into black, intense eyes, and for a fraction of a second thought she must’ve lost
her mind.

Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Are you sure?”

And that small bit of tenderness decided her. “Yes.”

He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t try to go slowly. He thrust himself inside her, quickly and violently, and her entire body arched
with the pain. Burning. Tearing. Something wasn’t right.

She pressed her palms against his chest. “No.”

He looked down at her, his face drawn, the tattooed birds flying about his eye, wild and savage, and he no longer looked tender.
He looked like a conqueror. “Too late. You’re mine now.”

And he withdrew his penis slowly, until only the head remained inside her, large and intrusive.

“You’re so soft, so tight around me,” he whispered like a demon incubus. His upper lip curled in erotic bliss. “I want to
stay in you forever. I want to make love to you for an eternity.”

He thrust back into her, and although it hurt, it wasn’t as bad as the first time. He leaned down and touched the corner of
her mouth with the tip of his tongue. “I can smell your sex, and it’s hot around me. You make me tremble with want.”

She touched his face, tracing the damp birds wonderingly. Was it true? Did he tremble for her? She’d never known, never dreamed
she could affect him thus.

He closed his eyes as if in pain. “I’m trying to hold back, trying to go slow, but I can’t.” His head fell, his iron cross
earring brushing her breast. “I can’t.”

And he thrust into her again, hard and fast. She gasped at the impact. It no longer hurt, but there wasn’t the same pleasure
as there had been before when he’d used his thigh on her. She watched his face, hard and intent above her, and felt the slide
of his flesh in hers. He was on her and in her, physically dominating her, but he seemed the more vulnerable one, and it fascinated
her. His breathing was rough, coming in quick gasps; his eyes were unfocused and desperate, his mouth drawn in a line of desire.
His body seemed to act of its own volition, as if he no longer controlled his movements.

She reached up to caress his cheek.

His eyes closed. “Beatrice. Beatrice.”

He bent and kissed her wildly, uncontrolled and desperate, and she returned the kiss, awed that she’d brought him to this
extreme.

And suddenly he arched and shuddered, his big body convulsing. He buried his head in her breasts and muffled a shout, trembling
all over.

Then the room was silent. She felt his heavy weight on her and listened to the patter of the rain hitting her window. She
should move—make him move—get up and deal with tragedy and loss and her life.

Instead, she fell asleep.

H
E WOKE TO
the sound of thunder outside and the soft breath of a woman against his side. Every muscle in his body, every bone and sinew,
was completely and utterly relaxed, and he smiled before he even opened his eyes. For the first time in seven long years,
he felt… at peace. He turned his head to look at the woman beside him. The woman who had brought him such overwhelming contentment.

Beatrice lay sleeping. Her wheat-colored hair was tangled about her face. Her sweet lips were slightly parted, her lovely
brows drawn together as if even in sleep she mourned her friend. He wanted to smooth that small indent between her eyebrows,
wanted to take her pain from her, but that was impossible. He couldn’t heal her grief, but he could make sure she was never
harmed again. She was too important to him now. She made him feel whole. Sane and calm. He knew he’d have to work quickly
to consolidate his position.

Quietly he drew back the coverlet and climbed from the bed. He stretched, feeling the pop of his spine, and then bent to retrieve
his smallclothes from the floor. He must not’ve been as stealthy as he thought, for when he straightened, clear gray eyes
met his own.

He dropped the smallclothes and went to her. “Are you all right?”

She blinked sleepily and then blushed enchantingly. “I’m… rather sore.”

“I’m sorry.” He sat on the bed and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Stay here and I’ll send the maid up with a hot bath.”

A corner of her mouth curved down sadly. “That would be nice.”

“You can spend the rest of the day abed,” he said softly.

Her eyes slid away from his. “But Jeremy . . .”

“I’ll find out what arrangements his family made—where they buried him.” He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek.

She caught his hand. “Thank you.”

He nodded and straightened, picking up his smallclothes again. He drew them on and buttoned the flap.

Her brows knit. “What time is it? How long have you been closeted here with me?”

He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “A little over an hour and a half.”

“Oh, my God!” She struggled to sit up in the bed. The sheets slid down to her lap, baring her sweet breasts. She snatched
them up again. “What will Quick think—or my uncle?”

He stilled in the act of buttoning his breeches and looked at her. She seemed so young, lying against the white linens, her
hair all about her, her wide gray eyes watching him seriously. She’d just lost her childhood friend. Perhaps she hadn’t thought
ahead as he had. “They’ll think I’ve bedded you.”

Her mouth fell open. “You must leave at once.”

He set his jaw and picked up his shirt. “Beatrice—”

“Hurry! Quick and I can make something up if you just leave at once. I’m sure we can find a way around this. It can be as
if it never happened.”

Reynaud scowled, not liking the sound of that at all. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, including her uncle,
but her cheeks had gone pale. Dammit, he didn’t want to distress her.

He leaned over her, placing his hands on either side of her hips. “I’ll leave, but I’m not a callow youth to be dismissed
from your bed, madam.”

And he kissed her before she could retort. Hard and hot, thrusting his tongue into her mouth without preamble. This woman
was his, and damned if he was going to let her doubt it for even one second after he’d already laid claim.

He straightened and looked into her dazed gray eyes. “This matter is far from settled.”

And scooping up the rest of his clothes, he left the room.

From the castle gates poured one hundred fierce warriors. They were clad in armor so black it reflected no light, and they
shouted their war cries so loudly the very air trembled. They charged at Longsword. You might think such a show of force would
send a mere mortal running, but not he. Longsword stood firm and true and swung his heavy sword. His blade glinted in the
sun, the sweat streamed from his broad brow, and the heads of the magical army fell like leaves in autumn. For an hour he
fought, and at the end of that hour, not a black warrior still lived….

—from
Longsword

“And he actually threatened to bed you again?” Lottie asked the next afternoon, looking more animated than she had for some
days now.

“Not in so many words,” Beatrice said slowly. “But the implication was there, certainly.”

Both ladies were in Lottie’s carriage, riding toward a salon at Mrs. Postlethwaite’s residence.

“How very thrilling!” Lottie exclaimed. “It’s like an awful play.”

“But it isn’t an awful play,” Beatrice replied morosely. “It’s my life. Oh, what am I to do, Lottie? I
gave
myself to him.”

“Oh,
gave
! How can one give oneself to a man, I ask you?”

Beatrice knit her brows. “I don’t know what else to call it. I’m no longer a virgin.”

“And what of it?” Lottie asked spiritedly. “It’s only a bit of blood and an act of five minutes or so—”

“Rather more than five minutes,” Beatrice muttered, blushing.

Lottie waved aside her friend’s comment. “In
any
case, I don’t think it ought to decide your entire life.”

“But what if I’m pregnant?”

“Highly unlikely after just the one time.”

“Yes, but—”

“And besides, he definitely took advantage of you. I mean, right after you’d learned about poor Jeremy! It wasn’t at all sporting.
I don’t think it ought to count, really.”

Beatrice frowned, unsure what Lottie meant by “count.”

“See here,” Lottie continued, oblivious. “It’ll be at least a couple of months until you’re certain. Although, I have heard
of ladies who never knew until the moment they were holding a squirming baby in their arms.”

Beatrice moaned.

“
But
, in any case,” Lottie said hastily, “there’s no need to make a decision right now. Just because the man has taken your virginity
doesn’t mean he should own your entire life. What if you decide to take other lovers?”

“But I don’t
want
other lovers.”

“After all, why tie yourself to one man? You could be a dashing and scandalous courtesan!”

Beatrice sighed. Lottie seemed to be confusing Beatrice’s predicament with her own life since she’d left Mr. Graham. Although
Beatrice noticed that
Lottie
hadn’t started taking lovers and living the life of a fast matron.

“I don’t want to be a dashing and scandalous courtesan,” Beatrice said quietly. “And I do have to make a decision, because
Lord Hope isn’t the sort of man who sits about waiting for others to make up their minds. He’ll decide it for me if I don’t
do it soon.”

“Hmm, that does pose a problem.”

“Yes, it does.” Beatrice looked at her hands in her lap, trying to sort through her feelings. “I wish I knew how he felt for
me—or even if he
can
feel.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s so cold sometimes, Lottie, as if whatever gentleness he once had, whatever capacity to love, was destroyed by his years
in the Colonies.” Beatrice looked at her friend to see if she understood.

“You don’t know if he can love you.”

Beatrice nodded miserably.

All of Lottie’s animation seemed to leave her. “It’s so hard to tell, isn’t it? Gentlemen don’t have the same thoughts and
goals as we ladies.” Lottie thought for a moment and then said, “I’m not even sure they know themselves when they love a lady
or not.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Beatrice thought morosely. How was she to understand Lord Hope’s motives when she didn’t
understand the man himself? Had he made love to her because he cared for her? Or for some other, more subtle male reason,
perhaps even simply lust? Making the whole situation more difficult was her own desire. Deep inside, a part of her simply
wanted him, whether or not he felt the same. And that, she knew, was dangerous. She risked dreadful hurt if all the emotion
was only on her side.