Reckless

Page 42

  Author: Anne Stuart

  "Can you take more?" he whispered hoarsely.

  She released him for a moment to answer, and he let out an anguished cry. "Oh, God, don't stop. "

  "You're too big," she said. But she sucked him in again, going deeper, taking more of him, so much that he brushed the back of her throat, and she made a little singing noise of pleasure.

  She'd never imagined feeling like this, wanting this so badly. It was doubtless perversion, but she loved it, loved the taste of him, the feel of such strength inside her mouth, the way her tongue could sweep against him, the way her mouth could wrap around him. He was prompting her, and she realized he wanted her to move up and down on him, as if he were between her legs and not in her mouth. And as his pleasure grew, and his strong legs began to tremble, so did hers, so that when he suddenly pulled her away she cried out in distress, fingers digging into his hips, trying to pull him back.

  Instead he hauled her to her feet. "You're not quite ready for that part, love," he said, and for a moment she was mystified.

  She looked up at him. "What part? What happens next?”

  "You know what happens next," he said in a hoarse voice. "I spill my seed. "

  "And then what happens that I'm not ready for?"

  "You swallow it. "

  She started to sink lo her knees again, but he laughed a shaky laugh. "You'd be better served if you gave me a moment to regain my self-control and let me remove my boots. It's the least a gentleman can do. "

  "And you're such a gentleman. "

  "Not with you, love. But I'm trying. "

  He leaned against one of the covered beds, pulling first one boot off and then the other with more ease than she would have expected. And then his clothes followed, and he was naked, gorgeous, just a little bit frightening.

  "Take off your chemise and your drawers," he said. "You don't want me tearing them again. You'd soon run out of clothes. "

  She was suddenly shy. Silly way to be, considering what she'd just done to him, but her hands shook and she wondered how she could reach up under the chemise without exposing herself to his curious eyes--

  He moved forward, took the hem of the chemise and whipped it over her head with one smooth movement. And a second later, the drawstring to her drawers was loosened, and they fell to her feet, and she was wearing nothing at all but her stockings.

  "Oh, God," he said, a curse, a supplication, a prayer. He pushed her up against the door, just behind her, lifted her by her legs and thrust inside her, hard.

  She was shocked by his sudden move, his immediate invasion. That they were standing shocked her, that it felt so good. He slid deep, painlessly, and she knew that was why she was wet. For him. She threw her arms around his neck, holding on tightly, as her body did what her mouth had done, clasping him, holding him, as he thrust up into her, a hard, steady, relentless rhythm that had her gasping for breath, shivering in reaction, unable to move herself as he pinned her against the door, simply receiving his half-frantic thrusts, wanting more and more.

  His skin was covered with a thin film of sweat, his face against her neck, his fingers tight on her hips. A climax rocked her, the climax she'd been cheated of the night before, and she could feel herself shatter, losing all sense of anything but the blinding, mindless pleasure he gave her.

  He held still, letting her ripple and clench around him, and when the first throes had died he swung her away from the door, never breaking their joining, carrying her across the room to the Holland-covered bed. He tried to set them both down without breaking their connection but she tumbled away from him and he slipped free, and she found she could giggle.

  "Heartless wench," he growled, coming down on one knee on the bed. "Turn over. "

  She stilled, looking up at him questioningly. "Turn over," he said again. "And get on your knees. You know I won't hurt you. Don't you?"

  Yes, she knew. She did as she was told, for a moment feeling embarrassed, undignified. But there was no dignity to be sought in sex, and she felt his mouth at the small of her back, heard his sigh of dreamlike appreciation. "You're beautiful, you know," he murmured, his hands sliding over her back, pulling her forward so that she rested on her elbows. 'Tour skin is like cream. I want you every way I can. " His fingers slid over her buttocks, hard, caressing, then moved down between her legs, to the wetness there, and she jumped, her sensitized flesh quivering.

  He rubbed her, spreading the dampness, and he slid his long fingers inside her, making her start. And then she pushed back against his hand, wanting more.

  A moment later she felt his hard thighs at the back of hers, his cock nudging at her damp sex. And when he pushed in again it was tighter, deeper, rubbing against a different place that suddenly made her climax again, a long, powerful shudder. He held her, one hand palming the front of her to hold her steady.

  'Try not to come so hard, love," he said in a shaky laugh. "You're pushing me out again. And I need to be deep inside you. "

  His words made another paroxysm hit her, and she was powerless to do anything about it. "I can't. . . stop it," she said, dropping her head down on the heavy linen cover that smelted of bleach and sunlight and dust. "Just let me. . . " Her momentary breath was enough, and he pushed in, deeper than he'd ever been before, so deep she could taste him again.

  His fingers tightened on her hips, and it was as if permission had finally been granted. He thrust into her, fast now, so hard she had to muffle her cries into the covers beneath her, again and again and again, and she knew if he pulled out she'd die, she needed him, spilling inside her, she needed him filling her, over and over.

  He took one hand from her hip, slid it around in front of her and rubbed his palm against that magic place, just as his cock slid along a spot so powerful inside her that even the mattress couldn't muffle her shriek, and with a final, slamming thrust he climaxed, inside her, and her body pulled him deeper rather than pushing him away as she dissolved.

  It seemed to last forever, his rigid outpouring that seemed to scald her very heart, her shivering, clenching, mindless release, and all she could think was more, more, more, and then suddenly it was enough, and they collapsed together onto the narrow, dusty bed.

  22

  Etienne de Giverney was a very unhappy man. He had spent a lifetime in search of the legacy he deserved, he'd broken the laws of God and man, and just when it looked as if it was in his reach that overgrown, red-headed bitch had thrown all his plans in the sewer.

  It was impossible. Three weeks ago, when he saw Adrian head after her instead of sharing drink and decadence with him, he'd assumed he was perfectly safe. The girl was awkward, older than his cousin's son and heir, ordinary looking and too outspoken. He would fuck her once and abandon her.

  But he hadn't. He hadn't emerged from that little room he kept, preferring his privacy to the audience most of the Heavenly Host preferred. And Etienne was there under sufferance. Not a member, not even a guest, but a hanger-on to be tolerated. Oh, they laughed with him, gambled with him. But he knew the English and their misguided sense of superiority.

  Etienne had finally chosen to interfere. It hadn't been that difficult, to tease Adrian into leaving her behind. And just to make certain she didn't cause any more trouble he'd arranged her tumble down the cliff before he caught up with Adrian.

  She hadn't hit her head, or suffered more than a few bruises. More damnable luck. And the men he'd hired to finish Adrian for good had bungled. They'd waited too long. He'd turned away from home instead of coming toward them, and their necessary pursuit had ruined everything.

  Etienne had been waiting at Adrian's house, prepared for the tragic news, when that stupid English vicar had helped him into the house. It had taken all Etienne's sangfroid to keep from screaming in rage.

  And then the moment Pagett had informed Adrian that Charlot
te Spenser would be in Sussex what must he do but go haring off almost immediately, like a love-starved moonling. Who would have thought Etienne had done everything he could to stop him, but for some reason his influence over Adrian was waning. It wouldn't be long before he was dropped, and he'd lose his entree to anywhere in English society.

  He wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Indeed, it wasn't his fault. The heir, Charles Edward, had been too much like his father, with a neck-or-nothing style in all of life. He rushed into things without thinking them through, and it hadn't taken long to goad him into riding Etienne's favorite horse, Meutrier. With typical English arrogance he hadn't known that the horse's name, and temperament, meant "murderer. " The horse was mad, there was no other word for it. He'd been abused, and only Etienne could ride him.

  But Charles Edward didn't like being told he couldn't do something. The fall had broken his back. The pneumonia that followed had carried finished the job, leaving Francis Rohan with only one heir.

  It had been child's play to corrupt Adrian. He was already well on his way by the time he was twenty-five, old in the ways of sin and decadence. It wouldn't take much for Adrian to succumb. Opium was a dangerous drug, the interesting concoctions he made from plants could be even worse, and he had watched Adrian use them indiscriminately, with his help, of course.

  An overdose would be so easy, but he preferred not to help things along. Adrian had been doing just fine by himself. His wretched father, Francis, was old now, close to seventy. He couldn't live that much longer, though he seemed damnably healthy. If Adrian predeceased him Francis would quickly follow, and there would be no one but Etienne to step into the title, the house, the monies.

  He intended to be kind to Francis's wife. He would remove her from his houses, of course, but he would settle a small amount on her, enough to keep her relatively comfortable if her needs were few. And what needs would she have? She'd be in mourning, unable to attend social functions, which made things a great deal simpler. After that time was up he expected her to simply fade away without her husband. They were far too attached to each other—Etienne considered it bad ton to be so besotted, particularly after so many years and six children. No, she would die soon and he wouldn't have to worry about even the tiny stipend.