One he understood; one she had a sudden comprehension he’d been waiting for. Leaving his fingers buried within her sheath, he rose up, his long body sliding over hers as, bracing on one elbow, he fitted his hips between her widespread thighs.
He withdrew his fingers from her slick sheath, set the broad head of his erection within her folds, literally at her entrance, then he settled over her, looking down into her face.
From beneath her lashes, she looked into his dark eyes.
“Do you want me inside you?” His voice was so gravelly, she could barely make out the words.
Releasing the sheets her hands had fisted in, she reached up, sank her fingers into his upper arms, and pulled him down to her—or tried to. “Yes,” she hissed. “Now!”
His features, locked in passion, didn’t shift, but she sensed his immense satisfaction. Then—to her immense satisfaction—he obliged her in both her requests.
He let his body down on hers, and her senses sang in delirious delight—all that heat, all that solid muscle, all that heavy body pinning her to the bed. But then he lowered his head, and took her mouth again, filled it again—something she hadn’t been expecting that momentarily distracted her.
Then he flexed his hips, and nothing could distract her from the pressure as he entered her—slowly, inexorably—then he paused.
She almost screamed; she did moan, the sound muffled by their locked lips. Suddenly more desperate than she’d thought she could be, she sank her nails into his arms, writhed and lifted against him, tipped her hips, trying to lure him deeper, needing, begging—
He thrust heavily, powerfully, into her. Filled her completely with that single forceful thrust.
And she couldn’t absorb it all at once. The brief flash of pain, the overwhelming shock of the sensation of him so solid and heavy within her, the realization that this had really happened…like an overwound skein, her senses started to unravel.
He held still for a long moment, then withdrew, almost to her entrance, then thrust powerfully into her again, even more deeply—and her senses fractured. She screamed as they shattered; he drank in the sound.
And she was swept high on a spiral of infinite ecstasy, senses expanding and expanding, bright, sharp, crystalline clear as waves of sensation, increasingly intense, rolled through her—as he filled her mouth and claimed her there, as his body moved heavily upon hers, and hers responded and danced under his, instinctively responding to the deep, driving rhythm as he possessed her utterly—ravished her thoroughly—and everything within her sang.
Then ecstasy sharpened, gripped her anew, and pushed her even higher—he growled in his throat, caught her tongue with his, stroked, then thrust deep into her mouth just as he thrust even more forcefully into her body.
And she came apart again.
All her senses, every particle of her awareness, imploded. Fragmented. Shards of pleasure so intense they felt like light speared down her veins, then melted and made her glow, made her soften beneath him, around him, made her clutch him and hold him as he thrust one last time, even more deeply, then he stiffened, groaned, shuddered as his release swept him, as deep and intense as hers, leaving him wracked, helpless in her arms.
All tension released, fell away, and they were floating in some blissful, bliss-filled void, surrounded by a golden glory she couldn’t name.
It caught them, buoyed them, cushioned them as they spiraled slowly back to earth.
That golden rapture seeped into her, spread through her veins, through her body, sank deep into her heart, softly, slowly, infused her soul.
He’d lost himself in her.
That had never happened to him before; it left him wary.
Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but she’d opened some door, led him down a new path, and his view of an activity he’d taken for granted for years had altered.
His experience of that activity had been rewritten, rescripted.
He was very familiar with sexual satiation, but this was much more. The release he’d found in her, with her, was infinitely more sating; the satisfaction he’d found with her had reached his soul.
Or so it felt.
Royce stood at the uncurtained window of his bedroom and looked out at the moonlit night. Raising the glass of water he held, he sipped, and wished it could cool the still smoldering heat inside him.
But only one thing could do that.
He glanced back at his bed, where Minerva lay sleeping. Her hair was a golden wave breaking over his pillows, her face madonna-peaceful, one white arm gracefully draped atop the crimson-and-gold covers he’d pulled up so she wouldn’t get cold.
He’d memorized the sight of her lying naked and sated, sprawled on his crimson sheets, before he’d covered her. She’d bled hardly at all, just a few streaks on the inside of her thighs, enough to confirm her previous untouched state, but not, he hoped, enough to make her hesitate over taking him inside her again.
His primitive side had gloated; he’d wanted her then, wanted to wake her again, but had decided to play civilized and give her a little time to recover. He hadn’t been inside her all that long; her sheath had been so incredibly tight her release had brought on his. Control in abeyance, he hadn’t held back, but that also meant he hadn’t pounded into her for long; with luck she wouldn’t be too sore to let him inside her again.
At least she was where she was supposed to be.
Keeping her there, ensuring she remained, was his next step. One he’d never attempted—wished to take—with any other woman.
But she was his. He intended to point that out—to propose and be accepted—once she stirred.
In considering that proposal, and how best to phrase it, his mind circled back to the surprise she’d had for him—the little secret she’d been hiding so amazingly well.
She’d never had any previous lover. Despite being so focused on her, despite his expertise, he hadn’t detected her inexperience; instead, he’d assumed, and been wrong.
Sunk in her mouth, as physically linked with her as it was possible to be, he hadn’t missed that instant of pain as he’d thrust deeply inside her for the first time; he was too experienced not to recognize when a woman beneath him tensed in pain, rather than from pleasure.
But even as he’d registered the stunning fact that she’d been a virgin, she’d started to climax. Just as he’d intended.
The unexpected surge of primitive feelings knowing he’d taken her virginity had evoked, combining with the intense satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded to the last detail with his plan, had detached him from all control. From that point on, he’d had none; he’d operated on instinct alone—that same powerful, primitive instinct that was even now prowling just beneath his skin, satisfied to a point, yet still hungry for her.
He tore his eyes from the bed, tried to focus on the night-shrouded landscape instead. If he’d known she’d been a virgin…not that he’d had much experience bedding virgins—only two, both when he’d been sixteen—but he would at least have tried to be less forceful, less vigorous. God knew he wasn’t the easiest man for even experienced women to accommodate, yet…He glanced again at the bed, then took another sip of water.
As she’d done with him in every other arena, in lying beneath him, she’d coped, too.
Coped rather well, in fact.
The thought brought to mind her earlier fascination with his erection—a fascination he now better understood; she’d wanted to touch, to examine…the memory of her small hand and delicate fingers wrapped about his shaft had the inevitable effect.
Jaw setting, he drained the glass. Later, he’d said; it was later now.
She stirred even before he reached the bed. Setting the empty glass on the bedside table, he met her eyes as he let the silk robe he’d donned fall from his shoulders; lifting the covers, he climbed into the bed and laid down. She slid helpfully toward him; expecting that, raising one arm, he drew her closer; she hesitated, then came, tentatively settling against hi
m. He waited, assessing yet again the possible tacks he might take in the discussion he was about to initiate.
Minerva found his heat, the solidity of his body and the warmth that emanated from his muscled flesh, both comforting and luring. Nerves that had tensed slightly relaxed again. Greatly daring, she sank deeper into his light embrace; his arm tightened about her, and it seemed only natural to raise her head and settle it in the hollow just below his shoulder, letting her hand rest, palm down, on his chest.
She quashed an impulse to snuggle her cheek into the pillowing muscle; he wasn’t hers, not really—she should strive to remember that.
He lifted a strand of her hair from her face, smoothed it back.
She was wondering if she was supposed to say something—comment on his performance, perhaps—when he spoke.
“You should have told me you were a virgin.”
The instant the words left his lips, Royce knew they’d been the wrong thing to say. The wrong tack to take in introducing his proposal.
She tensed, gradually but definitely, then raised her head and narrowed her eyes on his face. “Understand this, Royce Varisey—I do not, absolutely do not want to hear a single word about marriage. If you so much as mention the word in relation to me, I’ll consider it the most inexcusable insult. Just because I was your mother’s protégée and just happened—through no fault of mine or yours—to still be a virgin, is no reason at all for you to feel obliged to offer for my hand.”
Oh, Christ. “But—”
“No.” Lips set, eyes snapping, she pointed at his nose. “Keep quiet and listen! There’s no point in offering for my hand—in even thinking of it—because even if you do, I will refuse you. As you’re very well aware, I enjoyed the”—she paused, then waved—“interlude immensely, and I’m more than adult enough to take responsibility for my own actions, even if our recent actions were more yours than mine. Regardless, contrary to popular misconception, the last, very last thing a lady such as I want to hear after lying with a man for the first time is a proposal prompted by said man’s misplaced notion of honor!”
Her voice had steadily gained in intensity. She glared at him, lips tight. “So don’t make that mistake.”
The tension investing her body, lying half atop his, was of entirely the wrong sort. His features impassive, he searched her eyes; he’d made a tactical blunder, and had to beat a strategic retreat. He nodded. “All right. I won’t.”
She narrowed her eyes even more. “And you won’t try to manipulate me into it?”
He raised both brows. “Manipulate you into marriage because I took your virginity?” He shook his head. “I can assure you—I’ll even promise on my honor—that I won’t do that.”
Eyes locked with his, she hesitated, almost as if she could detect the prevarication in his words. He steadily returned her regard. Eventually she uttered a soft “humph,” and swung away. “Good.”
She pulled out of his arms, and started wrestling her way free of the covers.
He reached out and lightly clasped her wrist. “Where are you going?”
She glanced at him. “To my room, of course.”
His fingers locked. “Why?”
She blinked at him. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
“No.” His eyes on hers, he drew the hand he held back beneath the covers—down to where his erection stood at full attention. Curling her fingers about his rigid flesh, he watched her expression change to one of fascination. “This,” he ground out, “is what you’re supposed to do. What you’re supposed to attend to.”
Her gaze refocused on his face. She studied his eyes, then nodded. “All right.” Swinging back to him, she switched her right hand for her left, smoothing her palm up his length before, as she leaned into him, closing her fingers. “If you insist.”
He managed a grating “I do.” Reaching up, he slid one hand behind her nape and pulled her lips down to his. “I insist you learn all you want to know.”
She took him at his word, hands touching, caressing, squeezing, gliding, tracing as she would. The unconscious, unguarded sensuality in her face as, eyes closing as if to imprint the heft and weight, length and shape of him on her mind, she explored as she would, tried his control to its limit and beyond. To a chest-shuddering, muscle-quivering extent he’d never before had to endure.
He clung to his sanity by planning what came next. He favored sitting her astride him, impaling her, then teaching her to ride him, but discovered he lacked the strength to counter the urges her bold, innocently brazen caresses called forth. Then incited and ignited.
She connected with his more primitive side far more than any other woman ever had.
Reduced to the point where control was a thin and rapidly shredding veil, he brushed her hands aside, rolled her over, pinning her beneath him, spreading her thighs wide and cupping her, touching her, to find her wet once more. Hauling in a huge breath, he wedged his hips between her thighs and entered her—slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly—steady and inexorable so her breath strangled in her chest and she arched beneath him, a cry fracturing on her lips as with a final short thrust he sheathed himself fully within her.
Letting himself down on her, he anchored her hip with one hand, found her face with the other and, lowering his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth, and plundered to the same rhythm with which he settled to plunder her body.
A bare heartbeat passed, and then she was with him, her hands reaching around to spread on his back, holding him, clinging, her body undulating, caressing, her hips lifting to match his heavy driving rhythm. Releasing her hip, he reached down, found her knee, and lifted it over his hip.
Without further direction, she hooked that knee higher, then did the same with her other leg, opening herself to him so he could sink deeper into her, could without restraint drive them both even harder, even faster, to oblivion.
He did; when she shattered beneath him he intended to hold back, to extend the engagement and take more of her, but the temptation to fly with her was too great—he let go and followed close on her heels, into the senses-shattering glory of climax and on into the void.
Wrapped in her arms, with her wrapped in his, their hearts thundering, breaths sawing, then slowing, they gradually drifted back to reality.
As, all tension spent, she relaxed, boneless, beneath him, he saw a small, subtle smile curve her kiss-swollen lips. The sight warmed him, curiously touched him.
He watched until it faded as she slid into sated sleep.
Thirteen
He woke her sometime before dawn, time enough to indulge his senses and hers in one last, brief, intense engagement, then let her recover enough to don her gown and walk back to her room.
He rose and helped her dress, then saw her out of his sitting room door. He would have preferred to escort her to her room, but if any others were drifting back to their beds and saw her, it was better they didn’t see her with him.
She was the castle’s chatelaine; there were any number of reasons she might be about early.
After listening to her footsteps fade, he returned to the bedroom, and his bed. Settling beneath the covers, sensing her warmth lingering beside him, conscious of her subtle perfume wreathing all about him, he folded his arms behind his head and fixed his gaze on the window across the room.
So what now? He’d made progress, real and definite progress, but then she’d stymied him in a way he hadn’t been quick enough to foresee. While henceforth he could, and would, have her in his bed, he could no longer simply ask her to be his bride. There was no argument that stood any chance of convincing her he’d wanted to marry her before he’d taken her virginity. That he hadn’t known she was a virgin meant nothing, and no matter how long he waited, she would still view his proposal as the insult she’d warned him not to offer her.
And she’d refuse. Adamantly. And she’d only grow more stubborn the harder he pressed.
Admittedly he had, for one foolish moment, considered using
the age-old argument based on virginity and honor as a possible supporting reason for their wedding. He should have guessed how she would react.
He lay staring into space as his household slowly awakened, juggling possibilities, assessing tacks. If he’d asked her to marry him when he’d first set out to, rather than letting her distract him with her challenge into seducing her first, he wouldn’t now be facing this complication, yet there was no point dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.
He could see only one way forward. He would have to keep silent over his intention to marry her, and instead do everything in his considerable power to lead her to conclude of her own accord that marrying him was her true and natural destiny. More, her greatly desired destiny.
Once she’d realized that, he could offer for her hand, and she would accept.
If he applied himself to the task, how long could it take? A week?
The grandes dames had accepted the week he’d originally stipulated readily enough. That week had now passed, but he doubted any of them would hie north to castigate him—not yet. If he dallied too long, someone would turn up to lecture him again and exhort him to action, but he probably had another week up his sleeve.
A week he would devote to convincing Minerva that she should be his duchess.
A week to make it clear she already was, but just hadn’t realized.
His lips curved, just as Trevor looked in from the dressing room.
His valet saw his smile, saw the bed. Raised his brows inquiringly.
Royce saw no reason to keep him in the dark. “My chatelaine—who will shortly be your mistress.” He fixed his gaze on Trevor’s face. “A fact she doesn’t yet know, so no one will tell her.”
Trevor smiled. “Naturally not, Your Grace.” His expression one of the utmost equanimity, he started to pick up Royce’s clothes.
Royce studied him. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”
Straightening, Trevor shook out his coat. “You have to choose a lady, and all things considered I find it hard to imagine you could do better than Miss Chesterton.” He shrugged. “Nothing to be surprised about.”