All About Love

Those weren’t questions she could leave unanswered, yet it wasn’t them alone that drove her. Drove her to spread her hands and flex her fingers, sinking them into the broad muscles of his shoulders as she stretched upward against him. Their kiss deepened, heated, and she wanted to get closer, to feel his desire as more than heat—as flesh and blood, muscle and skin, hunger and yearning.

  Desire flowered between them, not just his, but hers, too—a new, very delicate bud. He skillfully coaxed it and she knew he did, knew he was waiting for it to bloom. When it did, in a rush of warmth and longing that flowed over her skin, he drew back from the kiss, lips sliding to trace her jaw, then her throat, as if he could taste it.

  Their breaths mingled, warm, rushed, eager yet controlled. His lips touched hers again. “Open your bodice for me.”

  A warm shiver skittered over her skin. She glanced down; three buttons fastened the front of her gown. His arms eased. Her pulse sounded heavy in her ears as she lowered her hands and set her fingers to the buttons.

  She knew what she was doing; she knew why she was doing it. There was something here, between them, that explained all—excused all. Something that prompted her to feed his desire, and hers.

  The third button slipped free and the gown gaped, revealing her chemise, fastened with a row of tiny buttons. She unfastened them, too. After an instant’s hesitation, she drew the layers aside; she could feel his gaze on her breasts as she bared them. A heated touch, it swept them and they swelled.

  She would have looked up, but he bent his head, his temple against hers as his hand rose to caress her. The arm about her tightened, holding her hips against him; his fingers touched, traced, then fondled.

  He’d touched her breasts before, but only in the night when shadows had shrouded them, hiding so much from her view. His face, close by hers, showed his leashed desire in the hard angles and planes, in the dark glow of his eyes beneath their heavy lids, in the sensual line of his lips.

  He touched her gently, the pads of his fingers warm and vital, circling her aureoles, teasing her nipples into bud with just a brush. He watched as her skin heated, then glowed, brought to life by his ministrations; she watched, too, watched the reverence with which he invested each caress, not seizing but worshipping—a different face of desire.

  She lifted one hand to his cheek, then turned his face so she could see his eyes. They burned darkly, turbulent yet banked. Controlled. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. She stretched up and kissed him, soft, deep, as temptingly as she could, then she drew back, leaned back, pressing her breast into his hand.

  She didn’t need to spell out her invitation; his head bent and his lips fastened on her heated flesh, hot, wet, burning. He kissed, licked, and she shuddered, fingers tangling in his hair. She closed her eyes, waiting . . . she tensed, nerves jumping when he rasped one nipple with his tongue. Then he took her into his mouth and her body melted, then tightened as he suckled, only to ease again.

  The level of heat between them rose steadily; desire thrummed. She felt it in her fingertips, felt it spread under her skin.

  He raised his head and drew her close, his breathing as unsteady as hers. He breathed deeply, chest expanding, coat rasping against her naked breasts. Lips close by her ear, he murmured, “Do you want more?”

  “Yes.” The word left her lips as she lowered her hands. She plucked the sapphire pin from his cravat, anchored it in his lapel, then tugged at the folds around his throat. At the edge of her vision, she saw his lips curve. Cravat loose, she started on his shirt buttons and flicked him a glance. “What?”

  The curve deepened into a wicked smile. “Not quite what I had in mind, but . . . do carry on.”

  She did, tugging his shirt loose and baring his chest. She stared. Moonlight had not done him justice—not at all. There was a warm tone to his skin that made her palms ache; she set them to the heavy muscle band across his chest and pressed, stroked outward. He closed his eyes. She stroked down, fascinated by the contours, the ridges, by the contrast of smooth skin roughened by crisp hair. He was heavy yet lean, sleek but solid. So very real.

  She skimmed her hands back up to the flat disks of his nipples; greatly daring, she pressed closer, nearer, bringing her breasts, bare and sensitive, against his lower chest. Her skin tingled; her breasts ached. Easing them against him, she circled his nipples with her thumbs.

  His hands clenched at her waist; he bent his head. His lips traced a line from her temple to her ear. He gave a short laugh—a little harsh, a little shaky. “My turn.”

  He drew her closer, his hands sliding down her back. At the backs of her thighs, he stroked her skirts upward, not lifting them but frothing them until they spilled and fell over his hands—leaving his hands beneath her skirts, riding over bare skin.

  She caught her breath—he stroked—heat washed over her in a prickling wave. Her senses focused on the areas he touched; she leaned her head against his chest, slid her arms around him, and let her senses follow his lead.

  He cupped her bottom, fingers tracing, learning, then caressing until she shuddered and clung. Head bowed against his chest, she put out her tongue and licked—and felt him tense. She turned her head and found a nipple, and licked again. His hands clenched, then eased, then kneaded provocatively.

  He bent his head and breathed against her cheek, “More?”

  She nodded, eyes shut as she savored the feel of him wrapped all around her—savored the building urge to have him closer still. “I want you inside me.” The words left her lips before she’d thought; she might have blushed, but she was already so warm she couldn’t tell. But she didn’t take the words back; she couldn’t lie. Not about this. “Is all this desire?”

  “Yes.” After a moment, he added, “This, and what’s to come.”

  He looked up, then under her dress, his hands rose to fasten about her hips. He backed her, steering her a few steps past a rolltop desk to where a high sofa table stood by the aisle; the table touched the back of her waist.

  “I take it that’s not the desk in question.”

  Fingers on the buttons closing his buckskin breeches, she barely glanced at it. “No.” She looked back at his waist. “Wrong sort of desk.”

  He looked down; his fingers tightened on her hips. “No—not yet.”

  “Yes. Now.”

  He didn’t argue—he moved his hands. One to her bottom, splaying, then pressing and lifting to tilt her hips. His other hand slid down her stomach until his fingers tangled in her curls, then he touched her.

  Sensation speared her. She slumped, her head against his chest. “No.” But her protest lacked strength. Another argument she’d lost. She licked her lips, her senses already following the drift of his wicked fingers. “If you . . . I won’t be able to think, later.”

  “You will.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I promise.” His fingers stroked. “This time, you’ll know it all.” Gently, he probed the soft flesh between her thighs, then bent his head and nudged hers; his lips found hers in a languid, openmouthed kiss that was hot enough to scald. “Open for me.”

  The whispered words sighed through her. She moved her feet, then, as she felt him reach between her thighs, she curled one ankle around his booted calf; that gave her better balance.

  “Yes.” The encouragement came with another kiss. She ran her hands, trapped between them, up over his chest, his shoulders, and clasped them at his nape. Her breasts tingled, abraded by his hair-roughened chest; exquisitely sensitive, they felt hot and tight. The kiss ended and he laid his cheek against hers; she glimpsed his face, eyes closed, expression blank.

  She rested her head on his chest and gave herself up—to him, to the thrills of sensation his fingers pressed on her, to the desire that beat about them, strong and growing stronger.

  He held it back—held her anchored, safe from being taken and consumed too soon. She wanted to know, to learn, to experience desire in its full glory, so he reined himself in, and reined her in, too, so she could feel
and know all that was, and anticipate all that would be.

  He’d touched her before as he was touching her now, yet only now did she fully realize, fully feel, the true intimacy. The slickness of her flesh, its swollen state, the growing sense of aching emptiness—these had happened before, yet only now did she appreciate them.

  “Desire,” she breathed; it wasn’t a question.

  She lifted her head and looked into his face. She stretched up and kissed him. Brief, hungry. Their lips parted. She leaned her forehead against his jaw, and he slid one finger slowly into her.

  She closed her eyes and felt her body tighten, clasping him within her. Her eyes opened and she relaxed, then he stroked. His lips brushed her temple. “You do that when I enter you.”

  He continued to stroke slowly, then withdrew and explored, only to return to slide within her again. Whether he was learning her or teaching her, she wasn’t sure, but she felt every touch, every circling glide.

  Heat fell from them in waves; desire rode the tide. She could feel it all around them, a welling sea rising to swamp them. It beat in her blood and his, in an increasingly compulsive tattoo.

  It was she who lifted her head and breathed, “Now.”

  From beneath heavy lids, he looked at her face, then met her eyes. His were so drowning a dark blue they seemed black. His fingers didn’t cease their slow, repetitive motion. “Can you think enough?”

  For a moment, she was lost, then she remembered. She drew in a short, tight breath and nodded. Tracing one hand slowly down his chest, she felt at his waist, then slipped the buttons free.

  Hot, iron-hard, he filled her hand. She closed her fingers slowly, then slid them down, then up, marveling anew at the contrast of velvety softness encasing rigid strength. She ran her finger around, then over, the broad head.

  His breath shivered by her ear. Fingers closing, she looked up; eyes shut, his expression was tight, fraught.

  “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  Smiling, she looked down and closed her hand again.

  He bore with her torture for only a minute more.

  “Enough.” His hands left her, then gripped her hips. He lifted her and balanced her on the edge of the sofa table.

  She grabbed his shoulders; she wasn’t far enough back to sit securely. Wild panic gripped her—exhilaration and anticipation raced through her. But she didn’t want to lose her wits—not yet. There was more she’d yet to see, more she’d yet to appreciate. She wanted it all—every moment. She sucked in a breath. “How?”

  Her question snapped his attention back to her face; he met her gaze—in his eyes she saw the fight he waged to releash his need, to bring it back under control. He paused, then drew in a long breath and nodded. “Wait.”

  Fingers sinking into his shoulders, she did.

  He lifted her skirts and chemise, pushing them back, catching them under her so they pulled tight across her hips and stomach. She looked down and blushed; the dark locks below her stomach curled wildly, a soft nest between her bare thighs. Her stockings were gartered just above her knees; hands closing on the bare skin above her garters, he eased her thighs wide and stepped between. He’d loosened his breeches, releasing himself fully.

  She ran her hand down, fingers trailing the length of his chest, then down still farther, until she coiled her fingers around his length. He caught her wrist and moved her hand away. He grasped her hips, drew her right to the table’s edge, then held her there.

  He stepped closer and she caught her breath.

  “Watch.”

  She did.

  Lucifer watched her, watched the total absorption in her face as he pressed against her soft flesh. He found her entrance, and let her feel the pressure build before, with a gentle nudge, he slipped inside. Only a fraction. Just enough for her to catch her breath, then shudder and tense. He waited, expecting her to relax again. Then he realized.

  “It won’t hurt—not this time. Not ever again.” He whispered the words against her hair and willed her to believe them. His control was exceptional, but so was she—exceptionally hot, exceptionally wet, exceptionally trying. “When you relax, I’ll slide into you—you already know I’ll fit.”

  She let out a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  He felt her body ease, little by little, around him. At last she was open and accepting. Slowly, very slowly, he pressed into her.

  Head bowed, she watched him enter her, ultimately sliding home. She shivered. He pressed deep, then settled her. Then he withdrew. Because she was watching, he withdrew all the way, then reentered her and slowly sank home. She watched him penetrate her twice more before, with a shuddering gasp, she broke.

  He was waiting when she clutched his shoulders and lifted her head blindly. He caught her, caught her lips in a searing kiss, and let their reins loose. She came to him like a wanton, eager, abandoned. She pressed herself to him, bare breasts hot against his chest, nipples tight, taunting as she shifted with each thrust.

  “Put your legs about my hips.”

  She did; wrapping her arms about his shoulders, she lifted herself against him. He spread his hands beneath her bottom and held her as he thrust deep, then withdrew, only to return harder, deeper. She clung to him; he filled her mouth, filled her body, bathed in her wet heat.

  That heat was exquisite, burning bright, hot enough to cinder their senses. He shattered deep within her, drowning in her glory. An instant later, she followed, shuddering in his arms.

  He held her close; she curled around him, resting her head on his shoulder. Their hearts thundered; his chest swelled as he dragged in a breath. He eased her down, resting the backs of his hands on the tabletop, then placed a soft kiss in her hair.

  For long moments, they remained still in the silence, locked in the comfort of that intimate embrace.

  Phyllida couldn’t believe the depth of the pleasure that washed through her. She was floating on a sea of golden joy, anchored, held safe in his arms. Throughout the entire interlude, that was how it had been—desire, intimacy, pleasure, and joy, all safe in his arms.

  They still surrounded her. Beneath her cheek, she could hear his heart beating strongly, gradually slowing as they returned to earth. Her only wish was that, rather than here, still clothed, they were naked in his bedroom. Then there would be no reason to pull away—to disturb the moment. She could lie in his arms forever, bask in his heat forever. Play desire with him forever.

  Only it hadn’t, really, been play. The desire that had held them, driven them, and, at the last, consumed them—that desire had been very real. Hers and his—theirs.

  She lay in his arms, and wondered just what lesson he’d really meant her to learn.

  “Where are you leading me?” The most pertinent question.

  “You know where.”

  In her heart, she did. She had known, but not believed. Now she had to. “Where?”

  Better he say it, so she couldn’t pretend otherwise.

  “I would never have made love to you if I didn’t intend to marry you.”

  He hadn’t wanted to tell her—she could imagine why. “I haven’t agreed.”

  He let the silence stretch, then he pressed a kiss to her hair. “I know—but you will.”

  “You said Covey had uncovered something about Lady Fortemain. I forgot to ask—what was it?”

  Seated at his desk, a stack of books before him, Lucifer glanced across the Manor library to where Phyllida sat on a straight-backed chair facing one of the bookcases. She was working along one shelf, checking each book for notations, then entering the book’s details in a ledger. Covey was working likewise around the drawing room. Lucifer had started on the shelves behind the desk.

  “It was an inscription in a book. ‘To my dear Letitia, with fond memories of our recent time together, etc. Humphrey.’ I understand Lady Fortemain’s husband was Bentley. It appears Horatio bought some volumes from the Ballyclose library and that book was among them.”

  Phyllida look
ed at him. “Well, it’s hardly a sensation to find such an inscription. I daresay it dates back to before Lady Fortemain married.”

  “The book was published after Cedric was born.”

  “Oh.”

  “Indeed. However, we haven’t stumbled on any other such protestations of affection for her ladyship, so I’m not setting much stock in that at present.”

  Phyllida swung back to the bookshelf. After a moment, she shrugged and continued her cataloguing. Lucifer returned to his.

  His campaign to win her, to woo her into marrying him, was progressing in a slow if not steady manner. He hadn’t intended to state his decision to marry her so soon, but their interlude in the outbuilding had made it imperative she know—so she couldn’t imagine he’d had any other motive in seducing her. Again. He was well aware that repeating the exercise had been easy only because she desired him with an uncomplicated directness that, at least while in his arms, she made no effort to deny.

  He’d worried that after they’d left the warm stillness of the outbuilding, she’d grow skittish and even more difficult. Instead, she’d unsettled him with her continuing calm, as if she were coolly considering him and the question he hadn’t yet asked. He wouldn’t ask—not until he was sure of her answer; that was the strategic course. As long as she hadn’t refused him, he could continue to press his suit, albeit carefully.

  He wasn’t fool enough to take gaining her agreement for granted; she had an entrenched belief that marriage was not for her. Her cool appraisal suggested he’d made her revisit that belief, but she hadn’t yet changed her mind.

  He needed to tread warily. Seducing a lady into matrimony was not a game he’d played before; he wasn’t sure of the rules. But he’d never yet failed in a seduction—he wasn’t going to start with Phyllida Tallent. How to seduce a lady of managing disposition? Thanks to her previous suitors, she had no appreciation of her womanly charms, much less their effect on him; the notion that her sweet self held the power to sway him was bound to be attractive. He’d need to make an effort to be more manageable than he was, but if that was her price, he’d pay it. He’d unblinker her vision, show her what might be, then leave her to convince herself how desirable that was.