She nodded, knowing she would have agreed to anything in that moment. Anything to quench the pulling ache between her thighs.
She didn’t even fully understand what she agreed to until she felt his hand forage under her nightgown and slide against her folds.
She jolted at that first brush of his fingers.
“So wet,” he declared. “So ready.” Sharp little pants escaped her as he stroked his fingers up and down, learning her intimately. “It wouldn’t even hurt if I eased . . . inside.” His finger tested this theory, pushing in her channel.
“Oh!” She arched beneath the sweet invasion and the shift in position did something. Brought him deeper, brushing against some place that made her shake and moisture rush between her legs.
Shame had her seizing his wrist. “I’m . . .”
“Let yourself go.” He pushed deeper, curling his finger and rubbing it in a small circle against some hidden place inside her.
She shattered, a scream wrenching from her throat. Impossibly, she was wetter now, slicking his fingers. She’d never been so mortified in her life.
His forehead dropped against hers. “That was . . .” He couldn’t finish the word. His eyes were closed and he looked in physical pain. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispered.
“W-what did I do?” she whispered back.
“I won’t shag you,” he choked, opening glazed eyes to stare down at her.
She stiffened. “I don’t remember asking—”
“No, you just came apart in the most splendid fashion and left me so aching I can taste my teeth.”
“Oh.”
He withdrew his hand from between her legs. “How am I going to resist you now?” His voice was strained.
She stared at him in confusion. He’d made her feel magnificent, but now he looked in pain. His face was the perfect expression of torment.
“You’re a witch,” he muttered, shifting slightly, the motion rubbing the bulge of his manhood directly into her. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve been doing things entirely out of my character.”
“Is it in your character to deny yourself what you want?” The question popped out of her mouth before she could consider it. She was baiting him and she knew it was ill advised, but it stung. It hurt that she was so very objectionable to him that he was not only angry at her but at himself, too.
“I’m not legitimizing this union,” he growled even though he didn’t pull away from her.
“I didn’t ask you to!”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He remained above her, between her splayed legs, his arousal pressing directly against her core. Clearly, despite his words, his hunger hadn’t abated.
She fidgeted, both satisfied and anguished, her arousal twisting sharper as he pushed his hips forward, grinding himself into her softness with an ill-concealed groan.
She clucked her tongue. “If you’ll have naught to do with me, then you best go find some other female to satisfy your very pressing needs,” she flung out.
“The kitten has claws.”
“And whilst you do that perhaps I shall find someone who can finish what you’ve started.”
His eyes flared. “The vicar is only a few rooms down,” he reminded.
“Oh?” She feigned consideration with an angle of her head. “Convenient, indeed.”
“Brat,” he snarled and then his mouth claimed hers again.
She gloried in it.
She didn’t even know herself, the woman lying in this bed with this man, provoking him into acting, into kissing her when he clearly did not want to . . . but then everything had changed in the span of a day. Why wouldn’t she be different, too? Why couldn’t she be?
She’d brought him to the brink. His hands went to the laces at her scoop-necked nightgown, tugging them open. Then the bodice was down and her breasts were exposed. His mouth followed, sucking and licking until she was writhing under him in joyous torture.
“Marcus,” she pleaded, latching on to his name in the throes of passion, saying it when she couldn’t even think it before. She ran her fingers into his thick head of hair. “Please . . .”
He groaned and stilled, dropping his head between her breasts. “Temptress . . .”
She? A temptress? It didn’t seem possible.
She was no beauty. Her hair was likely her best feature, although people often remarked about the unusualness of her eyes. Still. A gentleman like him . . .
He had to have seen his share of beautiful women.
“I’ll not do this,” he said, his voice soft but no less firm. He pushed up to look at her. “I’m not that weak.” He stopped with a swift shake of his head. “You’ll have to appease yourself as my housekeeper. You’ll not have me for your husband.”
She let out a breath. “I don’t seek to trap you.”
“Good.” He stood from the bed, staring down at her. His gaze raked over her, taking in her exposed breasts and her bared legs. “I confess you offer more enticement than I expected.”
She scrambled to set her nightgown to rights, covering her breasts back up and shoving the gown down to her ankles.
The corner of his mouth kicked up as though he found her attempt at modesty amusing. “But your wiles will not work on me.”
Her eyes traveled over him, a thousand prickles of heat flashing over her skin. “You’re fully naked!” Truly naked. Naked from the waist down. He’d climbed into bed with her without wearing a stitch of clothing—again.
“You well know my sleeping habits, by now.” He shrugged a shoulder.
“I thought we discussed you discontinuing those habits.”
“Did we?” Another shrug. “Perhaps I will adjust and start wearing clothes to bed. I did not expect you to throw yourself at me.”
“Me?” she choked. “You have a very high opinion of yourself.”
He splayed a hand against his chest, drawing her attention to that lovely chest, firm and well-formed. She’d seen it before but it still unsettled her. She didn’t know a man could be fashioned in such a way. Mr. Beard had been pasty pale with a definite paunch. “You were begging for me quite sweetly. I didn’t anticipate that.”
Nor did she.
She yanked the coverlet back up to her chin. “You are quite safe from me.”
The look he gave her was full of skepticism and right then and there she vowed she would not touch him again. Never permit him to so much as stroke her palms. Never kiss him even if he should change his mind and attempt to kiss her. She wouldn’t even look at him with admiration lest he think she was mooning over her.
He reached for his trousers. Once he had those on, he sank down in the chair before the fire and tugged on his boots.
“Where are you going?”
“As you said. I’m sure Gregoria can satisfy my needs. You’ve left me with quite the raging cock.”
She gasped, glaring at him. “You are a foul man.”
“You weren’t saying that moments ago.”
With a huff of outrage, she rolled over, presenting him her back.
Fuming, she stared at the curtained window as she listened to his movements, angry and reminding herself that she had no right to be.
Certainly he had kissed her and it had been magnificent. Yardley’s bland fumbling kisses paled beside the sensation of Marcus’s lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hand between her—
She pulled her thoughts up hard, killing them with a mental rebuke. No. She was not enamored. True, he was handsome and blessed with a strong, fine body that made her belly tighten in strange exciting ways. He spoke well and moved with a panther-like grace and at times he demonstrated a kind nature.
But she had not—would not—form an attachment.
He was a rude, cold man.
He could dally with all the maids in Scotland and she would not care.
She was his housekeeper and nothing more.
Chapter 15
The wolf feared he might be a hunter of prey, after all.
When Marcus returned to his chair in the parlor, he had no intention of finishing out the night in the arms of Gregoria despite Alyse’s scathing suggestion.