A Proper Scandal (23 page)

“I may have misrepresented what will happen here,” he whispered, hovering above her.

She waited.

“Detachment, I'm afraid, will never be the guiding force when I make love to you. Ever.” He lowered his face to hers and nuzzled her lips, once . . . twice. Not a kiss, just a brush. She chased his mouth with her own, and he growled, kissing her harder, and dropped on top of her.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, drawing him in. She'd fantasized about this—what it would feel like to have the weight of his body on top of her. It was a perfect kind of heaviness, a pressure so essential, she wondered how she would ever feel truly satisfied without it again.

He went up on his elbows to gather her beneath him, staring down at her, taking in her limp, half-stripped gown. His eyes filled with appreciation and need.

The kiss that followed was languid, thorough, and, for a moment, she was lost to it, but now she explored, her hands drifting from his neck to his hair and down again. She moved lower, grazing the edge of his collar until it gaped, revealing his broad back. She massaged his neck, fingers reaching deeper with each pass. She felt the hard, muscled plates of his shoulder blades, larger than her hand. All the while, he kissed her, and her own body melted into a dark, hot pool of need.

Consciousness left her, and a fog of sensation descended. They had never felt so much. Time stopped or spun; she didn't know, and she didn't care. He devoured her mouth like a man starved, pulling up only to gasp for breath.

She laughed, reaching for him, and he rasped, “You find this amusing?”

“No—yes. I am delighted that you—” She couldn't finish. He settled in on her neck, stringing kisses from her collarbone to her ear. “I'm delighted,” she said simply.

“Oh, but we haven't even gotten to the good bit yet,” he said against her throat. “I waited so bloody long, Elisabeth. I'm taking my time.”

“Take whatever you wish,” she heard herself say, and she arched upward, pressing against him, an instinctual move that was rewarded with a newer, brighter sensation. She heard herself sigh. “
Oh, Bryson . . .
”

H
e hadn't expected her to implore him.

Hell, he hadn't expected her to do much more than lie there. Now, she reached for him, pulling on his shirt in something akin to desperation.

The kiss in the cupboard was nothing compared to this.

Take whatever you wish . . .

Please . . .

Acknowledging this was, perhaps, his last thought before all sanity fled, before his very existence was taken over by an ever-escalating ladder of need—lips, breath, the skin behind her ear, handfuls of her hair, lips again.

And to hear her respond with the same desire? To feel her surge beneath him? As if her beauty and spirit and intellect were not enough, now she would heap on sensuality as well?

He was not a deserving man, but his ability to resist her snapped.

“Will you take this off?” he heard himself ask, tugging at the slipping bodice of her unfastened dress.

She rose up and turned away from him, drawing down the straps of her shift. She shimmied then, pushing the shift, sagging corset and bodice to her hips. When she lay back down, she was bared before him. His mouth went dry. He devoured the perfection of her body.

She wiggled more, letting out a frustrated giggle, trying to work the dress and shift over her hips. He was helpless to assist; he could but stare. She fell back, watching him watch her. A hank of apricot hair fell forward, and she shrugged beneath it, flipping it shyly over her breasts.

“No, don't,” he said, reaching out, dusting the hair away.

She sucked in breath at the contact of his knuckles to her breast, and her eyes went wide.

His breath hitched, and he touched her again. His hands now moved of their own accord, driven by instinct and need. She met him there; her desire mingling with his own. He touched her because he could not
not
reach out. She arched up to meet his hands.

He leaned in to taste first one breast, then the other, and she turned her head to the side, straining against the pillow, eyes now shut. Nothing prepared him for this response.

Now she surged upward, her body seeking his. Her gown was in a wad between them, and he tore it away.

He sat up, motivated to be rid of the dress, and she whimpered when he moved away from her. She propped herself on her elbows.

The sight of her, bared to the thighs, hair spilling around her, flushed, lying in his bed, was an image seared forever in his brain. He forgot the dress and kissed her again.

“I want too much,” he growled, pulling away, tugging on the tangle of silk and petticoats with new fervor.

“Making up for lost time.”

“Oh, God, how I have wanted you,” he said. “
Want
was never the problem.”

Finally, the dress gave, rolling down her hips. He hooked his thumbs in the sides of her drawers and rolled them down, too, swallowing hard, watching as the descending silk exposed her thighs, long legs, trim ankles. Then it was gone altogether, and he tossed it to the foot of the bed. She was naked except for her stockings and garters.

“Bryson?” she sighed, kicking a little, swishing her legs on the coverlet like a mermaid on dry land. “Now you?” She reached for him.

He yanked his shirt over his head. She gasped at the sight of him, naked to the waist. This reaction surprised him, and he looked up.

She laughed. “You are beautiful.” And she began roving her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, kneading the muscle. “So strong. How are you so strong?”

He watched her hands on his body, mesmerized. “Punting boats on the river. Years of it. Since I was a boy.” He pushed her back down. Another kiss. “
You
are beautiful,” he moaned, leaving her mouth for her neck. “More beautiful than I deserve.”

“That's what you said”—he caught her mouth again and kissed her—“on my aunt's balcony.” Another kiss. “In the rain.”

Against her ear, he whispered, “I have never spoken such truth.”

She laughed again. “I couldn't believe you were really there . . . saying it . . . about me.”

“I couldn't believe you were
allowing it
. I thought you were too proud.”

“No. Not too proud.” She grew still. “Too afraid.”

He looked up, staring into her turquoise eyes. “Afraid of what? Not me?”

She turned her head sideways on the pillow. “Afraid I would never find myself where I am right now. If you recognized me. If you knew.”

Her neck was exposed, and he ran his mouth along the smooth olive skin until he reached her shoulder. He kissed the delicate point of it. “I wish you had simply told me that night.”

“I couldn't.” Her voice cracked.

“I know.”

She took his face gently in her hands. “Do you?”

He kissed her palm, nodding.

She sighed, wrapping her arms around him, drawing him close. She wrapped her legs around him in the same manner, twining around him in a full-body embrace. She buried her face in his neck.

It was meant to be a tender moment, he knew. Intimate. A milestone on the journey from where they had been to where they . . . might go. God help him, he wanted to savor it, to hold her tightly, but the proximity of her breasts to his bare chest, the feel of her legs wrapped around him, the canted position of her hips cradling his desire . . .

His body pulsed with the most fundamental need. He was helpless against her. He could sustain the embrace for only a handful of seconds.

His trousers still separated them, but he rocked downward, seeking relief.

She gasped.

He rocked again, and again she sucked in breath. He caught her mouth in a kiss and thrust a third time. For this, he was rewarded; she surged up, arching off the bed.

He growled, reaching for her thigh. He felt a silk stocking and traced it to the garter, fumbling with the fastener. When the hook released, he yanked the stocking off and massaged his way back up her leg. She shuddered and moaned beneath him.

He reached for the other leg while her hands whirled through the hair on his chest, tracing the muscle, radiating circles higher and lower. She drifted to his belly and then lower still, her fingers nudging the button on his trousers.

He laughed. It was either that or cry tears of joy.

He made quick work of her remaining garter and stocking. He allowed her sweet torture with the buttons of his trousers, trailing kisses down her neck and shoulder. When she cried out in frustration, he shushed her gently and took up her hands, kissing them, and unbuttoned the trousers himself. While she watched, he stripped them off and flung them over with her dress. His desire was impossible to hide, straining against his drawers. He glanced at her, watching her eyes go huge at the sight of him. He chuckled, kissing her again, pressing her back into the pillows, settling on top of her, reveling in the dual sensation of relief and greater need.

“Elisabeth.” His voice rumbled between kisses. “Have we avoided descending into oblivion?”

“I . . . cannot say,” she said, arching her body beneath him.

He groaned.

“Well, then”—another kiss—“I'm not doing my part. When we descend, you will know it. There's still time.”

She laughed until he covered her mouth with his.

E
lisabeth's last solvent thought was,
Why would we ever try to circumvent
this
? On purpose?

Never had she known such a beautifully unified, concerted, pleasurable effort toward . . . toward . . .

Well, she could not say toward what, precisely, but whatever it was, they were going there together, both of the same fevered mind, with bodies that strummed with mutual pleasure.

She knew little else than a growing urgency—a stoking—a quickening toward an ultimate . . .
something
. She could not identify it, but her body informed her that she wanted very much to achieve it—that she
must
achieve it.

He captured her mouth in a deep kiss and gently used his knee to tap her legs apart. He made a growling noise, called her name on a hiss. She understood. She took a deep breath, and her legs fell open. He growled again; his body coiled. Pain knifed through her, and she gasped at the startling contrast to the building pleasure she had felt only moments ago.

She forced her muscles to release. Relax. To trust.

The pain subsided with each heartbeat. She felt her body expand.

“Breathe, Elisabeth,” he rasped.

She drew a shaky breath. And another, and another. Slowly, the pleasure returned, and then built, and then very nearly consumed her.

Bryson moved slowly at first, but as her breathing increased, so did his pace. With every sigh, he kissed her harder, more desperately. Suddenly, his movements weren't fast enough. She pushed back—a little at first, and then more, more; she couldn't breathe. She cried out. Her brain went solid white.

After that, a shattering.

A million iridescent pinpoints of pleasure spun to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her breath came back in a rush. Her eyes flew open. She saw his face. Strained. Intense. Eyes tightly shut. Beautiful. Beautiful. He'd done this. Beautiful.

She leaned up and kissed him. One small peck on the tip of his nose. He caught her mouth and devoured it, kissing her more fiercely now than ever he had before.

She rocked her hips gently, marveling at the new sensation. Fullness. Tightness. Friction. Heat.

Bryson made an indistinguishable sound and dropped his face beside hers, burrowing in her hair. She rocked again.

“Elisabeth.” He breathed into her neck. “I cannot resist . . . ”

She rocked again.

Bryson growled into her ear. She turned her head and found his earlobe. Tentatively, she nibbled.

A guttural moan.

She latched on and sucked, rocking her hips again, steadily this time.

The urgency inside her spooled anew.

Bryson reared up, calling her name—an oath, a vow—and moved inside her, faster, more urgently. The friction was a new kind of pleasure. Conscious thought began to slip away.

She looked up at him. He stared down, blue eyes boring into hers. He dropped to her mouth for a kiss. She found it difficult, suddenly, to keep up. She opened her lips to receive him, clasping his shoulders to hold on.

She heard herself cry out, and the shattering seized her again. Blankness and iridescence, all in the same breath. A surge of sensation unfurled in her body.

As she drifted back to earth, color and shape fuzzed back to view. He shouted now too, echoing her need. She felt him tense and opened one eye. He was stricken. He shuddered and then collapsed on top of her, panting. By some miracle, she found the strength and coordination to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight.

W
hen explosive sensation finally . . . gradually . . . dissolved into a heavy fatigue, Bryson looked down at his wife and thought,
More.

It was his only thought.

More.

Soon—now. Forever.

More.

If it had not been so immediate, so essential, perhaps it would not have triggered the inveterate,
No
.

No, this may not consume you.

No
, she
will not consume you.

An entirely different voice, his reliable wariness, the ingrained ruthless restraint of more than thirty years of self-possession.
No, no, no
.

Because this was the very definition of “consumed.”

The compulsion he felt now. The fullness inside and the lightness out. The emotional tether from his chest to her heart. The
more.

Beneath him, Elisabeth shifted. It occurred to him to roll off her. He lifted his head from the pillow and risked a sidewise glance.

Her eyes were demurely downcast, thick eyelashes dusting the freckles of her cheeks. Her pink mouth was swollen.

She blinked, and he felt his heart lurch.

No
.

She looked up and smiled a small, shy smile, snuggling closer. There was no hesitation in the way she touched him, no battle with her own will. She was without guile or self-conceit or doubt. Meanwhile, he felt like he was falling, falling, falling—and it scared him to death.

To moor himself, he did exactly the wrong thing—which felt exactly like the right thing—he tightened his arms around her. She responded by sliding one, delicate foot along his leg and looping it over, locking the two of them at the ankle. She looked at him and sighed a satisfied sigh. They were nose to nose.

“What is it?” she asked softly, and his heart lurched a little more. She reached out to trace his stubbled jaw with her index finger, scraping his cheek with the back of her hand. He closed his eyes. She could touch him for a thousand years, he thought, and he would still want more.

“Are you . . . well, Elisabeth?” he finally managed. When all else failed, there were always manners.

She considered this a moment. She said, “Yes. Quite well. Are you well?”

“ ‘Well' does not begin to describe what I am.”

“If this bout of lovemaking did not descend into ‘pleasured oblivion,' Bryson, then I must confess, I am curious to embark on a one that does.”

He laughed in spite of himself. Her closeness made him amorous, but her eagerness made him hard. “I misrepresented my ability to detach, I'm afraid,” he said.

“I'm glad,” she whispered, leaning to him. While he watched, she kissed him. One, quick peck. A demure, good-night kiss. But, oh, God, save him, she lingered, and he found himself incapable of pulling away. He took over at once, kissing her deeper, feasting on her mouth. He broke away only to mark her, scraping his beard against her cheek, her ear, and back to her mouth.

He ran his hand down the landscape of her body, steadying it on the delicious dip of her waist. He dragged her more tightly against him. Her curves fit exactly to his swells. She opened her arms, wrapping one around his neck and sinking her fingers into his hair.

Their mouths met, and thoughts drifted. He could barely hear the words
no
or
careful
or
lost.
In truth, he barely heard the thunder of his own heart. What began as lazy, amorphous desire took immediate crystalline shape. She arched against him, shooting a jolt of pleasure from his brain to his groin.

“Sleep, Elisabeth?” His words rumbled against her lips. A final, fleeting effort at restraint.

She made a wordless sound of protest and flicked her tongue against his lip.

He answered with a kiss, and she sealed it, looping her arms beneath his shoulders and digging her fingers into the muscles of his back. She tangled both of their legs; they were a knot of thrumming sensation that pulsed as one.

Tomorrow, he thought—or endeavored to think—he would explain to her that taking her to bed must not lead to an . . . emotional precipice. He would tell her that they must be careful not to fall over the edge for his own sake. He had the viscountcy to think of—it was all he'd ever thought of—and it was important that he not become distracted.

Tomorrow, they would revisit the contract.

Tomorrow, he would gently remind her that . . . that . . .

She arched again, and all reminders fled.

He lodged his knee into the mattress and pushed, rolling them, pulling her on top. She let out a little shriek.

It became a benchmark, that shriek. How many ways, how many times could he make her do it again?