Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (20 page)

The skin of her neck was so close that he could feel the heat on his lips. A fraction of an inch more and he would be able to taste her. And dear God, how he wanted to taste her.

The dining room beyond their hiding place changed tone with the clink of silver against china turning to the setting back of chairs. The dinner was over and the party would soon be moving to the study. They would be able to leave safely after the staff cleared the room.

He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay curled with Rose in this tiny space with their mingled breath warming their faces and their every movement a fragment of a much older dance. And he wanted more. He wanted so much more. …

He succumbed. Just a brief stolen taste. Just a whisper of his tongue on her fragrant skin.

She jerked slightly and he pressed her still with his palm on her firm rounded hip. Held her still with strength and the fear of discovery for this tiny ravagement. God help him, if she had objected further, he was not sure he would have listened.

Instead, she let her head fall back on his shoulder, exposing more soft neck to his exploring mouth.

A near silent sigh escaped her, a sigh of submission and longing, or so he chose to hear it.

Clara had no senses available to her but touch and scent. The darkness was comforting in its anonymity. If even they couldn’t see what they were doing, then perhaps on some level, it wasn’t truly done.

Yet the heat of his mouth on her flesh was very real, as was the tantalizing pressure of his hand on her hip. Especially now that his fingers were tracing a matching spiral to the pattern of his tongue.

Every tiny stroke left a trail of flame on her. She imagined that if she were to look down at his hand, she would see ghost fire trailing from his touch.

She pressed her thighs together involuntarily and her hips rotated without command of her mind. He was hard behind her, as if she lay against a rod of iron.

If she were not mistaken, it was a rather large rod. She swiveled against it experimentally and felt an answering press of his loins against her bottom. Her own sex was hot wax between her thighs, swollen with unanswered need.

Her body was a stranger to her. Where had this need come from? Who was this woman pressed scandalously against a near stranger in the dark?

It was Rose. Rose who slid her hand up to cover the wide warm one on her hip. Rose who tilted her head to urge his hot mouth to her earlobe.

It was Rose who let the heat of him sink deeply into her and melt the frozen desires of years.

And it was Rose who slowly urged his hand to stroke up her waist, over her panting ribs to cover her breast.

She made a soft sound when he cupped her and rubbed his thumb across her nipple where it stood high against her bodice.

It was too loud, and they both froze, their passion ignited into heart-pounding fear for a long moment of suspense. But the murmur of talk never abated, and at last they allowed themselves to breathe.

Yet the momentary jolt of fear had only heightened their ache, had only made the future a more dangerous place, therefore providing an inner excuse to explore this tight, hot moment of erotic confinement to the limit.

Not content with the cloth-covered breast that filled his palm, Dalton slid his hand to her shoulder and began to ease down the neckline of the drab maid’s gown. Every slow fraction of inch of shoulder exposed was met with a kiss of greeting.

His Rose was shaking fully now, and for a moment Dalton hesitated, though it tore him a slash in his soul. Was this fear of him? Was he forcing something upon her that she did not want?

As he hesitated, she made a small growling sound and rotated her bottom against his erection, nearly making his eyes roll back with unspent lust. He was harder than he remembered ever being and growing harder still, his desire a literal ache deep in his scrotum.

His breath quickened, and his pulse raced, until he felt dangerous with desire. Yet breath for breath, heartbeat
for heartbeat, her desire seemed to keep pace with his.

The long tight sleeve of the gown slid down only far enough to pin her arm to her side. Her breast was now even more tightly confined, the neckline making a deep dent in the softness of her flesh.

Fortunately for Dalton, he was experienced with unbuttoning gowns in the dark.

Clara felt each button slowly give way with a sense of inevitability. It was as if Monty was caught up in the same dreamlike lure that she was.

“Sweet,” he breathed as he freed her bindings. “My Rose by any other name …”

Shakespeare?
Dear Lord, was there anything more alluring than a dashing masked thief who studied poetry? Clara’s final iota of will melted away at his gentle whisper.

He would still feel the same if he knew who she truly was—wasn’t that what it meant?

As would she.

The last button gave way, and the bodice of her gown fell forward. For a moment, she was reminded of when she came back to consciousness that night in the garden. Then the thought was burned away as his touch brought her to flames.

Her breasts were bare in the darkness. She could feel the soft movement of warm breath brushing over them as Monty returned his lips to her neck.

She’d never been bared for anyone in her life. She felt so wicked, unprotected yet free. When his warm palm cupped her, she jumped from the suddenness of his heat on her. Then his caresses began and she forgot all about the strangeness.

First he took all of her into his hand that he could
and squeezed gently. Then he let his fingers trail in a decreasing spiral until the tips of his fingers plucked gently at her nipple.

She squirmed and he took a soft bite of her neck between his teeth to hold her still. He moved his hand to her other breast and repeated the teasing, plucking motion. The tingle at her neck combined with the ache in her middle, along with the shocking pleasure of his gentle twisting of her nipples.

She was going to die. Right there, right then.

Then his hand left her bosom, and he released the bite on her neck with a kiss. She was shivering with longing, on fire with need. “Don’t stop,” she breathed.

He did not reply, only slid his hand down her side to the bend in her knees. She felt her hem rising up her calf. Her head fell back upon his shoulder. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

He shushed her again and drew her skirt above her knees, then above the tops of her stockings. She felt the cooler air on her skin, then his warm fingers stroked her inner thigh.

“Open,” he demanded in her ear, and she obeyed. Why deny him when she was nothing but one vast ache for his touch?

She felt the faint brush of his hand on her curls, then a gentle exploring touch. Unerringly, he found the center of her pleasure, the one Bentley had never truly located. Swiftly he dampened his fingertips in her wetness, then drew them up and over her button in a caressing circle that took her breath away.

She twisted helplessly against him as he drove her higher and higher with his dancing, circling touch. She was only dimly aware of his own labored breathing and of the rigid erection that he pressed firmly to her bottom.

His mouth returned to her ear. “Don’t make a sound,” he ordered. Then he entered her with his finger in one deep plunge. A cry of pleasure welled up in her throat until she was forced to bite her lip fiercely to quell it.

That was the last of her control. She jerked and quivered helplessly against him in her release, her body throbbing tightly around his finger still thrust deeply within her.

She came back to awareness in the darkness, the only sound their mingled rasping breaths. Suddenly she remembered where they were and why.

“Did they hear us?” she whispered in horror.

He kissed her ear. “My fine flower, they’re long gone. The help was clearing up when you came apart for me.”

She felt his hand retreat from under the folds of her skirts and felt mingled longing and panic. What had she done?

When could she do it again?

“I think we’d best make for the attic, my rosebud.”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered. She opened the cupboard door a tiny crack and peered out. Once she was certain that no one remained in the room, she quickly scrambled out. Blushing furiously and completely unable to look Monty in the face, she made for the hall and the safety of the servants’ stairs beyond.

He caught up to her on the stair and closed them both in the darkness once more. “I suppose we cannot light the candle now.” He took her hand. “Lead me, then, my flower.”

Clara couldn’t answer. She could only climb the stairs in a daze of mortification and lust.

Dalton was still aflame, his blood still pounding. He tried not to let her sense the ferocity of his need. If she had any clue how profoundly he ached to raise her skirts
again and press her up against the wall…

She’d been so hot and ready for him.

And she was no virgin.

The fact of her experience didn’t resolve the barriers between them, and he still vowed to send her safely away somewhere. But there was no denying that it inflamed him deeply that were he truly Monty the Thief he might have shared sweet Rose’s attic pallet tonight.

When they reached the attic, moonlight was streaming in through the open window. Silver glow glamoured the battered leftovers of the household until the raftered chamber had the air of a fairy bower. It was damp and chill, yet somehow the more magical for it.

“Oh!” She moved forward to lean her hands on the sill and raised her face to the sky. “I love the moonlight.”

“And it loves you,” Dalton whispered from behind her. She was so sweet in the pure light, a fairy maid, born of a rose and given to him by the moon for this one last moment.

A dream, he knew. Yet he felt as though if he lost this fantasy then he would face nothing but the dry fact of duty for the rest of his life.

“I’ll not be back,” he said. “This is becoming too risky.”

She turned to him, her sweet face a delicate harlequin mask in the half-shadow. Still he had yet to see her in true light. “It’s gettin’ too dangerous for you?”

With a smile, he shook his head. “No, dear rosebud. It’s too dangerous for you.”

She studied him for a long moment, then turned once more to the moon. “So I’ll not see you again, then?”

“No.” It was better this way. He’d see to her improved employment anonymously and his life would be a little brighter, knowing she had some happiness.

“Then for this one night, Monty …”

“Yes?”

She turned and gazed into his eyes. “For this one night, will you be my lover?”

If Monty didn’t answer soon, Clara felt as though she would burn away like paper from the fire inside her.

Perhaps he merely needed a little reminder of the pleasure they could share. She stepped closer to him and ran her palm under his coat, slipping her fingers under his rough waistcoat to trace a small spiral on his soft shirt over his heart. She could feel the rhythm beneath her fingertips. “Let me give you what you gave me, Monty.”

His breath was coming harshly now. “But—I’ll not be back. Rose. You’ll—I can’t do that and then leave you.”

Her honorable thief. She leaned close to touch her Ups to his throat. “Don’t leave me unloved, darling,” she whispered just beneath his ear. “I have never met a man I wanted the way I want you. I’ll never meet another. Would you have me live my days never knowin’ how wonderful it can be—
should
be—between a man and a woman?”

He was trembling now. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her hand, his pulse straining beneath her caressing mouth. Still he didn’t touch her, didn’t make a move.

She waited, counting the beats of his heart while he held himself stiffly from her. Nothing.

It was over, then. Clara pulled herself away from him and tilted her head back in defeat, closing her eyes against his rejection. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

He pulled her hard to his chest and kissed her. It was
a rough hungry kiss and she answered it with her own flaring need.

This time, both of Dalton’s hands were free to caress her. He tried to recall why he shouldn’t be running his palms down her slender back to her round bottom, but the fullness of her flesh in his hands sent the last trace of reason from his mind.

There was no Lord Etheridge. There was no Liar’s Club.

There was only the ancient frigid void of his loneliness and the warmth of his Rose in the moonlight.

Clara had never wanted to touch a man the way she wanted to touch Monty. Her hands were shaking with her need to feel his body. She laughed a little at her trembling attempts to undo his waistcoat, but he only covered her smile with his hot mouth and tore his vest off, sending buttons spinning into the shadows.

She wanted him, oh, how she wanted him. Yet the power of her want seemed as nothing compared to the torrent of his need. She was being devoured.

Never had anyone craved her so. His desire was harsh, naked, and overwhelming. He stole her breath with his kisses, sent her into flames with his hands, and still it seemed he could not get enough.

She needed only make a motion to tug the tail of his shirt from his trousers to have him tear it off and fling it aside. The merest motion of her fingers toward the buttons of his trousers incited him to a flurry of action that left his hard, rippling flesh completely bare in the silvery light.

His body was astonishing. She’d never seen a fully naked man, had never been pressed skin to skin in an intimacy that shadowed anything she’d had with Bentley.

Monty was as bare as a Greek statue, but this was no cold marble beneath her seeking hands. This was hot rigid male animal, whose hardness left her melting with answering longing. If she could have, she would have drawn every inch of her naked God in silver ink to show the moonlight glimmering on the planes and dips of his bare and rippling strength.

Bare but for the mask. The mask that shaded his eyes in the dimness, the mask that hid his identity from her. The mask that, heaven help her, she made no motion to remove. The mask was the mystery and the dream that was Monty in her mind.