Her fingers flexed around the edges of her robe. “As you can see, I am well. You can rest easy and leave.”
He leaned just inside the wall of the library, looking nonchalant and decidedly unperturbed. “I’ve called upon you twice. Why have you not given me audience?”
“It’s my prerogative who I grant admittance into my home.”
He stared at her for a long moment, revealing no expression, his eyes smoky in the shadows. “True. However, given our last encounter, I felt it necessary to speak with you again.”
“Necessary?” She frowned. “Given our last encounter, I thought it clear that we should not see each other again. At least not like this.”
“Like this?” He made a slight circle with his fingers and angled his head. “How do you mean?”
“Alone,” she clarified.
“Ah. Imagine my growing concern when I was told you were ill.”
“It was naught but an ague.”
“Which kept you locked up and indisposed to visitors. Or was that only me?”
“Since when do you require to be apprised of my health?”
“Since I became your lover.”
She blinked. Even after everything, he could still shock her. “You’re not my lover.”
“No?” His handsome lips curled. “We have evidence to the contrary of that.” He pushed off the wall and walked toward her. Stalked really.
She gripped her robe more tightly. She had very nearly lost all feeling in her fingers. And yet she was afraid of letting go. Afraid of all that she would expose. All that could happen.
She moistened her lips. “One time does not make a lover.”
“It was more than once.”
“But one occasion.”
“I see. How many occasions constitutes a lover, then?” He stopped before her.
She held her ground even though the hairsbreadth that separated them was hardly proper. They had tossed propriety aside long ago.
She winced and swallowed, fighting the enormous lump in her throat. It should not feel like this. It should not be so terribly awkward between them.
“Two occasions? Three?” he pressed, his voice a husky feather’s stroke.
He inched closer, his chest pressing into hers.
She shifted uneasily where she stood, her robe chafing against her suddenly oversensitized skin.
Her already tender breasts felt full and heavy and her core throbbed and tingled with awareness. A flood of memories slammed into her. It really was mortifying how her body had a mind of its own around him.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t know the criteria . . . only that one time doesn’t make us lovers.”
He raised a hand. She froze, watching it descend to her face. He brushed a lock of hair back from her shoulder. “Then maybe we should keep at it until there’s no doubt in your mind.”
Heat inflamed her face. “We can’t—”
“You said that last time.” He smiled, looking more roguish. And handsome. Damn him.
“This time I mean it.” She hated that she sounded like a child. She squared her shoulders and tried to look more commanding. More duchess-esque.
He gave her such a look, dark and heavy with longing. “You mean you haven’t thought about it?” Her lungs seized, unable to draw air. “You don’t want to experience it again. With me.” He touched another lock of hair, tracing it to where it draped over her shoulder, the backs of his fingers singeing her through her robe as his hand dragged lower, trailing her breast and brushing along her nipple until it pebbled against the fabric.
Her breath released and caught. His words, that barely there touch, throbbed like a pulsing beat through her body, sparking heat along every nerve. “It’s all I’ve thought about,” she admitted, her voice at a whisper pitch.
A damning confession, but she couldn’t pretend otherwise.
She felt his gaze dip to the small vee of skin exposed at her throat, searing her like a brand.
“Are you wearing anything under this robe, Ela?” he asked, his voice growly and gruff. His hand slipped inside the opening of her robe, his blunt-tipped fingers rasping along her skin. A wave of gooseflesh broke out in the wake of his touch.
She sucked in a breath and stepped around him. “I cannot do this. You let yourself in. I’m sure you can show yourself out.”
Proud of the coolness of her tone, she strode past him. She hadn’t made it two strides before she felt his hand on her arm. With a tug he pulled her around until they were chest to chest. His nostrils flared as though he was filling himself with the scent of her. She could understand that. Right now his heady scent swirled around her, the faint smell of soap and leather and the maleness that was inherently Colin. It was hard to imagine that she might have a similar impact on him. Handsome, young and titled with a bevy of heiresses only too happy for his attentions.
And yet he was here now, making her knees go weak, appealing to all of her senses for one more liaison with him.
Just one more time. One more time wouldn’t hurt.
She shook her head at the coaxing internal voice, her head falling back as she looked up at him. “Colin. There are any number of girls you can—”
“I don’t want any other girl,” he growled.
His hands moved then, dropped to the belt of her robe. Her voice died as he slowly untied it, his eyes never leaving her face.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
He parted her robe wide, the silky fabric scraping past her straining nipples. Air wafted over her, sliding over her bare skin. She bit her lip, killing a whimper before it could escape as he surveyed her.
His chest lifted on a breath. “It seems a great injustice now that the last time—the first time we were together—the room was dark. I couldn’t properly see you.”
A rush of desire flooded her, squeezing between her legs as his gaze roamed over her breasts, her stomach, stopping on the thatch of hair between her thighs. She felt herself grow damp.
“You’re the woman I want, Ela.” His hand dropped and covered her sex. She gasped, singed to her core at the possessive cup of his hand over her. “I want this.”
Her womanhood clenched hard in response, the sensation almost painful. Too intense to bear. A small cry escaped her trembling lips. Her hips shifted, pelvis thrusting out a little so that he had better access to her.
It was wicked. She knew it. She was shameless. Lost to him . . . to this.
And indeed, what difference did it make any longer? Why not listen to that little voice in her head?
They’d already been caught together—at least by Marcus. She was likely already increasing. One more time would do no harm. It couldn’t possibly complicate matters more than they already were.
Chapter 18
Before she could digest how thoroughly wrong her thinking was, he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, pressing her now bared body flush against him.
All thoughts fled. With her naked flesh plastered to his fully clothed body she could only feel.
A breathy squeak escaped her. She wasn’t a little woman, but he made her feel petite as he held her off the floor, like one of the delicate seashells she used to collect along the shoreline back home.
He carried her several strides, his breath not even hitching. He lowered her down on the Aubusson rug before the hearth. The fire crackled, the logs popping and crumbling in the dying flames.
He kneeled beside her, his gaze traveling her length. His hand covered her breast and she arched under the pressure, hungry for more. “Your skin is so warm,” he murmured. “Soft.”
He ran a thumb over the rigid tip. A moan escaped her.
“I’ve dreamed of you like this. Of touching you again.” He lowered his head, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on her face. “Tasting.” His warm breath fanned over her nipple a second before his mouth closed over it.
Her hands flew to his head, raking through the silky strands, holding him to her as she twisted and arch
ed, offering herself more fully to him.
His mouth moved to her other breast. Pleasure spiked through her hard and fierce as his tongue and lips played with the sensitive peak. She writhed beneath him, the soft rug at her back just adding to the erotic sensations bombarding her. His hands glided over her. Her rib cage, stomach, hips. He stroked the length of her thighs as though she were an instrument created for him alone to play.
He parted her thighs and found her core, stroking her folds. “So wet.” His voice was reverent and faintly worshipful.
Tears leaked out from the corners of her eyes. It was all too much. She trembled as his fingers traced the seam of her. “I’ve dreamed of you like this. Naked and under me.”
“In your dream were you wearing clothes?”
Grinning in a way that made her stomach flip, he sat back and quickly divested himself of his jacket. His vest, cravat and shirt soon followed. He moved out of her line of vision for a moment. Even that short time was too long. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him hungrily as he stripped off his remaining clothes.
He came over her then, naked as she was. Her mouth dried at the sight . . . at the feel of his body, his skin silk stretched over hard muscle and bone.
She could scarcely recall seeing the nude form of her late husband. He’d always come to her in the dark, but she knew he had not looked like this.
She gawked at Colin’s wide shoulders and broad chest. His stomach was taut and ridged. A line of hair arrowed directly to his jutting manhood. In this better lighting, that part of him seemed so very big and yet she knew firsthand how well he fit inside her. Her stare fell on a single bead of his seed glistening at the head of him and she felt an answering throb between her legs.
Heat slapped her cheeks. The night they shared together seemed so very long ago. He hovered between her splayed thighs, on his knees. He took hold of himself, pumping once, his gaze burning.
Her sex clenched in hungry need, aching to be filled.
It all felt illicit and filthy, but she couldn’t make herself stop any of it from happening. She reached for him, flattening her palm against his chest. She dragged her hand down his firm stomach, lightly scraping his skin with her nails, enjoying the way he quivered under her touch. She caught the drip of seed off the crown of him with a fingertip. Watching him, she brought it to her mouth and sucked deep.
An epithet exploded from his lips followed by her name.
His eyes glowed more silver than blue as he watched her. She brought her hand back to him and squeezed his member, sliding her moist fingertip over the straining head, playing in the weeping slit, fascinated at the way his member only deepened in color as she toyed with him.
He sucked in a breath and snatched hold of her hand, peeling her fingers off him. “Not yet. There are things I want to do first.”
“Such as?” she queried.
His head disappeared between her thighs. “Such as this.” She felt him breathe the words against her core a second before his tongue lapped her in one long stroke.
She jolted under him with a cry. She knew what he was doing. He had done it to her before, but it still astounded her that men did such things to women. Autenberry had certainly never bothered or even voiced an interest. If it didn’t further his own pleasure, he didn’t have need of it.
“Colin!” She grabbed his hair and tugged as sensations welled up in her . . . a coiling tightness that was almost uncomfortable.
“You have such a pretty, delicious quim, Ela,” he growled, ignoring her pulling hands and burying his mouth deeper against her. His tongue thrust into her opening, mimicking the sexual act.
His hands dove beneath her, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of her bottom as he lifted her higher for his invading mouth—as if she were a feast he could not get enough of.
“Colin, please . . .” she choked, that great tightness forcing her to rise up again. Her hips moved, thrusting both toward him and away, too overcome, too overwhelmed. She felt bewildered and on the brink of tears.
At last she surrendered to the rising tide, her body falling back against the rug. Her head writhed, her hair tangling into snarls beneath her as he lapped at her.
Finally his tongue hit that button of pleasure nestled at the top of her sex and she came apart. She flung her arms wide above her head, hands balled into tight fists as he sucked the tiny nub, lashing it with his tongue in a way that made her lose all control and keen like she was dying. Suddenly it made sense why the French called it la petite mort.
She blinked several times against bright spots, gulping sobbing breaths as she floated back down. His mouth left her. She pressed a hand to the bare skin above her heart, willing the racing organ to steady and slow.
But there was no point. It was far from over.
Suddenly Colin was over her, his eyes pinning her, gazing at her intently as he pushed inside her, driving deep.
She gasped, her pulse spiking again.
He closed his eyes briefly, his expression blissful in a way she understood because she felt it, too. “Ela,” he groaned. “Your quim is the sweetest thing . . .”
She whimpered in complaint as he withdrew almost fully. He waited, hovering at the entrance to her womb.
“Colin.” She panted his name and sank her teeth into his shoulder.
He drove back inside her then, the force shoving her up on the rug.
Pleasure sparked out from where their bodies were joined. He dropped his head, burying his face against her neck. His lips moved against her skin as he said, “I thought maybe I imagined it was this good . . .”
“Me, too,” she choked as he increased his pace, pumping into her fiercely. She wrapped her arms around his solid shoulders, hanging on and pressing her open mouth to one hard shoulder as he rode her faster, harder, the friction between their joined bodies so intense, so unbearable, that she had to wrap her legs around his hips.
One of his broad palms skimmed her thigh, fingers scoring into her skin, holding tightly, possessively, lifting that limb higher so that he could penetrate her ever deeper. The different angle struck something inside her, a sensitive never-before-touched spot that brought her to explosive release.
Her fingers flexed against the now slick skin of his shoulders, still hanging on to him as though he were the only thing grounding her and keeping her from flying away.
He let go of her leg and settled both his arms beside her head, propping himself up on his elbows so that he didn’t fully crush her with his weight.
They stared into each other’s eyes, panting, trying to catch their breaths. She smiled slowly, tenderly, and lifted a hand to touch his face, her fingers curling up against the bristle of his jaw. She could lose herself in his eyes.
“So does this make us lovers now?” he asked.
She stiffened. Losing herself in his eyes had its drawbacks. He made her forget everything. She couldn’t afford to do that. Especially now. She needed to decide what to do, not block out reality.
She glanced around at the room, recalling where they were, and pushed against his chest in horror. Anyone could enter the room. They had definitely been loud. What if they roused a servant? Por favor, Dios. Clara or Enid?
She pushed at his chest. “You need to go.”
He frowned. “We can go upstairs—”
“No. You just need to leave. We’re not lovers, and you need to get that notion out of your head.”
He sat back and reached for his clothes, his movements angry. “Keep deluding yourself, Ela. Keep running away.”
“I didn’t invite you here tonight,” she reminded him. “You just crept in here like some thief in the night.”
He laughed harshly. “Except I stole nothing. This wasn’t even a seduction. A seduction requires coaxing. You offered not even a token of resistance.”
“Oh!” She snatched up her robe, yanked it on and belted it securely. Truthfully, she was angrier with herself than him—because he was right. She’d surrendered gladly
, easily. And if put to the test, she would do it again.
“You know this is wrong between us.” She stabbed a finger in his direction. If he would only see that, then this wouldn’t be nearly so difficult.
He stared at her and nodded. “You’re right. As long as you think that, then this is wrong.” He turned and marched out of the library, the door swinging behind him.
She stared at the space he had just occupied, wishing she could feel some finality, some closure between them . . . wishing she did not feel as though she was failing him and failing herself.
Her hand drifted to her stomach.
Graciela blinked slowly awake the following morning. Sunlight poured in through her drapes, alerting her that it was well past morning. She had slept late. She lay in her colossal bed for several moments, her thoughts hazy and scattered, still lost in that in-between state of sleep and wakefulness.
Then it all flooded back to her. Colin and his late night visit. She’d succumbed to him, crumbled like bits of rocky shoreline against the waves.
Moaning, she scrubbed her hands over her face. It wasn’t even the worst of it. Her hand dropped to her stomach. There was still this. A child that she had to stop thinking about in terms of maybe or if.
It was a reality. Her new reality, and she had to make some decisions.
A knock at the door had her sitting up in bed. “Come in,” she called.
Minnie entered her chamber. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Lady Talbot is downstairs and she insists on seeing you. She says she won’t go away until she does.”
There would be no putting her off. Just as there was no more putting off reality. Accepting that, she nodded once and climbed out of bed.
“Dr. Wilcox said I could never conceive. How can this be?” Graciela asked quietly. She had just finished apprising Mary Rebecca of her situation. Or rather, the fact that her situation was unchanged and she had yet to start her menses. They sat in the drawing room, a fact that greatly relieved her. She did not think she could ever occupy the library again without recalling what she had done with Colin in there.