He chuckled, low and dark, and then, still holding her wrists, he swooped down and covered her right breast with his mouth.
She jumped and her head fell back helplessly. His mouth was hot, sucking hard on her flesh. She wanted to feel more, she needed more, and her hips of their own accord jerked toward him.
“Oh, not yet,” he whispered over her wet, sensitive nipple. “Not nearly yet. I’ve been thinking of this for a long time.”
What? she wondered wildly. What could he possibly have been thinking about?
He sank to his knees before her, and she lifted her heavy head, blinking down curiously at him. What was he…?
He let go of her wrists to place his hands on her thighs and force her legs farther apart. Her dazed mind stuttered to life. He was too close to her center. He could see and, more importantly, smell everything.
He lifted one of her legs—her foot still shod in an elegant heeled slipper—and draped it over his shoulder, which placed him squarely underneath her.
“No,” she said frantically. “I don’t—”
He looked up at her, and his pale green eyes seemed to glow. “Yes. Hold on to the back of the settee, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”
And then, before she could move or think, he dipped his head forward and licked across her folds.
She gasped and grabbed wildly for the settee behind her. She’d heard whispers of this, but in no way was she prepared for it. He was kissing—no, worse, licking—her intimate flesh. It was the most extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced in all her life. His tongue was hot and faintly raspy, stroking firmly over and over, burrowing deeper until he did indeed find what he’d called her bud.
She puffed out air and bit her lip. Her eyes squeezed tight. She mustn’t scream, mustn’t make a sound, but, dear Lord, it was hard not to. He was licking delicately, exquisitely, over and over again. She felt him pull apart her folds with his thumbs, and then he set his mouth directly over her center.
And sucked.
She gasped, the sound loud in the room. It was almost painful it was so sweet. She felt tremors rock her legs, and for the life of her she couldn’t help it.
She peeked.
His dark, shorn head was between her thighs, his thick lashes shuttered over his eyes as he ministered to her. One brown hand was splayed on her pale hip, the difference in their skin tones in shocking contrast. He was so big, so masculine, and he was servicing her. This must be wrong, must surely be a sin, for it felt too, too good.
His eyes suddenly flashed open, and he was looking up at her, green eyes intent as he kissed her between her thighs, in that place no one but she had ever touched.
The sight was too much. An implosion started at her center, sending out sparkling waves. She bit her lip and shut her eyes, unable to hold his gaze while suffering this final, intimate pleasure. It was shameful. It was wonderful. She shuddered and quaked beneath the shattering release, and she did it all in front of him. She thought he would draw away, but he continued with tiny, intimate kisses, making the aftershocks go on and on until her legs trembled and she feared she would fall.
Then he was surging up her, catching her about her waist and setting her on the settee. He threw her clothes on top of her, and before she could wonder what he was about, he lifted her high against his chest.
She clutched at his shoulders as he strode to the library door, and she realized what he meant to do. “You can’t!”
“Watch me,” he replied.
She feared servants, but no one was about as he ran across the short hallway and up the stairs. He strode down an upper hall and shouldered open a door at the far end. She just had time to see a full bath, a few crumpled towels, and a huge bed with atrocious flaming orange drapes, and then she was bouncing on the bed.
Griffin flung her clothes rather cavalierly to the floor, stripped off her slippers, and then stood looking down at her.
She held her breath, wondering what he expected of her. She’d never done this, hadn’t planned it, and was in no way prepared. She started to prop herself on one elbow, but he slowly shook his head.
“Stay there.” He raised his hands over his shoulders, grasping the back of his shirt. “Stay still.”
He drew his shirt off over his head and doffed his breeches.
She’d seen naked males before. Statues, pale and entirely denuded of hair. A few living boys or even young men, their shirts removed for labor.
She’d never seen this man nude, though. He was brown all over. What she’d taken for skin tanned by the sun was instead naturally olive toned. His shoulders were wide and square, and in contrast to those unliving statues, there was hair upon his body. Sprinkles of it, dark and curling, from one brown nipple to the other, a bare patch between chest and belly and then a gradually widening line of dark hair from his navel to the bush about his genitals. The hair there was thick and black, and his penis rose ruddy and dark from it, a strange, foreign, male thing.
She looked and looked and felt herself clench internally at the sight, the wonder, of being free to inspect his nude body. She’d held that part of him in her hands, but she’d never seen it. It rose almost vertical to his belly but stood away from his body. Thick veins twined about its length, leading to a fleshy cap, swollen past his foreskin. It gleamed faintly in the candlelight, reddish purple and ready. It was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen in her life—and the most frightening.
“Do you like it?” he asked, grasping himself.
She watched, mesmerized, as he pulled the skin down the shaft and then up again, cupping the head in his palm. Her eyes rose to his, and she could only speak the truth. “Yes.”
A corner of his mouth kicked up, though he looked far from amused. “Good. I’ve heard of virgins running screaming from the sight.”
She bit her lip at the word virgin.
“You are, aren’t you?” he said in a voice that in any other man she might think gentle. “A virgin?”
She nodded. A virgin. She was about to lose her virginity. This was wrong. This was a sin. This was—
“Don’t think,” he ordered. He stepped forward to place a knee on the bed, making it dip beneath his weight. “Don’t think, don’t wonder, don’t worry. Only feel.” He lowered himself, his hands on either side of her head, his body suddenly heating hers. “Feel me.”
And she did. He pressed his legs between hers, widening her thighs until there was a place for his hips, and settled himself on her. She could feel the rough hair of his legs sliding along hers, the hard slab of his belly, and above all, the hot iron rod lying across her mound.
She looked up at him as he lowered his head toward hers, murmuring, “Feel me.”
His lips were gentle but not soft. He inserted his tongue into her mouth, and she knew now how to suckle upon it, how to tilt her head so that their mouths fitted together perfectly. His hands were in her hair, pulling pins out, burrowing beneath the tresses to palm her scalp, and she realized suddenly that she could explore as well.
She lifted her hands along his sides, stroking, touching his warm skin. His back was smooth, a little damp now from his bath or perhaps the heat they made between them. She skated up and felt the muscles of his shoulders move beneath her palms. This was so intimate, so quietly special: to touch a man’s naked back, to feel him as he made love to her.
He muttered something and lifted away from her, breaking their kiss. He rocked to the side a bit and reached between them. She felt his fingers sliding through her maidenhair. Then he was pushing his penis against her folds, swirling the head in her wetness, pressing against her apex. She watched his face, seeing the grim set of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows. Sweat shined on his forehead, and it occurred to her that though he’d no doubt done this innumerable times before, he was taking this time very seriously.
That gave her comfort.
Then he shifted and looked up, and at the same time she felt the tip of his cock at her entrance.
She gripped his shoulders in sudden doubt.
He ducked his head, catching her eyes. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
And he flexed his hips.
She expected pain, but there was only a strange sort of pinch. She panted, waiting for more—pain or pleasure, she wasn’t sure.
He slid a little way out and then farther in.
Her lips parted as she realized that he was not fully sheathed in her.
“Relax,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth.
He withdrew and shoved again, this time only a little more inside. The pinch had lessened, but the stretching, the pressure was still there, not a painful sensation, but not entirely pleasant either. He shifted then and brought her legs up, wrapping them about his waist. Suddenly there seemed to be more room. He slid partly out, his penis rubbing against her, and then shoved forcefully, his hip bones meeting hers.
She looked up at him, so full of his flesh. Was this all there was?
He seemed to understand the question in her eyes. He lay against her, his upper half braced away from her on straight arms. He smiled again, this time rather grimly, and grunted, “Feel.”
Then he slid against her, his penis slowly pistoning out and into her. She gasped. He did it again, his eyes watching hers, and swiveled his hips, grinding down on her.
“Oh!” With her hips tilted up, his body was hitting that spot exactly, each pull of his cock adding somehow to the exquisite sensation.
“Feel, my heart,” he whispered, and she saw that his eyes were glistening. Before she could speak he dipped his head to tongue her nipple.
She arched helplessly underneath him. His strong body guided and pleasured hers, his hips moving relentlessly, grinding down on that one special spot. It began again, a glistening heat between her legs, growing and spreading outward until she quaked and clutched at his shoulders. There was something else here as well. It was a terrible sorrow, a welling joy, as if all the emotion she’d ever held in check or pushed away was suddenly rising to the surface. She couldn’t control her face, couldn’t control her body. She was coming apart, and she’d never be able to pin herself back together again.
Griffin was making love to her, and she knew in that moment that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Here and only here would she ever be truly free. She held him close, terrified he would somehow stop and leave her behind.
But he didn’t. He gently bit down on her nipple and rocked against her faster and faster, sweat gleaming on his neck and on his chest, until she shattered under him. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, and he filled it with his tongue and lips, shuddering into her, continuing his ride, until he suddenly left her.
She felt the splash of warm liquid on her belly and opened her eyes. He was above her, his cock in his hand, his face relaxing from the sexual tension of before.
It was over. She was no longer a virgin.
CHARLIE WATCHED AS the dice fell from his fingers. A deuce and a trey. Five could be lucky or not; it just depended on the play.
“The attack failed, then.” He knew without looking up that Freddy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Aye. Three men killed outright and another two injured and lyin’ in bed.”
Charlie grunted, scooping up the dice. He rolled them between his fingers, the familiar clink of the bones soothing to his ears. “And we’re still dealing with the duke’s damned informers.”
Freddy didn’t answer that, probably because there was no need.
“But you say Reading was seen with the duke’s sister?” Charlie asked thoughtfully.
“Twice in St. Giles,” Freddy replied.
Charlie nodded, feeling the skin on his cheeks pull as he smiled. “The duke, the duke. It always comes back to the duke, doesn’t it? The duke and Reading, our dear friend.”
Freddy licked his lips nervously.
A thump and a feverish murmur came from overhead.
Charlie glanced up as if he could see the woman lying above. “How is she today?”
Freddy shrugged. “The nurse says she took some broth this morn.”
Charlie looked down without comment and threw the dice. They tumbled to the edge of the table, a trey again and a cater—four. Lucky seven. “Perhaps it’s time we use the duke’s informers to our own end. Perhaps it’s time His Grace learns what Reading really does in St. Giles.”
Chapter Eleven
That night, Queen Ravenhair again called her suitors to her throne room and asked them what their answers were.
Prince Westmoon snapped his fingers. Instantly a groom led a prancing black stallion into the throne room. Westmoon bowed low. “This horse is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Prince Eastsun waved a hand, and a huge warrior marched into the throne room, his chest armored in silver, his sword sheathed in a golden scabbard. “This man is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Finally, Prince Northwind presented a snowy bullock with gilded horns. “This bullock is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
—from Queen Ravenhair
Griffin slumped to the bedsheets, his body slaked. He lay there on his back, an arm over his eyes, his mind entirely blank, and all his muscles in a state of total relaxation. He might as well have been poleaxed.
Which apparently could not be said of Hero.
When the bed shook, he realized that his lover might not be in a similar state of enervated shock.
Griffin cracked one eyelid and watched, bemused, as Lady Hero jumped from the bed and ducked below the side. She straightened a minute later, trying to struggle into the remains of her chemise.
He yawned. “I know you’re new to this, sweeting, but the usual thing is to lie about for a bit, perhaps do the thing over again, God and my cock willing. No need to go haring off.”
As soon as the words left his lips, his brain finally—belatedly—roused itself, and he knew, absolutely and fatally, that it was the exact wrong thing to say.
She gave up on the chemise and bent to pick up her stays. Her face was half averted, but he could see even in profile when her lips thinned. “I must go.”
He couldn’t think very well—something more than the ordinary had happened here—but he knew he didn’t want her to go. Griffin scrubbed his hand over his head, trying to find some measure of wakefulness. “Hero—”
She ducked down again.
He propped himself up and peered over the side of the bed. She knelt, rummaging through her pile of clothes. Her head, even down-bent, did not look welcoming.
He sighed. “Stay a little while and I’ll call for some tea.”
She stood again, pulling on her petticoats. “I can’t be seen here.”
He was tempted to ask why she’d bothered to come in the first place, then, but prudence—not usually a virtue of his—stilled his lips. He knew he should talk to her, but he couldn’t think of the words that would persuade her to stay. His head felt thick, filled with dirty lint and smoke left over from the night awake in the warehouse.
He wasn’t prepared for this, damn it.
She had on her stays now and was clumsily lacing them. No doubt she usually had the aid of a maid. He felt a strange kind of tender pang at the sight.
He rolled to sit on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, and pulled a corner of the sheets over his lap. “Let me help you.”
She stumbled back—and half turned away. “I… I can manage.”
“Are you weeping?” he asked in horror.
“No!”
But she was. Dear God. She was crying.
He didn’t know what to do, how to make this right. “Marry me.”
She stilled and turned, her eyelashes spiked with tears. “What?”
Had he just said that? But he looked her in the eye and repeated the words. “Marry me.”
It was as if something clicked into place—a missing piece he hadn’t even known he lacked—and he knew, suddenly and co
mpletely, that marrying Hero was the right thing to do. He didn’t want anyone to ever hurt her. He wanted to be a shield for her. For the first time since he’d come back to London, he felt as if he knew what his purpose was. He felt right.
Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to feel the same way.
She shook her head, stifling a sob, and bent to pick up her dress.
His pride was pricked. He stood, the sheet falling away. “What say you?”
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she fought her way into the dress.
His head reared back as if she’d struck him. “You find an offer of marriage from me silly?”
“Yes.” She had the dress over her head and started lacing up the front. “You only ask because you’ve bedded me.”
He set his hands on his hips as anger rose in his chest. His head throbbed—he hadn’t enough sleep in days—and he tried to keep his voice even. “I’ve taken your virginity, my lady. Pardon me if I think that a good reason to take you to wife as well.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” She turned to face him. Her eyes skipped over his nude body, and then she held her gaze firmly above his waist. “Have you not listened to a word I’ve said these last days? Marriage is a contract, a bargain between families. A pact for the future, solemnly thought out and sincerely entered into. It isn’t something one just jumps into on a whim.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t a whim.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me before you bedded me?”
He stared at her, tempted to answer that he’d been thinking with the smaller of his two heads before he’d bedded her, thank you very much.
But she was already continuing, her voice horribly gentle. “You and I have no similar goals or intentions. You told me less than a fortnight ago that you never intended to marry. You’re offering out of guilt or misplaced gallantry, neither of which is a solid foundation for a marriage. I’ve made a terrible mistake”—her voice wobbled, making his heart constrict—“but calling off my marriage to Mandeville would simply compound it.”