She allowed him to kiss her, and to circle his hands around her bared arms and caress the lithe beauty of them, the softness of her skin all the way to the tender veins in her wrists where she was not a maddeningly tempting fury on the verge of flight, but a woman of sighs and quivering desire. He took her hand and guided her the remainder of the distance to his bedchamber.
Gon?alo greeted them with frantic joy. She went to her knees on the floor.
“No,” Vitor said firmly. “He must wait his turn.” He snapped his fingers and the dog scampered into the dressing chamber. Vitor shut the door and turned to the woman on her knees, her vibrant skirts spread about her and eyes wary now.
“Is your valet in there too?” she asked.
“I dismissed him for the night.”
“For the entire night?”
He crouched before her and she gave no resistance when he drew her up between his knees. “I have often been without him. I find I like my privacy. And I hoped I would have company tonight. Finally.” He lowered his mouth to hers and she wrapped her arms about his neck and met his kiss eagerly. He stroked back her hair with his fingertips, her skin and scent and willingness an intoxication, and it seemed as though heaven hovered precipitously close. “Ravenna.” His voice came forth unsteadily. “I must know that this is what you wish.”
Her fingers worked at his neck cloth, untying the knot and discarding the linen, then unfastening the shirt button. “It is what I wish.” She set her soft lips to his neck, and the pressure of her hands upon his chest sent his pulse spinning. She brought her mouth to his as her hand slid down his waist and she stroked his arousal—a light touch, tentative. Upon his groan she whispered, “Tonight.”
Not the word he wished to hear. But it was far too late. He ignored the constriction beneath his ribs and answered only the need to have her beneath him. She pushed his coat and waistcoat off his shoulders. When he drew his shirt over his head and took her into his arms, she spread her hands across his chest. Her breaths deepened. She watched herself touch him, exploring, her hands supple and strong but uncertain. He fought for control.
“Ravenna.” He grasped her hands.
“Your wounds,” she said huskily, running her fingertips around the abrasions on his knuckles.
“It is nothing.”
“I should have tended to this.”
He tried to grin. “You did not tend my bruised leg or broken lip.”
“I wished to, despite myself.” Her hand escaped his grip and stole again to his chest. She smoothed her palm along his skin, curving her fingers over his muscle, stalling his breaths.
“I . . .” she said in a wondering hush. “This is not what I imagined.”
He found the fasteners of her gown. She let him draw the fabric away from her breasts, and untie the laces of her petticoat, then tug down the ribbons that served as chemise straps and release her breasts from the stays. She was beauty. Such beauty.
“What did you imagine?” He stroked his thumb across one perfect peaked nipple. She shuddered, her lashes dipping.
“I never imagined anything,” she whispered. “I never thought this would happen to me.”
He could wait no longer.
He took her there, before the fire. Stripping away her garments and his, he brought them skin to skin, and as she trembled he made of them one flesh. Without words, but with caresses and kisses and the earnest rhythm of her body, she told him that she needed him, urging him to enjoy her and then begging until he gave her release. He took his own, and the world ended and began at once.
When it was over and their skin was slick and hot and she lay beneath him panting, he could not leave her. If he released her she might be gone in an instant. It could be days before he captured her again, only to be obliged to release her once more when she sought to flee. He kissed the tender arc of her throat, tasting the salt on her skin and drinking in her scent of passion. Contentedly she stroked her fingertips down his back, her hands bolder now upon him.
“What do we do now?” she whispered without opening her eyes, her lips parted upon pleasure and perhaps uncertainty.
He stroked the valley between her breasts, over the bony ribs that protected her fortressed heart, and down her belly, the softness of feminine beauty, then through dark curls to the heat and moisture below. “We do that again.”
Her breaths deepened. He found the center of her pleasure and stroked. She spread her thighs, inviting more.
“And again,” he said.
“Again,” she repeated upon a sigh.
His hand stilled. “But not until you say my name.”
Her eyes opened and glittered with candlelight as she stared at the ceiling. “I beg your pardon?”
He withdrew from her, stood, and reached for his dressing gown. “Your fee for my services, madam. My name upon your lips or nothing more from me.” He shrugged into the garment, the caress of fine satin against his skin little pleasure now that he knew the caress of her hands. He took up the decanter and crystal goblet from his nightstand. “Wine? I don’t believe it is drugged, but we managed that hurdle well enough once already. If it should happen again, your clever physicking will put us to rights.”
She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. Black tresses tumbled gloriously about her shoulders and down her back, wild like her heart and free like her spirit. Deep in the ebony waves, a circlet of diamonds glittered. “Your name?”
He took a swallow of wine, as much for courage as to appear nonchalant. “Seems a fair price, does it not? I am, after all, a despicably wealthy second son of a marquess, however ill-begotten.” He gestured with the glass. “I suspect third and fourth sons of dukes and princes—both the legitimate and illegitimate sorts—require the same fee. But I shall have to confirm it with the boys the next time I visit my club.” He turned from the astonishment registering upon her face and the vision of her intimate femininity that she seemed entirely unaware she displayed to him now, and set down his glass. “Are you certain you don’t wish some wine?”
“Fairly.” She reached for her clothing and stood up, her glorious naked beauty in the middle of his bedchamber nearly sending him to his knees. “I prefer not to drink with madmen,” she muttered.
“You don’t say?” He leaned a shoulder into the bedpost and watched her struggle with the chemise. Finally she managed to pull it over her head, but the ribbons caught in her hair.
“I am not accustomed to these sorts of undergarments,” she grumbled, and tugged.
He went to her. “Allow me to assist.”
“I can do it myself.”
“I am certain you can.” He removed her hands and worked the satiny strands free of the ribbon. “But I am a gentleman. My sort are bred to assist a lady when she is in need.” He smoothed the ribbon into place over her shoulder, stroked back the thick mass of her hair, and set his mouth to the supple juncture of her neck and shoulder. A puff of air escaped her lips, then like a cat she stretched her neck to allow him greater freedom to caress her. He circled her waist with one hand and slid the other over her hip and between her thighs. Stroking inward, through the thin fabric, he felt her. “Are you in need, Miss Caulfield?”
She tilted her face, bringing her lips near his. “Yes,” she whispered. She leaned into his touch.
Slowly he gathered the skirt of her undergarment, baring her thighs and lifting the linen to find her damp heat. But he did not touch her. He allowed the moment to lengthen, her breaths to quicken.