"It's all right." He spread her wide with his thumbs. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
She cried out in pleasure. Her thighs clamped together, catching his head like two sides of a vise. He wasn't going anywhere now. So he settled into his task, teasing and tasting. Learning her every contour, her every response. Within moments, she was panting for him.
"Yes," she moaned.
He moaned, too. His cock throbbed vainly where it lay trapped against the bedsheets.
When he couldn't wait any longer, Rafe crawled his way up her body. Keeping his weight on his arms, he nestled his hard, aching cock in the cradle of her sex. He made no move to enter her. Not yet. He just rocked his hips back and forth, stroking her where he knew she'd like it the most. Giving them both more heat, more friction.
More teasing, maddening bliss.
"Oh," she sighed. "Oh, Rafe."
He loved this feeling. It wasn't just the joy of pleasuring her--though that was brilliant, in and of itself. It was this heady, superhuman awareness, the intensity of focus that could push him out of his troubled mind and make him feel he could do anything. In all his life, he'd only ever felt this way when fighting.
Until now. Until her.
As he slid back and forth, he balanced on his arms above her, watching her every reaction. The steady crescendo of her pleasure was like a captivating story. One written in pink brushstrokes across her pale skin.
She was so beautiful.
And ready for him, judging by the slickness gliding between their bodies. It was a damned good thing, because he couldn't wait much longer.
"Please," she whimpered, fisting her hands in the bed linens. "Soon. Please."
He took his cock in hand and positioned himself at her entrance. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this."
Gritting his teeth, he teased them both by sliding the tip of his erection in, then out. "Tell me you want me."
Her eyes opened and locked with his. "Rafe. I want you. Only you."
He felt like a god as he pushed into her. Omnipotent. Arrogant. Possessing the keys to Paradise.
She was wet, but so tight. What felt nigh-on glorious for him had to be hurting her. He didn't try to sink deep all at once but instead moved forward in gentle, steady thrusts. Still, her expression tightened with every inch he advanced.
He paused. "If you're hurting, tell me to stop."
"Don't stop. I love this. I love you. There's just . . . a great deal of you to love, that's all. Be patient."
Be patient, she said.
But patience was her strength, not his. Rafe was approximately as skilled at patience as he was at embroidery. He was already drawing on every available reserve of self-control. He was still only halfway inside her, and wild to bury himself to the hilt.
He reached between them, touching her in just the right place. Those small circles of his thumb were his only motion. He tensed every muscle of his body, determined to hold the rest of him utterly still.
Soon her breathing grew ragged. Her hips began to move, undulating in gentle waves. He held his position through sheer force of will. She worked herself up and down on him, taking him a fraction deeper each time.
Her moans and sighs grew louder, and her back arched off the mattress. It was killing him not to move.
Be patient.
When her climax broke, his control broke, too. He thrust deep, hoping her pleasure would overshadow any pain.
At last. He was at the heart of her. She was holding him tight.
So damned tight. The last pulses of her climax rippled around him. When he slid back, her body gave his cock the tightest, wettest, most purely blissful hug of his life. And no sooner had he withdrawn to the tip than he was plunging back in, eager to feel it again.
He told himself to slow down, be gentler. Perhaps he should withdraw and finish himself with his hand. But he couldn't bring himself to do either. He'd waited too long for her, and he'd exhausted every bit of patience, and all that was left was this raw, relentless need. His looming orgasm was like a jockey on his back, whipping him faster and faster.
In the end, he decided a sprint to the finish would be the kindest way.
"Hold on to me," he said, feeling the tingle at the base of his spine that told him the crisis was close. "Hold me tight, with everything."
She tightened her arms around his shoulders and locked her legs at the small of his back. And when he came inside her, it was heart-stopping. Brain-blanking. Bone-melting.
And sweet.
So damned sweet.
In the aftermath, he pressed kisses to her lips, trying to savor every last bit of that sweetness.
He knew it couldn't last.
This was his life, after all. And he knew from twenty-eight years of experience being Rafe Brandon . . .
It didn't matter what promises he made to her, or to himself. When his emotions flared, his good intentions burned to ash. His brother's intended bride somehow became his own. A waltz turned into a fistfight. Be patient translated to Faster, harder, now.
Someday, he would hurt her. He would follow the wrong impulse, say words he didn't mean. He'd find a way to cock this up in some stupid, irretrievable manner. Rafe felt sickly certain of it.
All the more reason to treasure this closeness now.
He would let her hold him just as long and as tight as she dared.
Chapter Twenty-two
Morning brought an ironic realization. One Clio was oddly unprepared to face.
"You do realize what this means." In the early light of dawn, Rafe pulled his shirt over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves. "Now we actually have to plan a wedding."
"Oh." She paused in buttoning her chemise. "Must we?"
"Unless I dreamed all that?" He shot a meaningful look at the bed. "I'm fairly certain we must."
She gave him a reassuring kiss. "You didn't dream one moment of that."
And neither had she. Their night together had been wonderful, and wonderfully real.
After making love the first time, they'd risen to bathe and take some dinner. Then talked until they fell sleep in each other's arms. But not for long. Twice more in the night, he'd woken her with kisses that quickly became something more. They repeated the cycle as long as the night lasted--making love, falling asleep, then waking to make love again. As though they could make the one night feel like several.
"It's not the idea of marriage I'm balking at," she said. "Just the wedding plans. You've already carried me up the grand staircase in a white lace gown. We've fed each other cake. We've spent our night in the honeymoon suite. Can't we just dispense with all the ceremony? I would be happy to get married in the middle of a field, in a dress I've worn twenty times before, so long as I loved the man I was marrying."
"Simple suits me. I am not going to complain about a lack of bunting."
Smiling to herself, she reached for her stays. "Of course, I would like to have my sisters there. Frustrating as they can sometimes be, my wedding wouldn't be the same without them."
He busied himself with his trouser fastenings and didn't reply.
She cringed, instantly regretting her thoughtless words. Yes, she could have her sisters. When they married, there was no chance Rafe would have his brother in attendance. Piers might never speak to either one of them again.
Rafe was giving up a great deal for her. She wasn't in the habit of believing that she could be worth that, to anyone. He was worth everything to her, too. She vowed to love him so fiercely and so well, he would never feel the deprivation.
As she untangled the tapes of her corset, an idea formed in her mind.
She wet her lips and gathered her nerve. "Remember what you told me the other day? That when we were younger, you couldn't bear to look at me sometimes because in your mind you'd been making me do such wicked things?"
One of his dark eyebrows rose. "I remember."
She let the corset fall to the side, standing before him in her chemise and
stockings. "Make me do wicked things."
He regarded her for a moment, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. Or perhaps her courage.
Clio forced her spine straight and held her chin high. "Well . . . ?"
In calm strides, he walked to an armchair and sat down in it. When he spoke, his voice was dark as sin itself. "Take off the shift. Leave the stockings."
Her arousal was instantaneous.
A hot blush pushed to her face as she loosed the same buttons she'd only just done up. He watched her as she disrobed, his bold gaze giving her nowhere to hide.
Even though this had been her idea, she felt strangely shy and exposed. But she suspected that her shyness was part of the fantasy for him, so she didn't try to pretend otherwise.
"Good." His gaze swept her bared body. "Now come undress me."
She approached his chair in soft, catlike steps. With shaky fingers, she gathered the hem of his shirt and began to lift it high, exposing his sculpted masterpiece of a torso.
She was suddenly conscious that this would be different from any of the times they'd made love last night. Namely, there was sunlight now. They could see each other clearly. Rafe was so perfectly chiseled everywhere, it was difficult not to feel self-conscious.
But unless he was a very good actor, he seemed to be enjoying her body, too.
His eyes roamed her every curve. As she pulled the shirt over his head, she allowed her breasts to brush against his cheek. He sucked in his breath on a sharp hiss.
Then she dropped her gaze to the closures of his trousers. They would be difficult, if not impossible, to undo with him sitting in the chair.
"Did you mean to stand?" she asked.
"No."
His meaning rocketed through her.
To remove them, she would have to go down on her knees.
The idea was shocking and wicked. She worked his trousers down, and he lifted his hips just an inch or two to help.
She eased the trousers lower, freeing the hard, eager length of his erection. Pure, unapologetic virility, staring her in straight the face.
Abashed, she dropped her gaze.
"Look," he said. His brusque tone settled low in her belly. "Look what you did."
Her cheeks burned. But Clio had proposed this game. She couldn't disobey now. So she looked.
Had she done this, truly? All of it?
If so, she felt rather proud.
She put both hands on him, claiming as much of his thick, curved length as she could manage. Then she worked her hands up and down. "Am I doing it right?"
"Just right. Now--" His breath caught. "Now use your mouth on me."
The crude command sent an erotic thrill chasing through her.
"How?"
"Start with your tongue."
Bending her head, she gave the tip a tentative lick. "Like that?"
"Yes. Like that. All over."
She swirled her tongue around the plum-colored head, then down the underside of his shaft. He smelled of soap and just-washed skin. She hadn't expected him to be so soft. So soft, and so hard at the same time.
When she licked back up toward the tip, his breath caught. His hand moved to cradle the back of her head.
"Now like this."
He nudged her open mouth over the crown, tangling his hand in her hair to guide her up and down.
Beyond that brief lesson, she didn't need more encouragement. The lewdness of it excited her beyond anything she could have imagined. She worked to take him deeper, then a fraction deeper still--loving the fact that she'd never be able to take him all. Craving the taste of him, savoring the soft groans she pulled from his chest.
"Clio. God."
He tightened his grip in her hair and gently pulled her away. She whimpered, disappointed.
"Stand," he told her. "Spread your legs and straddle my lap."
She did as he asked, working quickly. Her stocking snagged on the chair's upholstery. She didn't care.
"Lift your breasts," he said, sounding impatient now. "Bring them to my mouth."
She held them up for his attention. First one, then the other. Then both at the same time. He moved his head from one side to the other, teasing her nipples with alternating kisses and licks. His mouth fitted over one, and he suckled hard. She felt his growl vibrate all through her.
"Please," she whispered. "I need . . . I want . . ."
"What is it you want, love? Tell me."
"I want you."
His hand caressed her arm. "Then you have me. I'm right here."
"You know what I mean." She wriggled on his lap. "I . . . I want you inside me."
"Like this?" Reaching between them, he slid one finger into her depths. The sensation took her breath away . . . but it wasn't quite enough.
The devil. He knew exactly what she was craving. He was only teasing her.
"More," she panted, working against his hand. Each time her sex brushed his palm, a ripple of bliss moved through her. "I want more."
"Then say it." He drew her close and kissed her ear. "Tell me you want my cock."
She froze. A thrill rocketed through her.
"Go on," he urged, pushing his finger deep. "I can feel how wet you are. You like hearing me say these things. So say them yourself. Tell me you want my cock deep inside you. Hard and fast."
"I . . . I can't say that."
"Why not? It's already been on the tip of your tongue. And it's just a word."
"A wicked word."
"You wanted to do wicked things."
Yes, but she'd expected him to do the talking. When it came to speaking of carnality and desire, he never had any qualms. But Clio had qualms. So many qualms. Great heaps of qualms she'd amassed over a lifetime.
He teased his thumb in devious circles, right where he knew she'd feel it most. His breath caressed her hair. "You're here. With me. It's safe. You can say whatever you feel."
Her whole body ached with need. He had her so excited, she would have done anything.
"I want your cock." Her voice was breathy. "I want it inside me."
He drew his finger from her slickness and took himself in hand, positioning the smooth, broad crown of his erection at her entrance. "This is what you want?"
"Yes."
He put his hands on the arms of the chair. "Then take it."
She sank down on him, a little lower each time, taking his hard fullness into her in delicious increments until her lap rested on his.
"Now look." He turned her head toward the dressing table. "Look what you did."
Their reflection filled the looking glass. His big, bronzed hands gripping her pale flesh. The gentle bounce of her breasts as she rode him in a lazy rhythm. The haze of desire in his expression.
"God, you're beautiful."
His hands sank to her waist, and he guided her into a swifter pace, driving up with his hips to fill her. She slumped forward and buried her face in his neck, surrendering to it all. The feel of his hard length dragging in and out of her, teasing her most sensitive places again and again . . .
The pleasure rose and gathered so swiftly, her climax caught her before she knew it. She went limp in his arms, sobbing faintly with pleasure, trusting him to keep up the rhythm she needed.
And he did.
When the last tremors had subsided, he tightened his arms around her, stroking her hair.
"That didn't go as I planned," she said, when she'd finally recovered her breath. "I was supposed to be giving you wicked pleasure."
"Oh, you did. You most certainly did."
He brought her mouth to his, and it was like their first kiss in the tower--a tender, languorous sweetness spread atop a chasm of need.
She marveled at his patience. He was still so big and hard inside her. He had to be desperate for release.
Bending her head, she kissed his neck. She stroked her fingers over his shoulders and through the dark hairs on his chest. He began to move inside her again. Thrusting slowly. Tenderly.
So deepl
y, she could feel it in her heart.
His arm tightened around her waist, and his thrusts grew harder, more desperate. Until each one wrenched a sob from her and a harsh, guttural sound from him.
Closing his eyes, he let his brow fall against hers. His thrusts redoubled in force. They clashed against one another--cheek against jaw, teeth against chin. Raw, openmouthed kiss against kiss.
Then his hand tightened in her hair, and he broke the kiss, pulling her just a few inches away. He held her so tightly, forbidding her to look anywhere else. She had no choice to but to stare into his eyes.
"Look," he said. "Look what you did."
Those bold green eyes held hunger and yearning and stark, unabashed want.
And something more.
Something that could only be love.
"I know," she said. "I know. It will be all right."
He seemed to swell inside her. One . . . two . . . three final, desperate thrusts. Then with a growl, he shuddered and slumped forward in her arms.
As his breathing slowed, she drew soothing touches up and down his back and murmured soft, crooning words in his ear. It seemed the act left him so spent and vulnerable, he would allow himself to be fawned over--and she took full advantage.
"That was . . ." He released his breath, then seemed to give up on the sentence entirely.
"It was, rather." She looked up at him. "Let's go home."
Chapter Twenty-three
Rafe hired a postchaise to convey Clio home. He rode out on his gelding. He might have shared the coach with her, but he had his reasons for riding alone. For one, he knew she had to be sore from their night of passion. Two hours with her in a small, dark space? He wouldn't be able to keep his hands off her.
Second, he needed the time to think.
There was much to be done. Once he had Clio settled in at the castle, he needed to set things in motion with the solicitors. He would ride to Dover and wait for Piers. It wasn't going to be a seaside holiday, greeting his brother with the news that his bride was no longer his bride. But Rafe didn't want the news to come from anyone else.
In the meantime, there were other hurdles to clear. Such as his reckoning with Sir Teddy Cambourne.
Upon their arrival at Twill Castle, however, it seemed his reckoning would be delayed.
"How surprising," Clio said, after conferring with Anna and changing into a simpler frock. "We've beaten them home. They must have stayed very late at the ball. Or very early."
"Perhaps they didn't want to travel in the rain."
"So long as they're safe and well, that's a lucky stroke." They entered the castle's entrance hall, and she spoke to him in low tones. "As far as everyone at the ball knows, you brought me home to the castle last night. And as far as everyone at the castle knows, we stayed at Pennington Hall. We might not need to explain ourselves to anyone. Not until Piers comes home."