Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

He took a towel from the stack and set it around her shoulders as she climbed out of the bath. He dabbed her hair to dampness, and then knelt before her. The towel brushed against her thighs and she let out a low moan.

At that sound, he looked up into her eyes. It was as if a current passed between them. She felt hotter, more liquid in his gaze. Without taking his eyes from her, he leaned forward. He licked his lips. And then he planted a kiss between her legs. It was tender at first, a mere touch of his lips. Then his tongue parted her folds. His hands came to her hips. She was melting beneath him; his tongue slipped back and forth, tasting her own liquid. She shut her eyes, but that only intensified the sensation, the feel of dark waters rising about her, enfolding her in their warm embrace.

He’d already robbed her muscles of their tension. With this, he seemed to steal all the remaining frustration from her nerves. She could feel it all building inside her, sweet, undeniably sweet—and then it crashed down on her, and she shuddered against him. Her muscles ceased to work. She could not hold herself upright.

It didn’t matter. He was holding her now. She wasn’t sure when he’d stood; clearly sometime after he’d brought her to ecstasy. His hand slipped down to find hers, and then he was leading her out of the room and into her own bedchamber.

The sun was setting, casting rays of red light against her skin. He led her to her bed, and then, deliberately, slowly, he pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles rippled as he removed the fabric. Still, he’d not said a word.

He didn’t need to.

He removed his boots and stockings, and then pulled his breeches down. He was erect; when he leaned down over her, his mouth questing for hers, she found his member. He was hard; she squeezed, and he pulsed in her hand.

She pulled away from his kiss. “Let me inside, Ned.”

His pupils dilated. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned against her, pushing her into the mattress. One hand captured her wrist, holding her there. He spread her legs and then she felt his hand guiding his member to her sex.

Her body welcomed his. She gave a quiet gasp at that feel—so new, and yet so familiar. He was stretching her out. Her hips rose to his. She was sensitive still, so sensitive; with his member inside her, that delicious ache began once more.

Her hands clenched the bedcovers uselessly.

And then he looked into her eyes and thrust forward. His fingers clenched around her wrist. His mouth gritted; not in pain, but in the onslaught of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in.

There was nothing between them but the smooth slide in and out, the friction, the heat that built between them. She had no control over her body, nothing in her head except the feel of his skin against hers, the grind of his pelvis, the pleasure building once again.

He reached his climax first; his thrusts grew stronger; his fingernails bit into her wrist. He let out a hiss between his teeth, and the hot rush that filled her, the sure knowledge that she had given him the pleasure he gave her, was all she needed. She clamped around him. And then she was spasming around him again—insanely, perfectly, completely his.

NED COULD NOT FIND WORDS afterward. None of them seemed right; they didn’t seem to fit the intimacy they’d just shared. Any words he could imagine would only emphasize what he’d given her—and what he’d hidden behind that tender display.

But then, Kate didn’t know what he hadn’t said. She turned against him, her hand falling on his naked hip. “You were right.” Her words were soft against the silence, but still he prickled, inhaling cool air. She trusted him. Her breath, warm against the hollow of his throat, bespoke security. She cinched her arm around his waist, unconsciously molding herself against him. That posture, that welcome confidence, had to be genuine.

“You knew about Louisa,” she said quietly.

“Perhaps I should have said something to you.” He traced his finger idly down her shoulder. Easier than looking in her eyes.

“But why did you not do something more about it?”

For a second, Ned’s heart froze. He should have, he realized. Should have intervened, offered to take the matter off her hands. He should have insisted—

“After all,” she continued, “when I was younger, every time it seemed to me I had hit upon something interesting to accomplish, my father always found someone else to do it for me. It made me think that I was supposed to be some helpless creature. An accomplished lady is one who plays the pianoforte, who speaks six languages. Who can converse with her dinner partners on Byron and Shakespeare. Accomplished ladies aren’t allowed to accomplish anything of value.”

“Ah.” Ned felt a restless sense of familiarity at those words. Truth be told, most gentlemen didn’t accomplish anything, either. She hadn’t wanted him to take the burden from her, after all. She wanted a challenge. He knew what that felt like.

He hadn’t realized women longed for the same things men did.