A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (17 page)

“Your wish,” he said, tugging at the strings obediently.

The dress fell away in rustling satin. His facility with her ties bespoke the many dresses he had undone, but she wouldn’t think of that now. She concentrated on the moment as he made short work of her petticoats and stays, stopping only when he came to her chemise.

 
It billowed around her in whispery creases, not the least bit suggestive, yet Roman’s breath hissed between his teeth.

“What is it?” she asked. No fire lit the room, but she wasn’t cold. She couldn’t be, not when Roman’s nearness seared her skin.

His voice sounded pained. “Your chemise is translucent.”

She frowned to herself. How unexpected. She was wraith-like, not softly rounded like her sister, or voluptuous like Celeste. Yet Roman’s lust was not feigned.

“You’ve the shape of an angel,” he murmured. One fingertip grazed the length of her spine.

She swayed her hips beneath her chemise and grinned when he seized her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

“You’re killing me,” he growled into her ear.

“I could never.” She turned her head so her neck was exposed to his lips. For years, she’d thought it impossible to have him like this—she hadn’t even known what
this
was. But as his hands roamed her sensitized body and her entire being commanded her to give herself to him, she knew differently.

She could have him, so long as it was on his terms.

He turned her around and yanked her close again. “This is torture.”

“It’s wonderful.” She gripped his shoulders and pushed him back against the bed, then climbed on top so that she looked down on him. “Touch me. Everywhere.”

He didn’t wait but grabbed the hem of her chemise. In one whoosh, it came off her. Her mask slipped against her nose. She righted it, then kneeled over him, naked except for her stockings. If she was only to have one go, she meant for both of them to remember it.

His face was nearly level with her breasts. Small though they were, they were plump and rounded with desire. Her nipples hardened, begging for his touch. He leaned forward and took one taut bud in his mouth. She gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders, giving into the sensation of his mouth on her breast, then both breasts.

He went back and forth, blowing cool air across her nipples, as one hand wrapped around her calf.

She’d half-forgotten her demand that he touch her all over until his palm inched up the back of her leg. One finger teased the back of her knee, stroking languidly, as his other hand began its ascent. Her thighs quivered as his long, graceful fingers slipped into the indent where her bottom met her legs.

Desire shot through her. He was so close to grazing against her most sensitive parts, she ached for it.
Please,
she wanted to say,
stop tormenting me.
But she wouldn’t beg.

He rubbed his face across her breasts. Scratchy prickles where his beard was growing in scraped across her skin. She imagined the red mark that would result and thrilled. No one had ever touched her there. Anywhere. But for the rest of her life she would remember: Roman had.

He balanced one hand on her hip and pulled away. He looked up at her when she gave a yip of protest. Her eyes had adjusted to the meager light so that she saw every perfect contour of his face.

He set his hand on her most sensitive place.

“Ohhh,” she moaned, closing her eyes. Her head lolled forward, but she didn’t care. Desire mounted as he stroked between her legs. She didn’t even care that he might encounter the bit of sponge that Celeste had given her. Falling forward, she reached for his shoulder again, then parted her thighs and supported herself against him.

Nuanced fingers played between her swollen bud and the wet opening that ached for his entry. She didn’t know what she wanted more: for him to enter her, or for her to force him to lie back against the coverlet so she might climb atop him and finish the job herself.

Fortunately, they seemed to be of the same opinion. He jerked away from her, his breaths ragged. “I can wait no longer.”

She climbed off of him as he kicked off his breeches, small clothes and stockings. Thank Zeus Roman was possessed of a silver tongue. Whatever reservations she might have felt at first, she was completely certain now that she would cherish this night forever.

He completed undressing himself, then turned and crawled naked onto the bed as she edged higher, against the headboard. The counterpane bunched beneath her, but she didn’t care. This was passion, not romance. Let the bedclothes tangle around their legs.

The bed sank against his weight, dipping her toward him. The coarse hairs on his legs, the scent of his desire and the sheer size of his body were all foreign to her. This was it. In just moments, she would be his, completely.

For the first time, she wished she could look forward to one more night. There was so much to remember, she was afraid she’d forget something important. The heaviness of his body crushed against hers as he lifted himself onto her. The curve of his shoulders as he held himself over her. The delicious pressure of his chest against her breasts, and the warmth in his eyes as he positioned himself to enter.

“My love,” he breathed, and in one fluid moment, he sheathed himself inside her. She cried out with pleasure, never having imagined it would feel so marvelous to feel him buried so deep within her.

“Yes, love, that’s it,” he encouraged her, thrusting again.

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, and yet, a part of her knew innately, she couldn’t lie still. Her hips lifted up to meet his, guiding him deeper, completing her with his body. It was wondrous and new and she never wanted to stop feeling as though a part of him were entirely hers.

She dug her nails into his shoulders and hooked her ankles behind his thighs, pulling him closer, always closer.

He gasped against her hair. “Oh, God,” he cried again, his voice strained. His body grew damp with the effort of plunging into her.

She reveled in it, loving the sensation of his hot, naked body steaming against hers. She was so close, so very
close—

“You’re too damned tight.” He sucked air through his teeth. “I have to stop.”

“What? No, no, don’t. Please.” She continued to work her hips against his. Something was there, just out of her reach. He
couldn’t
have second thoughts now.

“I have to.” He pulled out, leaving her aching.

She reached for him, bereft. “My lord,” she pleaded, “I beg you won’t end this now—”

“It’s too good,” he said, swearing under his breath. He swiped at his face, looking away. His skin was flushed with arousal and exertion. “God, it’s just so damned good with you.”

She half sat up, resting on her elbows, and glared at him through her mask. “Then don’t stop!”

He hissed through his teeth. She raised her hips toward his member, asking with her body for him to continue his sweet plundering of her. After a pause he moaned and capitulated, taking his length in his hand and rubbing himself against her aching folds.

Pleasure shot through her. “Yes, my lord,
thank you
.”

He laughed self-deprecatingly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been this aroused. I’m afraid I won’t meet your expectations if I don’t slow down.” His velvety member continued to slide between her legs, betraying the truth in his claim.

Her body burned for release. Everywhere his skin touched hers, it wasn’t enough. She needed him inside her, filling her.

“If you don’t finish,” she rasped, “I will
die
.”

His eyes smoldered as he beheld her hedonistic delight in his body. Then, suddenly, he was kissing her again. His tongue searched her mouth, his sweet with wine. His length pressed into her belly and she arched her hips upward, trying to take him inside her. It was no use. He was too heavy. If he didn’t want to be buried in her, she couldn’t possibly make him.

He made love to her without entering her. It was bittersweet, and she savored each glorious second of him worshipping her body with his. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted him to continue where they’d left off. She wanted him to give her everything he had.

One hand inched up to cup her breast, just beneath her heart. Finally, he shifted his weight and edged between her legs. This time, she braced herself for the shockwave of his entry. She cried out again as he filled her. Completely.

His roughened voice chafed against the darkness. “Oh, my love. Sweet love. Dear God. Lucy.”

She went rigid. Absolutely stone still, but he didn’t seem to notice. He kissed her, touched her, claimed her for his own. She felt him begin to lose himself inside her again as he rasped, “My love, oh, God, my love.”

My Lucy-love.

Lucy forced herself to move again, to meet his sweet, seductive thrusts. Little by little, she began to savor the perfection of making love to Roman as herself.

He groaned again and met her new openness with his own, seeming to hold nothing back as he pleasured her with his mouth and member and hands. With one final thrust of his hips, he buried himself deep inside her. She clenched against him as hard as she could, then she gasped as an eruption of pleasure sent stars careening against the silvery moonlit bedchamber ceiling.

He collapsed against her. It was over. Every beautiful, wonderful second of it was hers to keep for her own cherished memory.

She had just decided he’d fallen asleep when he murmured, “Whoever you are, my dear, I fear my friends were right. I cannot possibly pay you enough.”

LUCY LAY AWAKE, confused. Did he know who she was or not? If not, why on earth had he called her by name?

Did he realize he’d called her name?

She itched to ask him, but saw no way to do so without raising his suspicion. The deed was done. She had wanted to leave him in a state of confusion. Unmasking herself would certainly achieve that goal.

Twice she decided there was no reason to reveal her identity to him. Twice he awoke and made love to her again. Each time he touched her, she was tempted to show him just who had lured him into bed, but she didn’t. She was just too uncertain.

Morning was just filtering through the window when he began to stir. He traced the curve of her breast, then drew his fingers down her belly and across to her hip. Her breaths came faster. Whatever else was said about him, his prowess was not exaggerated.

One by one, he walked his fingertips toward the V between her legs. She watched his advance through the slits in her demi-mask. As he reached her sensitive apex she gladly opened for him, her flesh as hot and needy though he’d yet to touch her.

He groaned and pulled her onto her back. Without a single hesitation, he proceeded to make love to her again.

This time, she kept her eyes open. Sunlight painted a different picture of the man to whom she’d given herself. Tiny scratch marks marred his shoulders where her nails had dug into his skin. His halo of curls was unkempt. A reddish stubble glittered across his jaw—a look she’d tried to imagine for herself, but was far more handsome in the flesh.

His lips parted in a lazy, sleepy smile. “Good morning,” he said as he took her again.

She returned his smile just as languidly, pleased her demi-mask only covered her eyes. He deserved to see her cat-who’d-found-the-cream look.

“You’re handsome in the morning,” she said, her voice so husky, it almost sounded like a purr.

He grinned. “That’s not all I am in the morning.”

For the last time, she gave herself to him. Clung to him, caressed him, breathed in his now-familiar scent. She was agonizingly aware she could have made love to him forever, and yet, achingly conscious of the sun rising beyond their window. She’d been privileged to keep him to herself all night; there could be no more bouts of lovemaking after this.

She came hard and fast, clinging to him.

“I must see you again,” he said as he withdrew and turned onto his back, spent.

Her heart skipped, wishing he were asking the impossible. “No, my lord.”

He shifted onto one elbow. “Why?”

“I’m moving to Bath.” It was the truth, whether he knew she was Lucy Lancester or not.

His face contorted in exaggerated horror. “Dear God, why?”