Authors: Allison Chase
Dark Obsession (10 page)
He moved closer. She went rigid, poised as if about to dart out of reach. But she held her ground, leaving them at a standoff of sorts. He supposed it was up to him to retreat or make the next advance. With a fingertip he lifted a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth and swept it behind her shoulder.
‘‘You’re incredibly lovely. Surely you know that. Just as you must know I’d give anything right now to kiss you again. Not an unreasonable desire, I trust, for a man on his wedding night.’’
He gave her no time to answer before striding forward and grasping her hands. A breathy
‘‘oh’’
escaped her, and the sweetness of the sound convinced every part of him except his brain that no man had ever touched her before. His arousal strained at his trousers.
‘‘oh’’
escaped her, and the sweetness of the sound convinced every part of him except his brain that no man had ever touched her before. His arousal strained at his trousers.
He wanted all of her in his arms, but for now, while he played her game, a chaste hand-holding would do. He bent his head until his nose brushed hers. ‘‘May I kiss you, Honora?’’
‘‘You never sought my permission before.’’
‘‘I’m seeking it now.’’
‘‘Then . . . yes. I believe I wish you would,’’ she whispered, her eyes luminous, her expression earnest.
He almost stepped away, ashamed at having turned his seductive skills on such an innocent. Then he remembered who she was, and the path that had led them both to this moment.
In the instant their lips touched, their hands broke apart. He slid his arms around her, feeling an odd thrill of triumph when she let him, when hers slipped around his neck.
He’d discarded his coat and waistcoat earlier, and now her torso, deliciously soft beneath wispy linen, arched like a sun-warmed kitten against him, a seduction so subtle as to seem entirely unintentional. Yet as he pressed her closer and deepened the kiss, he somehow felt it was she and not he in control of their kisses, of him.
‘‘You’re more skilled than I’d imagined.’’
‘‘Am I?’’ Her lashes fluttered; her bottom lip drooped invitingly, gleaming and kiss-bruised.
‘‘Not even Waterston told me of this.’’
‘‘Who . . . ? Told you of wha—’’
He silenced her with more kisses, the entirety of his being absorbed into the heat of her mouth. Her fingers curled in his hair, triggering the memory of a certain bite on the lip, instantly forgotten when her sighs purred into him.
His heart pounded. His blood roared. He nudged her mouth wider and entered with his tongue, a quick dart, a soft caress. She responded with more counterfeit innocence, tasting him and offering a tenuous welcome to her sultry secrets. Her body melted so sweetly against him, his arousal throbbed as never before.
By God, he’d never been interested in virgins, but this make-believe maiden inflamed him. With his need to have her weakening his knees and trembling through his thighs, he swung her into his arms and blindly made his way to the bed, lost in the lustrous tangle of her hair.
She clung to his neck, her alluring little whimpers muffled against his shoulder. He backed onto the bed and settled her on his lap. Using his forearm he swung her hair out of her face and smoothed it down her back. His palm settled on her bottom and her eyes flashed with anticipation or, if he didn’t know better, alarm.
‘‘Isn’t it time we dispensed with coyness, darling?’’ He bent his head and set about devouring her mouth while his free hand dipped beneath her neckline.
She broke the kiss, slid her lips to the corner of his mouth and uttered a breathless word. ‘‘Coyness?’’
‘‘You perform it brilliantly, but it’s no longer necessary.’’ Yet he found her game exquisitely erotic. He was like a barbarian imprisoned, a warrior shackled by a petite adversary who held him merely by the force of her whim and the fire in her fingertips.
‘‘You have me utterly at your mercy.’’ His tongue traced the curve of her ear, eliciting shivers, squirms, a breathy moan. ‘‘I surrender.’’
Her fingers combed in little stops and starts, one might say shyly, through his hair, then went still. ‘‘What was that?’’
‘‘Just my tongue, darling. Nothing to worry about. You have the most adorable ear . . .’’
‘‘No.’’ She tilted her head to one side, effectively removing the object of his present fascination from reach. ‘‘That noise.’’
‘‘I don’t hear anything.’’ He caressed her nape, attempting to coax her into relaxing back into pleasure. ‘‘Is there anything about me you particularly like, Honora?’’
‘‘There it is again. That scratching sound.’’
Despite his frustration, he couldn’t but admit he’d heard it that time too. Muffled and faint, the sound came from across the room.
‘‘Do you have mice in your walls?’’
He shook his head. ‘‘The man and his ferrets were here less than a fortnight ago. No mice.’’
With their arms entwined they sat silently and listened. Honora propped her chin on his shoulder in a gesture of such familiarity, he experienced another of those odd crimps in his chest. When she lifted her head and started to speak, he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘‘Shh. It’s coming from the door. I fear there may be a spy in our midst. Wait here.’’
He slid her from his lap and stole noiselessly across the room. Ear pressed to the door, he quite distinctly heard the unmistakable shuffling of feet, the rustle of fabric. He flung a nod toward his wife, grabbed the latch, swiftly rotated the key and swung the door wide.
Millicent Thorngoode—no great revelation—yelped, flinched upright and removed her cupped hand from behind her ear. Her startled expression instantly rearranged into a broad smile. ‘‘Oh. I didn’t mean to disturb you children. I just wondered . . . that is . . . would you like tea sent up?’’
Chapter 6
"Mama, how could you!’’
Alternate waves of chagrin and fury scorched Nora’s cheeks as she bore down on the most infuriating, interfering parent in the entire history of parenthood. ‘‘Have you been eavesdropping all this time?’’
‘‘I was doing nothing of the sort, Honora.’’ She crossed the threshold, but Nora thrust up a hand.
‘‘Not another step. Did I not tell you—’’
‘‘Yes, dearest, I know you said you could handle Sir Grayson but—’’
Nora didn’t know whether it was Mama’s excruciating disclosure or Grayson’s indignant snort that sent spots dancing before her eyes. Sweeping past Millicent and a flabbergasted Grayson, she leaned out into the corridor.
‘‘Papa! Papa, please come at once! Papa!’’
Perhaps she shouldn’t have bellowed so. Perhaps she merely should have escorted Mama from the room and shut the door. In the next moment a door down the hall burst open and her father charged out.
He didn’t stop charging until he’d breezed past both her and her mother, wrenched Grayson’s arm behind his back and kicked his legs out from under him. She watched in dismay as her husband of but a few hours landed hard on his knees with a grunt of pain.
Papa stood glowering over him. ‘‘What have you done?’’
Her mortification grew as she witnessed the resentment churning in Grayson’s eyes, heard the jaw-clenching, emphatic precision with which he pronounced each word of his reply. ‘‘I. Merely. Opened. The. Door.’’
‘‘Release him this instant, Papa. He didn’t do anything. It’s Mama. She’s been listening in on us.’’
Millicent’s hands flew up in self-defense. ‘‘I was merely checking on them, Zachy. A mother worries for her daughter. Especially when it comes to mysteries she knows nothing of.’’
‘‘Good grief, Mama.’’
In scowling silence Papa took in all of them—Nora, her mother, and the top of Grayson’s head. Slowly both his features and his grip relaxed. He offered Grayson a hand up.
‘‘Sorry, lad. I heard my daughter’s shouts and instinct overcame reason.’’
‘‘No harm done.’’ Grayson straightened his shirt-front and tugged his cuffs into place. His mouth was tight, bracketed, grim.
What must he be thinking? Of her parents, of her. Disappointment spread like the roots of an old oak. At his touch she had alternated between frenzied nerves, paralyzing doubt and pure fear. Oh, it had all been pleasurable, but she’d been entirely ignorant of what to do, how to react. Hadn’t an inkling of what he expected of her.
She certainly did not want him leaving now, as he almost surely would. They had been on the verge of . . . something extraordinary. And she had been on the verge of answering some of those startling questions raised by her mother’s earlier ramblings.
She longed to learn more of the singular things Grayson had been teaching her prior to Mama’s bumbling interruption. The very notion tingled through her and sent fresh heat to her face, doubtlessly accompanied by a scarlet stain certain to betray her thoughts to the others.
Her father’s midnight blue eyes settled on her until her discomfiture bordered on unendurable.
Why
didn’t they leave?
Why
didn’t they leave?
As if reading her mind, Papa turned to her mother. ‘‘Come along Milly. These children don’t need us here. It’s their wedding night, after all.’’
At the reference her blush burned hotter—and no doubt brighter—as if she and Grayson had embarked upon something illicit.
Yet as husband and wife they were free of restrictions, free of the burdening disgrace others had heaped upon her when, in fact, she’d done nothing wrong at all.
Free to indulge and explore . . . there was something wholly liberating in that, something she very much wished to ponder, but without her present audience.
Her mother was uttering apologies and last minute bits of advice. Nora impatiently waved her off. She’d had enough of Mama’s counsel for one night, and to be sure she’d discerned no resemblance between what she and Grayson had been doing and the priming of a water pump.
She pecked Mama’s cheek and all but propelled her into the hall. She turned back into the room just in time to catch her father’s all too audible whisper to Grayson.
‘‘You gentle her proper or your arm won’t be the only part of you I’ll be twisting. Clear?’’
Grayson’s hands fisted at his sides. ‘‘Perfectly. Sir.’’
The door closed, and they were alone. Nora worried her bottom lip. Would he open that door once more and seek sanity elsewhere? She waited, certain she’d seen the last of him, at least for tonight. But he made no move. They stood staring at each other, the moments preceding the interruption crisp in the air between them, or so it felt to Nora. Then . . .
He burst out laughing. Loudly. Head thrown back, mouth wide. The sound of it rang through the room; the shock of it reverberated inside her. For what seemed an eternity she stood frozen and mortified. Was he laughing at her?
An instant later she was hugging her sides, doubled over as the tensions and worries and even the trials of her parents’ farcical meddling tumbled free like pearls from a broken strand. Yes, it was funny. All of it—her parents, their snooping, their meddlesome ways—everything about this situation. It had to be funny, or it would be too, too tragic.
Still laughing, she clutched the edge of the dressing table for balance and struggled to catch her breath. ‘‘Did you see her face?’’
‘‘Did you see
his
face?’’
his
face?’’
‘‘Heavens, yes. Did Papa hurt you?’’
‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’’ He flexed his wrist. ‘‘Is he always like that?’’
Her laughter ceased as she looked doubtfully into his handsome countenance. Then a fresh round of guffaws rolled from her lips. ‘‘Yes. As a matter of fact, he is.’’
To her relief, Grayson’s laughter engulfed her own. She raised the back of her hand to wipe away mirthful tears. In the aftermath of chaos and laughter she felt a sudden glow, an entirely new, somewhat startling but at the same time comforting impression that Grayson Lowell had somehow transformed into more than the man she’d been forced to marry.
That he was her . . . friend.
He held out a hand, large and broad, a tempting place to rest her own. ‘‘Come,’’ he said, his smile equally broad and tempting.
She placed her hand in his, experiencing a surge of heat when his fingers closed and claimed her. Her breath hitched as he gave a sudden tug that yanked her against his chest. His lips plunged, hard and wet, leaving her breathless, drowning, just the tiniest bit frightened again.
His mouth came away with a rueful twist. ‘‘So you can handle me, eh?’’
‘‘I’d hoped that comment had escaped your notice.’’
‘‘Perhaps I enjoy the idea of being handled.’’ A devilish slant tipped his brows. ‘‘Perhaps I’ve finally determined how to handle you.’’
His baritone dipped on a note that ran under her flesh, raking her nerve endings and stealing her new-found ease. Comfortable? A mere friend?
No, Grayson Lowell was anything but. Right now he was a sensual rival, a seductive foe. Looking down at her with that rapacious gleam in his eye, he seemed predatory, bent on satiating an appetite she was only beginning to comprehend.
A shivering current hovered between them. She tried to widen the gaps between their bodies. His arms locked around her, giving no quarter.
‘‘My mother misspoke. You must not think—’’
‘‘Don’t be indignant.’’ His fingers stroked up and down her bare arm, raising telltale goose bumps that revealed her confusion. He grinned. The strokes became longer, deeper, a lusty rhythm that swept through her, seizing control of her heart and pulse, her breathing, her thoughts.
‘‘I’d say my methods of handling you were well under way to reaping some rather interesting rewards— for both of us. Until a little mouse put a halt to things, that is.’’
She felt the same paralyzing fear as before. He was moving too fast, exceeding her understanding, her ability to make sense of the sensations threatening to overwhelm her. And while part of her longed to be overwhelmed, another part needed time. Needed gentling, as her father had said.
Why must he push, rush so? Yes, they were married, but couldn’t he court her? Even just a little? Could he not understand her inability to simply leap into this new sphere of pleasure?
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