CHAPTER TWENTY
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Rathburn pulled her flush against him. A sound of utter surrender tore from his throat at the first swipe of her tongue against his. His hands tightened on her waist, his thumbs caressing the bones of her hips, his fingers splayed over her lower back and . . . lower still, stroking the curve of her derriere.
Yes, she was the one who kissed him. Emma felt bold, daring, unwilling to release him until she’d had her fill. It was as if she’d unlocked a secret door. A door hidden to both of them until now. The force behind it refused to be ignored or shut out.
He ravaged her mouth in return, drawing her tongue deeper. She wanted to climb inside him and found herself clutching his shoulders as if preparing to do exactly that. He crushed her against him. His hands moved over her back, eliciting tingles along her spine. Further down, he cupped her, lifting her to her toes, inviting her to arch against him. She did, and oh, yes . . . that felt nice.
Rathburn groaned. The low sound vibrated from his body into hers, making her restless.
The heaviness in her breasts compelled her to press them hard against him. When she moved, her gown shifted. Only now did she realize that he’d unbuttoned her. Recalling how many fantasies she’d had of his dexterous fingers doing nothing more than unbuttoning her glove made her smile against his lips. This fantasy was far more salacious. Far more real. And suddenly everything she wanted.
She’d spent far too much time being cautious and sensible.
Not taking a moment to second guess, she lowered her arms and let the satin slide off her shoulders. The movement wasn’t lost on him.
Rathburn broke from her kiss, but only long enough to look down at her breasts through the gauzy veil of her chemise. A feral, guttural sound escaped him as he slid his hand up along her waist, her ribs, to the curve of her breast. He covered her, pressing and kneading her aching flesh. His thumb brushed the peak of her nipple as his mouth descended on hers again, capturing her cry of surprised pleasure.
The kiss transformed even more. It was no longer about discovery, but more of possession. No one else had seen her like this or touched her. Rathburn was the first. The only. She felt claimed by him in the most primitive way, a fresh canvas marked by the heat of his hands.
Wanting to touch him as well, she pulled at the knot of his cravat, working through the folds until it fell away. Free, at last, to touch him, she moved her fingertips over the heated sinew of his throat, tracing the outline of his Adam’s apple. A rush of pleasure spiked through her when he swallowed. It was such a basic action, but to feel the motion against her own flesh made it supremely carnal.
Driven by impulse, she nipped at his bottom lip before suckling the firm flesh. Rathburn grunted a sound of impatience. He tugged her wedding dress down from her waist and let it drop to the floor. Pulling her flush against him, he lowered her to the bed.
Emma delighted in the feel of him. He was warm, but heavy, too. His weight and deep, plundering kiss made it difficult to breathe. Then with a slow slide of his hips, she quickly decided breathing wasn’t necessary.
All she needed was him. And more of this.
He moved against her again and she squeezed her eyes shut on a swift jolt of pleasure. White starlight bloomed beneath her lids. His responding groan told her this felt as good for him. His hips rolled against hers again and again, faster each time.
“Emma. Emma. My Emma. Please, tell me to stop,” he rasped in between kisses. He attempted to lift himself off her, taking away the pleasant weight of him. “There are things we should discuss . . .”
Her body quickened. She held fast to his shoulders, shaking, trembling. “Later.” Why would she tell him to stop when this felt so wonderful? She wanted more. “Please stay.”
A startling feral heat darkened his gaze as he claimed her mouth again. His hands skimmed down her body, teasing the sensitive peaks of her breasts through her silk chemise. Feeling brazen, she arched into his palm, not afraid to let him know that this was what she wanted. Not afraid to tell him without words how desperately she loved him. How she would die if he left her. How she would die if he ever . . . stopped . . .
Before she could finish the thought, her back bowed off the soft mattress. Every muscle in her body locked. Her breath seized in her throat. A sudden shower of tingles washed through her, converging deep in her core. Her body contracted sharply, clenching, writhing against him in helpless, wanton pleasure.
The spasms went on and on until she felt as if the last vestiges of her life might drain away. Still, she clung to him, refusing to leave this earth without him. If she were to die from pleasure, she wanted to take him with her.
Remotely, as if she were both locked here in his embrace and also floating above herself, she realized the air felt cool on her legs. His hold had shifted. His hand moved down her body, caressing her, sliding over her hip, down her thigh to the edge of her chemise and back up again.
He shifted away from her for a moment, but only long enough for her to murmur her displeasure at having him gone. “Don’t leave,” she whispered.
This time when he lowered onto her, it felt different. Hotter. A scorching heat touched her where her body still throbbed.
“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned into her mouth.
She made a sound of agreement without fully understanding what he was saying. She wanted more. More of his kiss. More of his weight. More.
Rathburn gave into her unspoken demands and pressed against her. The scorching heat of him burned her at her core. He hissed as if he felt the heat of it, too. The burn continued as she felt her body stretch and feel uncomfortably full. She fought the urge to tell him that she wanted him to return to whatever he was doing before. She’d liked that quite a lot.
This new sensation was too complex. She could feel him everywhere, her breasts flush against his chest, his weight pressing her into the soft mattress, his heat filling her. It was too much.
As if he sensed it, he shifted marginally, effectively easing the burning, stretching sensation. His kiss gentled. His tongue caressed hers slowly, deeply, their breath mingling. She hummed in approval and slid her fingers into the cool strands of his hair. He moved again, letting her get used to the full feeling as he rolled his hips. A wanton purr rose from her throat.
He groaned. “Em . . .” he said brokenly against her lips. “You’re so—” He shifted again. The hard, scorching heat of him pushed deeper inside. Impossibly deep.
She gasped at the sharp tearing sensation. Her body went rigid. All at once she had the urge to push him away and yet cling to him. It was too much. She was too full. Her body refused to stretch anymore. This felt foreign. Not at all the way it had a few moments ago.
Rathburn stilled and looked down at her, his expression grave and tense. “Darling, are you hurt . . .” he began but broke off to brush a tear from the corner of her eye. His expression turned tender, a gentle smile curving his lips. “I’m a cad.”
Emma wanted to agree, but couldn’t be sure it was entirely his fault. “I think we did something wrong,” she confessed in a whisper. “It doesn’t feel the same.” Was this the surprise her mother had warned her about? It certainly didn’t feel wonderful at the moment.
“There was no other way, my love. Not when I’ve wanted you like this for an eternity.” He lowered his head and kissed her. “I needed to be inside of you.”
Her body tingled at his confession, quick to forget about the pain. Yet, she still felt stretched and too full and wasn’t sure what to think about it. Even though she didn’t know what to expect from making love, she knew she never expected this confused mixture of sensations.
Without waiting for her to be certain, he rolled his hips against her, edging even deeper inside. She held her breath, expecting another stab of pain. However, this time there wasn’t. Only heat and fullness. Her eyes widened as she gazed up at him. The look he returned to her was full of feral promises as he drew her legs around his hips.
Emma closed her eyes and returned his kiss, giving herself fully to Rathburn. No—to Oliver. He was hers now, and she could claim him as her own.
“Oliver,” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck and arching against him. Her breasts strained against her chemise, aching as she crushed them into his chest. The taut peaks of her nipples shot ribbons of fiery tingles deep inside her body where he filled her.
He growled, breaking from the kiss and burying his face against the side of her neck. His mouth opened over her flesh. The warm, rough texture of his tongue stroked her frenzied pulse, sending another shock of tingles through her. He moved again, rolling his hips and surging forward until their bodies were flush. Her head tilted back on a moan and his name followed by a plea for him to do that again.
He did. Over and over again, until the room grew suddenly dark and the rumble of distant thunder was the only sound to drown out her cries. Wind blew in from the open windows, cooling the perspiration from her body and making the heat between them more intense. The storm was within her, quaking and threatening to unleash a torrent. She felt it keenly, building without expectation. Only promise.
When he lifted his head and took her mouth again, the storm broke free. Oliver swallowed her cry as the deluge rolled on and on.
Above her, holding her fiercely, he stilled. She opened her eyes and their gazes locked. His intensity struck her hard, filling her with awe. Deep inside, perhaps even into her soul, she felt his release.
Without a doubt, nothing would ever be the same again. She only hoped he could forgive her.
Rathburn reluctantly lifted away from Emma and walked to the washbasin at the far corner of the room. The afternoon light had dimmed with the approach of a storm, yet he could still make out the bloodstain on the fall of his breeches. His valet would be furious . . . at first. Then Woodson would likely make a comment on his wooing prowess, or lack thereof.
He’d behaved like a beast with his new bride. Hell, he hadn’t taken the time to undress either of them. Yet, as much as he attempted to give himself a stern lecture, he couldn’t stop the utter joy and exhilaration he felt.
Emma Danvers—correction—Goswick, Viscountess of Rathburn, was truly his.
Without bothering to hide his triumphant grin, he strode back to the bed with a damp cloth. His bride had pulled down her chemise, and the apples of her cheeks were suffused in a very becoming blush.
“Has my buttoned-up Emmaline returned?” he teased, noticing how she kept her head turned to the side and pulled on the corner of her mouth with her teeth. He bent down to kiss her. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for modesty, my darling. Your cad of a husband made sure of that.”
She shook her head, the motion bringing her lips to his. “You’re not a cad.”
He put it more plainly. “There’ll be no annulment now. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Are you . . . disappointed?”
He knew she wasn’t asking if he was satisfied with their lovemaking. The evidence was clear in his undoubtedly sappy grin and primitive gleam in his eyes. She was asking if he was disappointed in his choice of bride. “If you’ll recall, I’m the one who proposed to you.”
“You proposed a mock courtship, Oliver. Not this.”
At first, but at the church he’d made his intentions perfectly clear and now everything was absolutely perfect. All he needed was Emma . . . and perhaps hearing her admit her true feelings.
Because he loved the sound of his name on her lips, he kissed her again. And lingered. Her luscious mouth will be the death of me, he thought, imagining that he’d sooner starve than stop kissing her. His body stirred.
Now, he wasn’t familiar with the protocol of deflowering virgins, but it was a time-honored belief that they were fragile creatures. Most likely, it was too soon to seduce her again before nightfall.
Reluctantly, he broke the kiss and kneeled on the bed beside her. “This will be cool,” he said as he lowered the cloth to the apex of her thighs—a place of rapture more divine than he’d ever experienced before.
She gasped and sat up part way, taking hold of his wrist as he administered loving strokes across her sensitive flesh. “Surely, I should do this.”
“And deny me the pleasure?” To make his point, he made a slow circle with the pad of his middle finger.
“Oliver.” Instinctively, she closed her thighs. Her lashes lowered, but not before he saw her eyes darken with desire. His body responded elementally to that knowledge.
Yet, before passion ran rampant again, he eased his hand away. Standing, he walked back across the room to put the cloth back in the basin. “There is one part of our altered bargain that we haven’t discussed,” he said casually as he returned and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her onto his lap.
“Surely, you shouldn’t—” She put up a meager protest for modesty’s sake, then settled her hands on his shoulder and chest. Her brows lifted in curiosity, yet her gaze lingered on his mouth. “Have we altered our bargain?”
His mouth twisted in a wry grin and lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. “Everything has changed now, Emma.”
The moment he saw her expression change to uncertainty, eclipsing the passion from an instant ago, he leaned down and kissed her, drawing on her lips until he felt her body relax into his. Since he didn’t want her to ask a follow up question, he distracted her by deepening the kiss.
Settling his hands at her waist, he turned her so that she would straddle him. However, the distraction worked to his disadvantage. Feeling the welcoming heat of her body made him hard and ready to take her again. Her soft purrs were driving him mad. It was too soon for her, surely.
He broke away from her tempting lips to her cheek, peppering kisses along her jaw and down her throat. At the hollow between her collarbone and shoulder, he paused and asked his question. “Do you like children?”
She drew in a quick breath, tenderness and wonder in her expression. “I think so,” she said quietly, searching his face.
Rathburn lifted his hands to her hair and began to remove the pins he’d thoughtlessly left in before. “I think so, too. A little girl with your brown eyes would be lovely.”
She smiled. “Or a boy with mossy green eyes flecked with gold,” she said, apparently without realizing how much she’d revealed. It was obvious to him that this wasn’t the first time she’d thought about their child . . . their children. If she’d thought about that, then clearly she’d imagined a life with him. A true marriage.
He continued removing the pins, letting them fall on the floor beside the bed. “You bring up a valid argument. We’ll have to have one of each to be sure.” He drew the long locks of her hair forward. He’d imagined her just like this—unbound and uninhibited—dozens of times. How could it be that in so short a time she’d come to mean everything to him? It didn’t seem possible, and yet his heart told him it was the truth. “I always wanted a brother. So, we should probably have at least two boys.”
She grinned back at him. “And I always wanted a sister.”
“Of course.” He nodded sagely. “Then two boys and two girls . . . to start.”
She giggled, a sound he was sure he’d never heard from her before. It hit him like the blast of cupid’s arrow. A superfluous shot, since his entire heart was already hers. He knew she was adept at hiding her feelings from him, but this gave him hope that it wouldn’t always be the case. Already she was freer and happier than he’d seen her before.
“I’m not certain it will be that easy,” she said, naively presenting him with a challenge.
“No. It won’t.” He twisted a heavy lock around his finger. Releasing the mahogany curl slowly and drawing it down until his knuckles grazed the dusky pink tip of her breast, still veiled beneath the chemise. Her sweet breath came out in a long exhale as she looked down to his hand, and to the way the bud strained against the insubstantial fabric. “We’ll have to work tirelessly to achieve our goal. Slaving away for hours each day until the weeks draw into months and then years.”
Emma licked her lips, her fingers straying to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Who’ll manage the house?”
He sighed, pretending it was for dramatic effect, but in truth, he was nearly undone by her boldness. This was a side to Emma he’d never expected to live outside of his fantasies. The reality was much sweeter. “It will fall into disrepair.”
“After all the work you’ve done, it would be a shame.” Her hand slipped into the gap she’d exposed and swept over his nipple. She smiled when he hissed between his teeth.
Realizing that she was learning by mimicking his actions sent another rush of blood to his already engorged erection. If this went on much longer, neither of them would be undressed for the second time they made love either.
Rathburn needed to slow things down. He didn’t want to risk hurting her by letting his animalistic appetite rule him again. No, this time he was going to keep the fall of his breeches buttoned and worship her with his mouth.
“Perhaps.” He started by pressing his lips to her throat. Distracted from her lesson, her hands moved to his shoulders. She arched her neck to allow him better access. “But we would have four children, in the very least, to play in the rubble with us.”
She went still. “Then you don’t mind . . . about . . . the way our plan changed?”
He met her gaze, disturbed by the uncertainty he saw. Could she still doubt him, or was there something more? Trying not to let doubt cloud this moment, he brushed his lips over hers. “I rather enjoyed the reason.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, shifting closer in a way that made him abandon thought. “It was very nice.”
“Nice?” His prowess took a hit. She didn’t know how such a bland word could wound a man. Well, he was going to have to show her just how nice he could be.
Slipping his hands beneath the hem of her chemise, he lifted it over her head and tossed it to the floor. Not allowing her a moment to gasp, he covered her mouth with his and eased her back onto the bed.