He stifled a groan, and forced his arms to, if not relax, then at least not act. Refused to let his other self rule enough to lift her…just that little way.
Good God! How had they come to this pass?
She’d insisted…but he knew damned well she hadn’t meant her persuasions to go this far. Or at least, no further.
He was literally in pain, yet…if he took her now, like this, let his baser self loose and did as he wished—as she’d invited—and ravished her, took her aggressively in an act of primitive claiming, how would she react later?
Would she understand?
He could barely follow his own reasoning; he had no confidence he could follow hers.
But how could he let her go? How could he pretend he didn’t want her? She wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought; she knew what he wished of her, and would wonder…what she would wonder he had no clue.
She stirred in his arms; his body reacted instantly. Not just expectant, not just eager, but clamorous.
Gritting his teeth, he held back the driving need, could all but hear his baser self whisper that having her now would give him a hold he could use to bind her later…
She started to lift her head.
Jaw clenching, he reached for her hand, took it in his, then drew it down. Her eyes opened, locked on his, then widened as he closed her hand about his rigid length. His control shook; he couldn’t breathe as he battled the effects of her touch.
Her eyes, wide and lustrous with reawakening desire, gave him the strength to hold his beast at bay.
Long enough to drag in a breath, and say, “Your choice.”
Pris blinked. The temptation to look down, to examine what her fingers were wrapped around, was great, but she resisted, held by something in his dark eyes.
Once again she had cause to rue the dark, that she couldn’t see well enough to read his emotions. They were there, roiling in the depths of his eyes, but she had to rely on senses other than sight to define them.
“Why?” That seemed the most pertinent question.
His lips quirked. He was clinging to his usual persona, but the wild and reckless man who understood her craving for excitement and thrills was very close to his surface.
“I want you—obviously. But it wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of your…”
He broke off.
Eyes narrowing, she supplied, “Weakness? Female frailty?”
His lips thinned. “I was going to say ‘inexperience.’”
She suddenly felt insulted, in a strange and peculiar way. “I started this, if you recall.”
He met her gaze. “Precisely. You started it—it’s up to you to decide how far you want to go, how you want to finish this.”
Whether it was her temper, her normal response to a challenge, or something else that rose up and swamped her, she didn’t know, couldn’t tell. The end result was the same—a reckless abandon she knew quite well.
She had started it, and she remembered why. Recalled very clearly her wish to experience the thrills and excitement with which he was so intimately acquainted, but which she had yet to savor.
He’d taken her part of the way, whetted her appetite—did he think she’d balk?
She knew what he thought was her reason for seducing him, but she knew the truth.
And had discovered another in the last heated minutes—she truly did want him.
Wanted to know, wanted to experience, wanted to savor physical intimacy—with him.
She’d been stroking, lightly tracing the hard rod beneath her palm, very aware it had grown considerably harder in response to her touch.
Her eyes holding his, she closed her hand.
She didn’t have to shift much to reclaim her position astride him; she found it easy enough operating purely by touch to guide the blunt head of his erection to her swollen and surprisingly slick entrance, ease it between her nether lips, then push back a little, then a little more, sliding him into her…
He was large; now that he was partway inside her he felt thicker than she’d thought, but the look on his face was worth every second of the discomfort she felt as he stretched her.
She pressed lower. His dark eyes were fixed on her as if he’d never seen a naked woman before, never had one do to him what she’d done. Was doing.
Slowly.
He’d stopped breathing; suddenly, he sucked in a huge breath, his chest swelling dramatically, then he reached for her hips.
She swore and intercepted his hands, had to sit up to do so—immediately felt the hardness of him butt against her hymen.
She closed her eyes, gripped his hands tightly, rose slightly, and swiftly bore down.
Felt a stab of pain, sharp but mercifully brief as her maidenhead ruptured. Felt an indescribable sensation as she assimilated the feel of the thick, hard reality of him buried deep inside her.
The pain started to fade.
That other sensation grew and intensified.
She cracked open her lids and looked down at him. He was still staring at her; his expression wasn’t one she could interpret—he looked stunned, as if she’d clouted him over the head, and he hadn’t seen the blow coming.
Of course, he now knew; that much she could read in his wide dark eyes.
She narrowed hers at him. “If you value your life, say nothing at all.”
Something flared in the darkness; his jaw set. “You are the most damnable, incomprehensible female.”
The words were bitten off, so low, so gravelly, she could barely distinguish them. “Rather than debating my reasoning, could we return to the matter at hand? I wanted this—so why don’t you give me what I want?”
He looked at her for a moment, then his eyes blazed.
“You really want this?”
The words were low, gravelly, but now held a hint of something more. Something faintly menacing, something dangerous. A skitter of excitement slithered down her spine. She knew beyond doubt that she’d lured the wild and reckless soul, had brought him to her.
“Oh, yes.” She settled more fully on him, fought to suppress a wince, boldly reached for him, grabbed his shoulders, and yanked him up to her. “This,” she breathed the words over his lips, and shifted just a little upon him again, “is precisely what I want.”
She leaned in to kiss him, but he kissed her.
Ravenously.
Utterly and completely without reservation.
Every inhibition she’d ever possessed went up in flames as his hard hands found her body and ruthlessly claimed. Relentlessly possessed. Every curve, every inch of skin, every sensitive, intimate place.
She tried to push her hands over and down his shoulders; his coat and shirt got in her way.
He swore, a guttural expletive, then brusquely shifted, shrugged out of coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and hauled her to him.
Crushed her body against his, her swollen and aching breasts pressed tight against that magnificent chest, to skin that burned.
Surrounded by steely arms, by a strength that wouldn’t be denied, with every nerve quivering with fevered anticipation welling from the knowledge they were intimately joined, from the overwhelming sensation of him hard and rigid thrust so deeply inside her, Pris exulted and surrendered, wrapped her arms about him, and gave herself up to the wild and reckless, to the passion and desire and the driving need that rose up and consumed them both.
Dillon couldn’t believe what she’d done, could barely comprehend the power, the sheer driving need that gripped him. That she had unleashed.
Her body was hot, flushed silk, restlessly urgent, recklessly greedy as she shifted in his arms. Her sheath was a tight glove, scalding and slick, clamped hard about him. His lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, he fed from her, and blatantly, forcefully, gave her back the raging tide of fiery desire she and all she was sent racing through him.
Without conscious direction, he sculpted her body, settling her as he wished, then he gripped her hips, took her weight, lifted her frac
tionally, and thrust farther, deeper. He worked her over him, on him, quickly and efficiently forced her to take him all.
She gasped, trembled, but not once did she retreat, not once did she pull back from her greedy need.
Or his.
The instant he was fully within her, he urged her up, then brought her down.
Once was enough; she caught the rhythm and started to ride him. He kept his hands locked about her hips, not just guiding but driving, making sure she rose high enough and came down with sufficient force to rock both their senses.
Within minutes, she was reeling. Desperate, she jerked back and broke from the kiss; eyes closed, head back, she struggled to fill her lungs.
From beneath heavy lids, he watched her, watched her face as time and again, her so-recently virginal body took him deep, as he thrust steadily, powerfully, again and again, and her sheath gave and accepted and gripped him.
For one instant, there in the darkness with the scent of lust and passion wreathing about them, with her dancing in that most primitive way upon him, with her soft gasps and fractured moans falling like a siren song from her lips, he could almost believe she was some fey creature sent to ensnare him.
Regardless, she’d succeeded.
Her desperation heightened, and infected him. Sharp spurs of need pricked him; her nails sank deeper into his shoulders as passion rose and swept them yet higher.
His gaze lowered to her breasts, undulating with her ride, heaving with the breaths she desperately drew in. Bending his head, he set his mouth to the swollen mounds, sought and found a tightly budded peak, swirled it with his tongue, then drew it deep.
He suckled powerfully.
And she screamed.
Her body started tightening, climbing the final peak. Still guiding her, driving her ever onward, he feasted on her breasts, felt the age-old power rise through them both, felt it take them, grip them, ride them, whip them.
It plunged them both into a maelstrom of passion, of molten heat and raging glory.
It raced through them, lifted them high, whirled them through the cosmos of sensation, then swept them higher, then yet higher—until she shattered about him, her cry echoing in his ears as she contracted powerfully about him. As she came apart in his arms in a glory so blinding he saw stars.
Still blind, passion-wracked, he joined her, sank deep into her body, held her ruthlessly down, felt every last contraction of her sheath as he emptied himself into her.
And, he suspected, lost his soul in the process.
Slumped back against the padded arm of the sofa, Priscilla Dalling a warm, all-but-naked, exceedingly sated body draped in flagrant abandon over him, Dillon tried to assess just where they now stood.
She’d unquestionably started it, but just what she’d started…he didn’t think she fully comprehended just what her reckless act had brought into being.
He was fairly sure he didn’t comprehend the full ramifications himself, not yet. Regardless, he definitely wasn’t up to examining, and facing and acknowledging, the depth and breadth of all she’d made him feel. It was bad enough knowing she’d breached every wall he’d ever had, that somehow, in just a week, she’d been able to gain sufficient ground with him to be able to wreak the havoc the last hour had wrought.
She stirred, and he glanced down at her, but she remained boneless, apparently senseless. Her cheek lay on his chest, her glorious hair a tumble of curls rippling across his cooling skin. Her hair was darker than his, a true black where his was sable; it felt like silk against his jaw.
He raised a hand, plucked one lock from the jumble, ran it through his fingers. Head back, he looked across the darkened summer house, into the immediate future.
His, and hers.
As far as he was concerned, the two were one, and nothing would ever change that. Unfortunately, he seriously doubted she saw it that way.
Yet.
So how should he proceed?
Pris felt the touch of his fingers in her hair, felt the gentle, absentminded play…and stayed where she was, as she was. She wasn’t sure why, couldn’t place the warm feeling that suffused her, of security, of peace, and something more.
Regardless, it was balm of a heady sort, a blissful taste of heaven. She was parched, and drank it in, felt it sink to her soul.
Gradually, reality intruded; her rational mind awoke and took determined stock, reminding her that she was lying naked in his arms, that he was still inside her, not as large and flagrantly impressive as he had been, but still there. Still intimately connected.
She waited for a blush to warm her cheeks, but none came.
She puzzled for a moment, then accepted; she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t reveled in every moment, even that instant of sharp, lancing pain, transcended as it was by the indescribable sensation of feeling him hard and solid and so very real, so deep inside her.
Of course, he’d forged even deeper yet, and she’d enjoyed and thrilled to every moment of that communion.
Every sense she possessed, every nerve, was still glowing in the aftermath.
She’d wanted, craved, excitement and thrills, and he’d given her that, and more.
He’d fulfilled her every illicit dream, did he but know it.
Her lips quirked. She was about to lift her head when his hand firmed over her hair, holding her momentarily in place.
“I’ll show you the register.”
It took an instant or three before she recalled what he was talking about.
A fact that spoke loudly of the rattled state of her brain and the sluggish operation of her wits. She rapidly flayed them to attention, tried to speak, and found she had to clear her throat. “I’ll call at the club tomorrow morning.”
“No.” He sighed; his hand slid from her hair. “That won’t work. I don’t show the register to anyone, and this week all the volumes are in use in the clerks’ room. If I fetch one to show you, even if no one actually sees you looking at it, it’s bound to cause comment.”
Lifting her head, she looked into his face. “Neither of us needs that.”
“No.” He met her eyes. “Tomorrow night there’s a party at Lady Helmsley’s—we’ll both be there. Helmsley Hall’s not far from the club. We can slip away, you can look at the register, then we’ll return to the party. There’s sure to be a crowd—no one will know.”
She looked into his dark eyes. “What about the guards you’ve set patrolling the club?”
“They won’t be surprised to see me. I can walk in, then let you in via the back door. They won’t see you.”
She studied his face, screamingly conscious of the hard body cradling hers, of the intimacy they’d shared and that still cocooned them. She moistened her lips. “Very well. Tomorrow night, then.”
Beyond her control, her gaze dropped to his lips. A moment passed, then she looked at his eyes, read in their steady gaze, in the sense of waiting that emanated from him, that his mind was following the same track as hers…that his inclination and hers were the same.
She’d already thrown her cap over the windmill; she no longer had anything to lose.
And having once supped from the cup of passion with him, she now knew precisely what she stood to gain.
She knew without asking, without him saying, that it was once again her choice.
Easing up, leaning on his chest, she drew his head to hers, drew his lips to hers.
And again called the wild and reckless man to share thrills and excitement with her.
9
Unlike the first time, he had taken charge.
The following evening, Pris stood by the side of Lady Helmsley’s drawing room surrounded by a coterie of admirers, and tried to stop her mind from dwelling on the latter events of the previous night.
A vain endeavor, given the poor competition from her attentive swains. Four gentlemen, along with Miss Cartwright and Miss Siddons, stood trading quips and nonsense; their inconsequential chatter couldn’t compete with her memories, with the images
her mind now contained—of Dillon rising above her in the night, of him removing his remaining clothes, then hers, and showing her how much plea sure he could give her, to what degree he could make her body sing, to what rapturous heights he could take her on the way to that ultimate, soul-sating bliss.
Best of all had been those moments when she’d seen and known how much plea sure she gave him, how deeply she called to that wild and reckless man, how completely he enjoyed her, that joining with her satisfied him as thoroughly, as intensely and all-encompassingly as it did her.
The second act had been even more compelling, more fascinating, than the first.
In the end, they’d stirred, regathered their clothes, and dressed in the darkness, all shyness conspicuously lacking, then he’d driven her to the house. She’d been in her room, her candle out, when Eugenia and Adelaide had returned; she hadn’t wanted to talk of anything, hadn’t wanted to return to the world—all she’d wanted was to lie in her bed and dream.
“Will you be attending the race meet this week, Miss Dalling?”
She blinked, and summoned a smile for Lord Matlock, who’d been trying to impress her for the past half hour. “I suspect not, my lord. It’s a minor meeting. I doubt it will prove sufficiently interesting to tempt my aunt forth.”
“But what of you and the lovely Miss Blake?” Lord Matlock held her gaze appealingly. “Surely we can tempt you to join us? Cummings here will bring his sister, Lady Canterbury. We could make up a party.”
Too experienced to utter a bald no, Pris played the game and let them try to persuade her. Much of that involved making plans and arguing between themselves, giving her a chance to once again scan the room.
Lady Helmsley’s party was noticeably more select than Lady Kershaw’s event. Lord Cromarty wasn’t expected; Eugenia had inquired of Lord Helmsley when they’d arrived, citing the Irish connection to excuse her interest.
So Pris was safe for the evening, at least from that quarter.
Dillon had yet to appear; excitement thrummed through her as she surveyed the heads, impatient to see the register and learn what she could of Rus’s predicament—and also to see Dillon again, to again spend time alone with him.