He lifted his head. “I’ve been thinking of you all day.” He twined his fingers in the sash of her gown with deliberate, possessive intent. “I’ve been thinking of this all day.”
She swallowed. He drew her to him, leaving little doubt as to what he meant by this.
“Tell me, have you been thinking of anything else?”
She could feel the tense muscles of his arms beneath her hands. She shook her head. “No. It’s all been you.”
“Good.”
There was no preamble. No small talk about the weather. Just the intense flare of satisfaction in his eyes, and then his mouth, hot and possessive, over hers. She should have known that he’d be direct about it. He wanted her, and he was going to have her. It was that simple.
It wasn’t just the slide of his tongue against hers. It wasn’t the way he pushed her against the wall, pressing the full length of his hard, slim body against hers. It wasn’t even the way he took hold of her skirts, gathering them up in his hands until she felt the cool air against her ankles.
It was something about the way he held her. As if kissing her had become as vital as breath. As if he couldn’t have stopped except by conscious effort—and then only for a short space of time. He had taken his time with their kisses before now—progressing slowly from kiss to caress, until she burned for more. But tonight he hiked her skirts to her knees and pushed her firmly against the wall.
It felt fabulous. It felt wonderful. He parted her legs, slid his fingers between them. Cool air touched her thighs, and then her waist. His hands followed in sure, steady strokes, outlining her knees, her hips. He set his thumb on the cleft between her legs. And when he sank into her warmth… She let out a breath of air that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She was on fire for him.
“Oh. You’re definitely ready for me,” he murmured. “Miranda Darling, you’ll forgive me this first time, won’t you? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
It was only when he reached for the placket of his breeches that she realized that if she said nothing, he’d be inside her in seconds.
She’d agreed to it. Her body thrummed for that completion.
And still… “Wait.” She put her hands over his.
He stopped. His breathing labored. He had her against the wall, and his chest pressed against hers. His hand rose to tangle in her hair. “Wait,” he gritted out. “You want me to wait. How long?”
“I—there’s no good way to say it. You’ve obviously done this before. It’s just…I haven’t.”
He let out a disbelieving puff of air. “You’re a virgin?”
She nodded.
He had a handful of her skirts in his hand. He let them fall. “I wasn’t expecting that. From a sheltered society debutante, perhaps. Or a manufacturer’s daughter, raised to middle-class pretensions. But from a woman who told me she was raised by actors? No.”
“You don’t believe me.”
He met her eyes. “There’d be little point in manufacturing such a story now.”
“Does it…does it change anything?”
“It changes a great deal.” He stepped back from her, and held out his hand.
A dark sort of horror filled her. “You…you’re one of those men who doesn’t debauch innocents, aren’t you? If you’d known, you would have never entered into this arrangement.” She swallowed hard. “For what it’s worth, I don’t consider myself very innocent.”
He watched her intently.
“Also,” she finished quietly, “I had rather looked forward to being debauched. By you.” She set her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. “Let me explain what has changed: I want to have you very, very badly. But as this is your first time, I’ll have you very well instead. It would hardly be in my best interest to put you off the activity for any length of time.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Don’t look so worried. I’ll have you against a wall eventually.” Her whole body flushed, and he gave her a sly smile. “For now…” He gave her a look. “For now, we do this right.”
He pulled her hand, reeling her in until she was tangled up in his embrace. And then, without any warning, he hefted her in the air. He didn’t seem to strain under her weight. Instead he left the library and started up the stairs.
What would the maids say if they saw them? But there were no servants about—they’d disappeared belowstairs, leaving him with her.
He paused midway between the floors. “I didn’t worry you when I mentioned the wall, did I?”
“I’ve seen alleys enough near the Floating Harbour. I have some idea what can be done with a wall.” The thought sent desire spiraling through her. She was almost giddy with the feel of his hands on her.
But he simply shook his head. “If your point of reference is a glimpse you’ve caught of a business transaction conducted in an alley, I’d venture that you have no idea what I can do with a wall.”
Oh God. She almost wanted him to stop and show her. Instead she grinned up at him. “Are you boasting?”
He kicked open the door to the bedchamber. “I don’t boast. I merely state facts.” He walked her to her bed and tossed her on the gold coverlet, letting her fall in a puddle of her skirts. He slid behind her. She couldn’t see him there, could only feel his hands around her. One rested against her belly. His lips breathed heat against her spine; his other hand undid the hooks at the back of her neck. He slid the sleeves down her shoulders, and then peeled the gown to her waist. He kissed the side of her neck.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“For now?” His voice rasped. “Whatever you wish.” His hand slid up the fabric of her corset to cup the curve of her breast. The touch sent a stab of pleasure through her, and she gasped. His thumb circled, idly, and she made another noise.
“Enjoy that, do you?”
“Yes.”
But he took his hands away. She could feel him tracing the eyelets of her corset behind her. And then he undid the knot and her laces loosened. She took a deep breath, and he slid the corset away to thumb her nipples through her shift. He held her from behind; she couldn’t see him at all. But the absence of sight only heightened her anticipation. She didn’t know where he might touch next, what he might do to her. She knew only that his arms were around her, that his hands thrummed her like some instrument. And like that instrument, he pulled breathy gasps from her. She could think of nothing but his touch, could want nothing but the fierceness of his desire. Her body felt soft all over—soft and ready. And damn him, he took nothing.
He moved away suddenly. Before she could protest, he’d pulled her upright, and eased her gown over her head. He undid her petticoats, and these joined her gown on the floor. She had on nothing but her chemise.
He stood. He kicked off his shoes, sent them to lie next to the heap of her gown. His coat followed, and then his waistcoat. He undid his cuffs, and then pulled his shirt over his head.
He looked slim in his clothing; when he was divested of those layers, she could see that it wasn’t scrawniness, but lean muscle. But she had no time to think of it. He undid his trousers and slid them off alongside his small clothes—revealing a nest of dark hair, and jutting from that, his hard erection.
She’d never seen one so close. He looked up, met her eyes. He must have seen her curiosity, because his eyes narrowed and he gave her a short, swift smile. “Indeed,” he said. He came to stand before her.
Miranda knew the mechanics of what was about to happen. She even had a good notion as to the naked male form. But knowledge could not compare to reality: the long, hard length of him, ending in a dark head, almost purple in color. Knowledge had not encompassed the feel of his skin, soft and hard at the same time. She set her hand against his thigh. The sparse black hair was coarse to the touch; muscle rippled beneath her palm.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He simply allowed her to explore him with her touch. She traced her hand down to his knee, and then up to his hips. An
d then, before her courage failed her, she ran her fingers down the length of his erection. His cock was firm under her questing fingers. Firm and hot. She brushed the head and he hissed, his member twitching in her hands.
This was going inside her. She already ached for it, a deep throbbing want. And by the way he set his teeth as she stroked down that hard length, he ached for it, too.
One didn’t live in a traveling troupe of players without learning something about men. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on the tip. His hands fell on her shoulders, but he didn’t say anything. Encouraged, she licked him. His fingers bit into her, and he gave a small growl.
She took the tip of his erection in her mouth. He tasted of mild soap, and he pushed his hips forward. Her tongue traced him, touched the slit at the head of his penis. If she’d had any sense at all, she’d have been horrified at her boldness. She should have been frightened: he’d paid for this home and her gowns and even her body. He could do anything to her, and nobody would gainsay him. But in that moment, she felt as if she had taken ownership of him. It didn’t matter that he’d bought her; she’d taken herself back.
His cock hardened even more under her ministrations, grew longer and thicker and warmer. The knowledge that she was doing that to him only increased her own want.
He pulled away when she moaned around him. He said nothing. But he simply reached down and lifted her to her feet. In one smooth motion, he pulled off her chemise, and then he pushed her back onto the bed.
Now. He was going to have her now. But even though he got on top of her—even though his chest brushed hers, and his hard erection nestled against her hip—he didn’t push inside her. Instead, he kissed her. His tongue darted into her mouth, more urgent than ever. He rocked her body with his, setting an insistent rhythm. It ought to have soothed her. Instead, it made her clench her eyes shut.
“More,” she told him. It was the first word either one of them had said, and he lifted his head and gave her a wicked smile.
“Like this?” he asked, and leaned over and brushed his mouth against the tip of her nipple. A warm rush of pleasure shot through her, and Miranda gasped. This was new, but she’d lost all sense of shyness. She simply arched into him. She pushed up, hard, feeling his tongue circle her.
“More,” she demanded.
His hand crept between her legs. And oh, it felt so good when his fingers brushed her sensitive flesh. So good when he drew a tight circle there. So much so that when he withdrew—but no, she wasn’t letting him withdraw. She reached down and took hold of his hand, pressing it back into place.
He dipped one finger inside of her, and the sensation transformed from exquisite to almost unbearable. She needed that. Precisely that, but…
“More,” she said. She rose to meet him, but even though it sent pleasure shooting down her limbs, it wasn’t enough.
It took her a moment to realize what she wanted. Not his hand. Not his mouth. Him. His whole body, pressing into hers. His cock, hard and thick, sliding inside her. This was what it meant to be ready—not just that her body was slick for him, but that she would lose her mind if he didn’t take her. She pushed his hand away and met his eyes.
“Now,” she said. “Don’t make me wait, Turner. Now.”
He gave her a fierce smile, as if he’d been waiting for only that. He adjusted himself against her. The hard ridge of his member pushed against her most private parts. He moved again, and it sent a delicious friction where they joined. It was so, so good to feel him, hard and thick, right where she wanted him most. Almost.
He made a scalded sound. She arched up into him. And like that, he slid into her.
It didn’t feel good. It stung, a hard pinch that stole her breath away. He tensed above her, holding still.
“Is that acceptable?” His hand came up to the side of her face. He stroked down her cheek, finding a little tendril of hair. Not hard and demanding, like his member inside her, but soft. Sweet. Almost…affectionate, and he’d said that wouldn’t happen.
She shook her head. He was such a rotten liar.
“It’s all right.” She moved underneath him. “It’s…it’s actually getting better.”
“Good.” His voice was hoarse. “Now let’s try this.” He took one of her legs and wrapped it about his hip. Just that little movement shifted him deeper inside her, so deep that his groin met hers. And then he withdrew.
She’d understood what was to happen. One couldn’t grow up with actors and retain any degree of innocence. But she hadn’t known it would feel so good, hadn’t known that when he slid his hands under her bottom and angled her up, that change in elevation would send him sliding inside her in a way that made her shudder. She hadn’t understood how powerful it could be to clasp him tight with her inner muscles and hear him gasp, to run her hands down his chest and feel his thrusts grow tighter, more controlled.
She hadn’t realized he would touch the deepest part of her, that he would slide up on his forearms and touch her between her legs. She hadn’t known that his fingers could make a counterpoint to his thrusts. She threw her head back and reached for his hips. Something vital coiled up inside her just as his thrusts grew more insistent. Her body was just as demanding. More. Harder. She could think of nothing but the pleasure of their joining. The sheer perfection of it had her digging her nails into his backside. Her inner muscles clamped around him hard—and then she cried out.
No words. There were no words she could use.
The pleasure passed through her like a wave, crashing over her head and tumbling her over and over until she couldn’t tell up from down, couldn’t draw breath. She was only vaguely aware when it spat her out, her legs clamped around his hips.
“Oh, my.” She smiled up at him in a haze. He was panting, his hair wet with his exertions. She’d known it could be good. But she hadn’t known it could be that good. Oh, God. She was going to get a month of this, and he was paying her for it? She wanted to laugh. She wanted to kiss him.
She did both. “Now what happens?” she asked.
His forearms tensed and he gave her a grim smile. “Now it’s my turn,” he said. He started moving again. The rhythm that had seemed powerful before, rocking her into ecstasy, became harder, more savage—like a drumbeat counting out its strokes against her body. His hands clenched on her hips, pulling her to him. He thrust inside her, hard and powerful.
It was different than before. He’d been holding back. The pace he set this time was as demanding as he was, a relentless master that insisted on more from her. More, when she was convinced she’d given him her last breath. Still, his every stroke sent pleasure rippling through her. He grew harder inside her, hotter. And when he finally pounded into her, she gasped as pleasure overtook her once more.
His hands tangled in her hair. The pads of his fingers were rough against her cheeks; his nose nuzzled the side of her face. He breathed against her neck.
“My God, Miranda,” he whispered. “God.” His fingers brushed through her hair, the movement almost wistful. As if for the first time that evening, he was unsure of his reception. Foolish of him, of course, when they’d just shared that.
She reached up and laid her hand against his face.
He froze.
Slowly she let her fingers trail down his cheek in a slow caress, saying with her fingertips what she was almost afraid to whisper aloud.
I care for you.
But something was wrong. Horribly wrong. He’d not relaxed against her, as she’d hoped. Instead, he pushed himself up on his forearms. His every muscle had tensed.
“What the devil are you doing?” There was no warmth in his words. She didn’t know where that uncertain affection had gone, but it had vanished in an instant.
Her hand faltered against his cheek. Still, she pressed on. “What do you suppose?” She dropped her voice to a sultry whisper. “I’m caressing you.”
He wrapped his wrist around her hand and pushed it into the mattress. His fingers bit into her—not un
gentle, but so changed from the way he’d touched her before that she looked up at him in confusion.
“We agreed I wasn’t paying you for that.” His voice had gone hard.
For a second, Miranda almost doubted her judgment. He’d never said he cared for her. He’d never claimed to be kind. In fact, he’d insisted on almost the opposite. She’d presumed to know better, on the basis of evidence that was beginning to seem a bit thin in the face of his fierceness. He’d as much as said it was an act of commerce. Maybe…
But no. She was sure of this. She was sure of him, him and his lemon cakes and the cats that he’d fed in the alleyway. “We agreed that you couldn’t buy my affection. But that’s only because…” She choked. He’d offered her so much; she’d wanted to hold something back. Something valuable and precious, so she’d have something… She looked up at him. “I wanted to give it to you. As a gift.”
He didn’t release her hand. His chest heaved above her. She was beginning to feel trapped underneath him. Then he disengaged himself from her and pushed off.
“I told you.” His voice was as cold as steel in winter. “I’m not looking for affection. Damn it.” He started to sort through the pile of their clothing.
“I don’t believe you. Everyone wants—”
“I don’t.” Fabric rustled. “I told you already, and I meant it. That is the last thing I wanted from you.”
A slap on the face would have hurt less. She suddenly felt young and painfully inexperienced. He was older. How many women had he had? How foolish she was, to think that just because they’d shared that, it had meant something.
She should have known better. She sat up and brought her knees to her chest. He pulled on his trousers and then his shirt.
“That,” he continued haughtily, “was not what I wanted from you at all.”
She had agreed to an entire month of this. Those days seemed to stretch in front of her like an endless burden. She leaned her forehead against her knees and listened to him dress. She’d thought he would spend the night. She’d thought she was getting a lover, not a…not a procurer.