Danger's Kiss (34 page)

Suddenly a deeper yearning obsessed her, a profound ache within her that demanded more than the taunting play of his fingers.

Perhaps it was a sort of catharsis after her joust with danger.  Perhaps she was only grateful to be in his arms again.  Or perhaps it was the fact that one of them was too drunk to say her nay.  Whatever the cause, a curious, impulsive madness came over her.

She wanted Nicholas.  All of him.  Now.

And she didn’t want to hear any arguments.  From her conscience or Hubert’s ghost or the voice of reason.

Swiftly, while the iron was hot, she made her choice, edging toward him with bold intent.

She hesitated just once, as the tip of his cock pressed like an invader at the gates of her womb, demanding entry.  After all, once she eased forward, there was no going back. 

Then she looked into his beautiful face.

Lord, no one had ever gazed at her like that before.

It wasn’t lust, not exactly.  She knew the face of lust.  Men had been staring at her with craving in their eyes since she first budded breasts.

Nay, it was almost adoration, adoration and need.  Not just for her body, but for her being, for her acceptance, for her love.  He might be besotted on ale, but there was no hiding the fact that he was equally besotted on her.

For Desirée, there was nothing more intoxicating.  Her heart melted under his gaze like a pool of butter.  Bracing herself with a deep breath, she surged forward.

If she’d known it would sting so much, Desirée might have been less anxious to impale herself.  It felt like her flesh had been torn by a dull blade, and now he filled her so completely, she feared she’d never dislodge him.  Still, it had been her idea.  It wasn’t Nicholas’s fault that he was as big as an ox.

Nicholas, lost in a ragged gasp of astonished pleasure as he lay fully sheathed within her, seemed oblivious to her pain.

It was just as well.  Pride would never let Desirée admit that she’d made a mistake, that she might have acted too hastily.

But at his next movement, she couldn’t prevent a quick gasp of pain, and he stopped, glancing at her askance and then in realization.

“Y’r a v’rgin.”

She swallowed hard.  “Not anymore.”  She gave him a weak smile.

Then his arms came around her in a tender embrace. Speechless, he stared at her, gazing into her face with a sort of amazement, as if she were the most precious angel in heaven.

Instantly, her heart softened, and all the pain in the world couldn’t make her regret what she’d surrendered to him.

She leaned forward, burrowing her head in his shoulder to hide her winces of pain.  Then she initiated the motion of lovemaking she’d learned from stealing peeks down alleyways and into shadowy stables.

To her relief, after several slow thrusts, the pain eased, and tingling warmth took its place.  A sensual haze began to swirl around her like mist on a marsh, moving her to curious languor, suffusing her with primal desires.  Instinct drove her, stealing her will and directing her in the rhythm of passion’s dance.

Beneath her, Nicholas gasped in wonder, clinging to her like a man about to drown.  His quiet desperation fueled hers, and she turned her head toward him, her breath soughing against his ear.  He shivered, growling softly, thrusting upward with his hips to answer her motion.

It was a different sensation from before, when he’d brought her to a quick crest.  This was a deep, slow-burning, all-encompassing passion that touched every fiber of her body, every thread of her thoughts.

As she rocked gently back and forth, the pleasurable fullness increased.  Where they joined, her flesh grew moist and receptive, and her heart seemed to open to him, as well.  It was a sweet and wanton feeling, a thirst for power, yet a desire to please, all in the same moment.

He continued to return her thrusts at a gradually increasing pace.  With each assuaging stroke, she was spurred to even greater yearning.  Now it was she who hastened toward the elusive target, for it seemed every thrust that brought her nearer satisfaction also brought her more intense need.

It must have been the same for him.  He strove against her, yielding more, demanding more.  And now he clasped her to him, one hand holding the back of her head, one grasping her buttock, guiding her with ever-increasing urgency.

Soon her mind had no room for thought, for it was too filled with sensation.  Her wits deserted her, and she bucked as recklessly as a wild mare, straining at its tether.

An incredible tension commanded all her focus, increasing with each gasp of breath, until she was certain she could bear no more.

Then, with a great lunge, he bellowed beneath her, his arms squeezing her tightly as he drove upward in the throes of violent release.  Suddenly the reins on her own passions snapped, and she broke loose, a colt cantering off across a sunlit field, reveling in freedom, buffeted by strong, warm winds of pleasure.

For a long while they held each other in silence, too overwhelmed to move, too weary for words.  And long moments later, Desirée shuddered off the last vestiges of lust.  But nothing could dissipate the lingering sweetness of her union with Nicholas.  She’d expected the bone-rattling, skin-tingling climax she’d experienced before.  She’d never anticipated this.

She didn’t want to stir.  Ever again.  She’d die happy if she could only lie in Nicholas’s arms forever.

Not only were their bodies joined.  Their hearts beat in tandem, making joyful music.  And her soul felt inextricably intertwined with his, as if they’d been struck by a lightning bolt that had forged them into one.

Desirée felt simultaneously gentled and empowered, vulnerable yet strong.  This merging of their bodies and hearts and spirits seemed to have created one being of all the best of both.

Tenderness overwhelmed her.  She snuggled against his neck, listening to his breathing slow into the faint snores of sleep.  Her last thought as she drifted off to contented slumber was that she was helplessly in love with Nicholas Grimshaw.

I
t was morning, and Nicholas’s head felt like it was in a brain crusher.  The last time he’d drunk so much in one night was after his first hanging.  And then he’d had three days to recover.

He vaguely remembered that he had to travel to Chilham this morn, a journey of a few hours, but his thoughts were so scrambled from whatever he’d done last night that he’d be lucky if he could find his way there.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes when he realized he wasn’t alone in the bed.  Someone was nestled intimately against him, and it wasn’t Azrael.

Cautiously, he lifted one eyelid.

Desirée.  She was facing away from him, and her hair cascaded over her shoulders and his hand.

In a sobering rush, he remembered.

Desirée had come back to him.  And hell—he’d swived the lass.  Indeed, the dear damsel had surrendered her maidenhood to him.

He racked his brain, trying to recall every precious detail.  But he’d been drunk, curse it all, and much of his memory was a blur.

Still, it was clear enough to make him forget his aching head.  And at the moment, the way her bottom was caressing his loins in warm invitation brought a lusty swell to his cock and a hopeful smile to his lips.

Loath to wake her, but unable to resist all the feminine delights so close at hand, he nuzzled the nape of her neck, inhaling her woodsy fragrance, rubbing a silky strand of her hair between his fingers.  He let his palm slide lightly over her bare shoulder, where her gown had slipped down, then traced the loose laces of her kirtle along her back, gliding forward over the sinuous narrowing of her waist, spanning her ribs so his thumb rested just below the curve of her breast.

Encouraged by her lack of resistance, he let his hand drift downward over her skirts.  Even through the wool, he felt the slight mound of her womanhood, and he imagined the soft curls there, the sweet petals that had parted for him last night.  Gently, he slipped his hand farther between her legs, where she was even hotter.

God, he wanted her.  He wanted to seize the day once more, make love to her while she lay warm and willing and close at hand, while he was fully awake and aware and sober, while he could ravish her properly, make her so contented she’d never leave him again.

She moaned softly in her sleep as he gathered her skirts in his fingers, dragging them up to bare her thighs, and when he slid his palm over the warm flesh of her womanhood, she woke with a tiny gasp.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

At first, her hand closed defensively atop his, as if to yank it away, but when he coaxed a finger gently between her nether lips, she sighed, pressing him closer instead.

She rolled toward him onto her back, allowing him better access, and he eased up on one elbow, enchanted by her beautiful, smoldering green eyes.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

His gaze lowered to her mouth, and a furrow creased his brow.  There was a tiny cut at the corner of her lip, and the flesh along her jaw seemed bruised.  God’s wounds.  Had he done that?  “I hope I didn’t hurt you last night.”

A sly smile curved her lips.  “I hope I didn’t hurt
you
.  You bellowed like a sick bull.”

Giving her a sheepish grin of relief, he lifted the fingers of his free hand to tuck her hair behind her ear.  “A
love
sick bull.”  With the back of his knuckle, he lightly traced the vein pulsing down the side of her neck.  Then he noticed a thin red scratch running across her throat.  He frowned again.  Damn, what had he done to her?

At his scowl, her hand flew defensively to her throat.  After a moment, her eyes widened.  “Shite!”  She lifted her head to glance toward the shuttered window.  “What hour is it?”

The hand cupping her fell away as she hastily scrambled to the edge of the bed.

He scowled.  Light filtered in through the cracks of the shutters.  “I’m not sure.  Past dawn.”  What ailed the lass? 

“Past dawn?”  She stumbled from the pallet and began smoothing her skirts, clearly unnerved about something.

“What’s wrong?”

She froze.  “Wrong?”  She licked her lip, and he knew instantly she was about to lie to him.  “I’m...I’m only concerned that you might be late for your work.”  She seemed to take a sudden interest in finding his boots.  “Where is it you’re off to today?”

As she reached for one cast-off boot, her sleeve slipped up and he glimpsed her wrist.  The flesh was raw there, red with abrasions.

He narrowed his eyes.  That he knew he hadn’t done.  Those kinds of marks came from rope.

Their gazes met, and for an instant, guilt flashed through her eyes.  Then she averted her glance, pulling her sleeve down over the mark and dropping his boot beside the bed.

Bloody hell!  Something had happened to her, and the little imp was trying to hide it.  She might be a skillful liar and a gifted cheat, but there was no concealing physical evidence like that.

Desirée had been missing for two days, yet she’d given him no plausible explanation for where she’d gone or what she’d done, aside from some nonsense about trying to sell his gaming box.  She’d clearly gotten herself into some kind of trouble.  And she wasn’t going to divulge what it was.  Not willingly, anyway.

But Nicholas knew how to loosen tongues.  That was his trade.  He could have her singing like a sparrow within the hour.

He reached out and caught her elbow, gently but firmly tugging her toward him again.  “Chilham.”

“What?”

“I’m going to Chilham today.”

“Chilham?  But isn’t that a long way?”  She resisted his pull, but he had the advantage of strength, and he forced her to sit on the edge of the pallet.

He wrapped an arm about her waist then, anchoring her there, and gave her a sultry grin.  “Not that far.  I can spare an hour.”

“An hour!” she exclaimed, trying to spring to her feet.  But he held her fast.

“Or two.”

“Oh, nay!”  This time she managed to weasel out of his grip, and she surged toward the foot of the bed, where she flung open his wooden chest and began pulling out garments.  “I won’t be the ruin of your reputation.  If Chilham needs Nicholas Grimshaw, then Nicholas Grimshaw they shall have.”

While she burrowed through his clothing, he crept toward her atop the coverlet.  When she slammed down the lid, he picked her up by the waist and hefted her back onto the bed.