“Marcus?” The side door to his room eased open with a slight creak.
He tensed at the sound of the soft voice and peered into the shadowy dark, almost expecting to see Nancy there, coming into his room to sneak him a biscuit as she often did when he was a child. The young maid had been so kind to him, checking in on him at night. Always ready with a story of her childhood in Kent.
But it wasn’t Nancy from his childhood. He wasn’t a boy at his town house in London. This was now. This was reality and that soft voice belonged to Alyse.
Her voice came again. “Marcus.”
“Alyse,” he whispered, dread filling him. He’d been avoiding her since she woke up for a reason. He really didn’t want her here in his room in the middle of the night. It wasn’t advisable.
“I heard you. Is everything all right?”
He evened his breathing. “It’s nothing. I warned you. I talk in my sleep.”
She approached, her bare feet whispering over the carpet.
“Is the rug wet?” She was near the bed now.
“Er. Yes. I knocked over a vase of flowers. My apologies for waking you.” He sat up, resting his back against the headboard. Bending a knee, he propped his elbow on it, rubbing his face with a hand.
“I don’t mind. I’ve slept enough lately. You’re the one that needs some sleep. Poppy said you spent a lot of time in the chair by my bed. It doesn’t look to be a very comfortable chair.”
Poppy and her big mouth. “I’ll be fine.”
She stood there, unmoving, a shadow looking down at him. Her hair flowed in a nimbus around her. The dim firelight set the brown strands aflame. A few feet separated them, but he could smell the clean scent of her. And something else. Something that was inherently woman . . . and her.
He needed to tell her to go, but his body pulsed with different words. Words he dared not utter.
She took a step forward, sliding closer hesitantly.
Thoughts warred within him. Silent commands, pleas.
Come closer . . .
Go away . . .
He held his breath, watching as she lifted an arm, stretching it toward him. Her hand brushed his face, palm down. Cool fingers curled against his forehead, her thumb grazing the bridge of his nose. “You’re warm.”
“Don’t touch me,” he said under his breath.
“You may be feverish.” Her hand shifted against him as though assessing. He heard the concern in her voice. He knew what she was thinking, what worried her.
“I’m not sick.” He might very well have a fever at this moment . . . but it wasn’t because he was ailing. It would be because of her. It would be because her hand was on him. Because her body was so close. Because the aroma of her filled his nose—her feminine, soapy, floral fragrance intoxicating him. “Go, Alyse. Leave me.”
“How can you be certain you’re not sickening? Perhaps I was contagious and you picked up what afflicted me?” She shifted even closer and it was misery. He closed his eyes in a tight, pained blink. “Perhaps we should send for the physician, to be certain?”
He was definitely in need. But not for a bloody physician. He needed her. Somehow, some way, he had developed a yearning for Alyse.
Her hands on him were like a balm to his soul, and she wasn’t even trying to entice or arouse. That made her all the more dangerous. A woman who didn’t know her power over him. Who had no clue how very attractive she was—to him or any man, for that matter. She was modest and guileless.
He snatched hold of her wrist, circling it with his fingers, stalling her exploration of his face.
She hissed sharply. He wasn’t certain if the sound was from surprise or pain, but he quickly loosened his grip. “I asked you to go.”
Now it was too late. Now he couldn’t let her leave.
Still gripping her by the wrist, he tugged and rocked her off balance. The move brought her sprawling down on top of him. He was awash in the scent of her. A cloud of soft sweet-smelling hair fell over him, curtaining them. He let go of her wrist and took her face in both hands, spearing his fingers through the wild fall of her hair and pulling her face to his.
She released a gaspy breath the moment before he covered her mouth with his own. Her lips melted against him. All of her did. The delicious weight of her sank over him . . . into him.
He settled her over him more snugly, fitting her against him like a warm, well-loved blanket. Her thighs parted and slipped over either side of his hips, straddling him. Her body was pliable and warm but her hands felt so cool, almost chilled against his skin.
Only the sheet pooling around his waist served as any barrier to his nudity. She wore her nightgown of sheer lawn. It slid against his flesh like the most sinuous of material. The two fabrics were insubstantial. A tug to the side. A yank. A rip. He could be directly against that silken core of her. Against her slick heat. A thrust and he’d be inside.
He gripped the curve of her hips in both hands, fingers digging through her nightgown as he rubbed his cock into the cleft between her legs. She moaned and lowered both her hands on either side of his head for leverage.
His hands curled into fists, strangling handfuls of nightgown. She moaned and tossed back her head. Slapping one hand on the headboard, she ground down on his cock until they both groaned. Moisture rushed between her legs as she started rocking against him, working her hips and sliding up and down the hard length of his erection.
One thing was certain. There was too much damn fabric between them.
He dove his hand into her hair, fingers sinking and tangling in the mass, the strands soft as silk against his palm. “You should go,” he growled, fingers delving deeper, cupping her skull.
She released a soft whimper. “I . . . I don’t think I can.”
Just like that, something snapped in him. The last invisible thread that had been holding him together.
“Your choice,” he growled, thrusting his hips, letting her feel him, rock hard against her, letting her know exactly what was going to happen if she didn’t leave.
He tugged lightly on her hair and another one of those little sounds escaped her as she arched her throat. He pressed his open mouth to the flushed skin at the side of her neck, directly beneath her ear.
She moaned in response, rocking into his hardness.
She might come to regret it, but she was still here. Still here and his restraint was gone.
She started to shake. “It’s happening . . . like before . . .”
The material between them was damp with both their desire, slicking all their movements. They slid and rocked desperately together. His balls swelled tight. He slid his hands up her back to grip her shoulders and bring her harder down on him.
“What are you doing to me?” he growled, loving how she quivered, how she was so responsive, so close . . .
She shook her head. “I—I don’t know. This isn’t . . . I don’t know . . . what is . . .”
He felt her trembling against him as she moved on him like an animal, desperate for her own pleasure, seeking her release.
He spoke into her ear as his own release twisted up and rose in him. “I said I wouldn’t do this . . .” But here he was, lost in her, drowning.
A shudder racked her and vibrated into the length of him.
Her hair fell into her face and he swiped it back, so he could see her in the shadows, her contorting expression as she shattered over him. It was enough. The sight of her undone. Knowing she did this because of him. Because of what he did for her.
He kissed her, swallowing her shriek even as he moved under her, grinding into her yielding heat until he joined her in release, shattering as completely as she did.
She lowered her face until their foreheads were pressed together. Their ragged breaths merged, mingling. He relaxed his grip, his hands smoothing over the nightgown covering her hips.
She pulled back slightly, blinking wide, glittering eyes at him. He stared back, his chest tightening. Her breath fell hard on his lips and he had to resist another taste.