Her Protector's Pleasure (37 page)

Her humor evaporated at the sight of Ambrose sprawled on the divan before the fire. Despite his injured arm, he'd managed to get his clothes off and donned the black silk dressing robe she'd left out for him. His hair was damp and curling from the bath he'd taken as well.

At her approach, he rose immediately, and her heart fluttered as readily as a debutante's. Dash it all, he was so
fine
. She adored his lean toughness and his long, loose-limbed stride as he came toward her. She couldn't help but allow her gaze to linger at the V of his robe, which offered a tantalizing view of his chest. Beneath her peach dressing gown, her nipples budded at the memory of the exquisite scrape of that hair-roughened skin.

He cupped her jaw, and she rubbed her cheek against his callused palm, feeling the strength of his touch. The honesty and gentleness.

"You look tired," he murmured.

Honest to a fault, her policeman. Smiling, she said, "We haven't seen each other for days, and that's the best compliment you could come up with?"

"It was meant to be an observation, not a compliment." His eyes crinkled at the corners in the way she loved. "Vanity, thy name is woman. But if you must,"—with a swiftness that stole her breath, he yanked her against him—"
here
is your compliment."

"Oh," she sighed. His unmistakable tribute pressed against her belly like an iron bar; her thighs trembled. "I do believe that is the
largest
compliment I have ever received."

"I plan to flatter you all night long." His gaze reflected the intimate warmth of the candlelight, and his mouth crooked up at the edges. "But first we should talk."

She blew out a breath, her blood humming. "Yes, we should."

They went to the divan. He settled her on his lap, and in a precise manner, she reviewed the events of their time apart, including what she'd discovered in Coyner's secret antechamber. She told Ambrose that his contact, Willy Trout, had provided a list of Coyner's holdings: three of the properties were within two to three days' travel from London. Runners and River Police had been sent to investigate each estate, and Marianne expected to hear from the scouts on the morrow.

"You're certain that Coyner left London?" Ambrose said.

Marianne nodded. "If he were here in town, Gavin Hunt's men would have found him. Hunt runs half the stews, and Percy volunteered his services to us."

Ambrose's lips twitched. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall," he said. His arms tightened around her. "It seems we must wait to make our next move. How are you holding up, sweetheart?"

"Seeing those portraits of Primrose …" Marianne's throat clogged. Every night since, she'd dreamed of her daughter. Saw herself following the sound of Primrose's sweet laughter down a shadowy corridor, knives of panic twisting in her chest as the laughter turned to screams and all she could do was shout,
I'm coming. Wait for me …

She blinked away the despair. "I can't fail her again, Ambrose. I can't."

"We're getting close to Coyner. We'll find him." With his thumbs, Ambrose wiped away her tears. "I won't stop until we do."

Shaking her head, she said, "Why are you so good to me?"

He touched her cheek. "You deserve to be happy."

His sincerity made her go softer than the center of Monsieur Arnauld's soufflés. Desires trembled inside her, yet so many obstacles stood in her path. First and foremost, she had to regain Primrose. She could not even think of her own selfish needs until her daughter was safe once more. God willing, that would be soon—but after that there was still the business with Bartholomew Black. The bargain she'd signed with her soul. Her skin crawled at the memory of the instruments of degradation he'd had mounted on his wall.

No matter what she desired, she couldn't escape the darkness of her past. She hadn't the freedom to offer fidelity or commitment. Her future remained uncertain, her ability to give anything beyond the moment curtailed. Yet she needed Ambrose, needed his strength and his warmth though she had no right to ask for any of those things.

So instead, she showed him with a kiss. Cupping his jaw, she poured all she could not say into that hungry meeting of lips. Her heart's yearnings broke free as his tongue stroked hers, his hand closing fiercely in her hair. The kiss turned ravaging as if he, too, sensed the tenuousness of this moment and wished to lay claim to it. Moaning, she shifted onto her knees, straddling him. She kissed his jaw, nipped the tough tendon of his neck, her hands wandering feverishly—

He jolted against her, an oath hissing between his lips.

"Lud, I'm sorry!" Her hand flew from his wounded arm where she'd unthinkingly gripped him. Dash it, how could she have been so careless? "Are you alright? Did I hurt you—"

"'Tis nothing. Carry on," he said.

Yet she could see the raggedness of his breath. Remorse flooded her, streams from past and present. She tried to wriggle off his lap, but his hand clamped on her waist.

"Let me go. I don't want to injure you further," she said in a suffocated voice.

"You're not injuring me. But you will if you don't stop moving about."

She stilled instantly. "I'm hurting you?"

"Absolutely." His eyes gleamed like molten amber. "My cock aches like the devil."

The truth of his words poked through her panic ... literally. She became aware of his manhood, rigid as a steel pike, thrusting against her lower belly; only thin silk separated her flesh and his. Lust shivered over her. Yet she could not quell her anxiety—or her guilt over how she'd treated him.

Ambrose deserved more. He deserved a woman who didn't have a wicked past and an uncertain future. He deserved a good woman who could love him with a heart that was pure and whole.

"I'm sure you are fatigued from your journey." She dropped her gaze. "You shouldn't overtax yourself when you are still healing."

His grip on her loosened. She took the opportunity to slide off him, getting to her feet. He watched her with hooded eyes.

"You're right," he said finally. "I am tired."

She fumbled as she tried to tie the belt of her robe. "Yes, well, it's hardly a surprise—"

"I'm tired of you hiding from me. Of seeing you ruled by the past. Why do you castigate yourself when you are the most courageous woman I know?"

Her vision shimmered. How did he always read her so well?

"Old habits die hard," she said, her throat constricting.

He studied her. "There's a cure for that."

"Really," she said skeptically.

"There is. But you'll have to listen to me for a change," he said. "Take my instruction."

Her brows rose.
Instruction?

"Take off your robe," he said.

The calm command sent a delicious shiver over her. Everything female in her responded to the authority, the hunger in his eyes. When her steady, principled Mr. Kent shed his civilized skin, she could never resist him. Wistfully, she realized that she didn't want to. Her fingers slipped into the knot. Untying it. The silk slid off her shoulders and pooled at her feet.

"You're beautiful,
selkie
," he said, "all the way through. You know that, don't you?"

When he looked at her that way, she
felt
beautiful. Not just on the outside—but inside, where the ugliness festered. The shame, guilt. So much regret. Yet he had seen that part of her, and he still thought her deserving of happiness.

"Come to me," he said.

She chose to obey his order, her nerves sparking. Who knew it would be so exciting to let a man take charge? To trust him enough to submit to his command? With each step, her anxiety about the future abated as the warm approval in his eyes enveloped her. As she let herself sink into the certainty of the moment, the now that was everything. She stopped an inch away from his large, bare feet.

He untied the belt of his robe. The black silk parted, and she licked her lips at the sight of his cock. It was big, thick and heavy. So turgid that it curved upward, the broad crown brushing just below his navel. Her intimate muscles quivered as he gripped himself, his long fingers barely circling the girth.

"See how hard you make me? How badly I want to be inside you?"

His bluntness made her cheeks flame and her sex grow wetter.

"I want you inside me," she said.

His nostrils flared, and she saw his cock jerk in his fist. "Are you wet enough for me? I'm quite large at the moment, and I don't want to hurt your sweet little pussy."

Her breathing quickened as she realized what he was telling her to do. She loved this side of him—the challenging, wicked gleam that replaced his usual sensible gaze. With deliberate slowness, she brought her hand to her belly. She traced a path down the soft slope and saw how this made his cockhead bulge in his grasp. At her sex, she paused before running her middle finger through the damp curls.

"I'm wet," she said throatily, "drenched for you."

He watched her, his chest heaving, his hand stroking up and down his straining cock. "Just to be sure, I want you to touch yourself for me. Yes, sweetheart, just like that. You know just how to pet your pussy, don't you?"

She moaned as her fingers swirled against her own wet flesh, finding the lovely peak where her pleasure gathered.

"Have you done it before? Touched yourself thinking of me?"

"Yes," she sighed, "oh Ambrose, yes."

"Good. I want you to be pleasured, thinking of me." Removing a French letter from his robe, he sheathed himself slowly, letting her see the pleasure that awaited her. "When I frig myself, I think only of you—of how sweet and brave you are. How I die every time we fuck."

His words drove her over the edge. The orgasm hit her, her knees buckling. He caught her, pulling her astride him. Before she had time to regain her breath, she was spread across his hard thighs, his cockhead stretching her still quivering entrance.

Oh God. He was big. So hard.

"You're beautiful, inside and out." His eyes burned with a dark flame. "Say it, Marianne."

"I ... I'm beautiful."

"You're worthy of happiness," he said sternly.

Her throat worked. "I am. I know I am."

"And you're mine."

A wistful breath left her. "Yours … for tonight."

He regarded her intently. Small lines fanned from his eyes.

"I love you," he said.

Shock and joy ricocheted inside her. Before she could react, he gripped her hips. He thrust upward at the same time that he pulled her down with ruthless force. She screamed with pleasure at the bold impalement.

"Ride me. Move on my cock, sweetheart," he ground out.

She obeyed. Her pussy rippled as she adjusted to his thickness. To the bliss pounding in her heart.
I love you.
A gift he'd given to her freely, no strings attached. How she yearned for the freedom to reciprocate. Her chest throbbing with emotion, she rose on her knees, then sank fully down upon his prick. He groaned as she took every inch of him, showing with her body what she could not give in words.

"Somehow I knew you'd like being on top." Though his voice was ragged, his lips quirked. "Lean forward, love ... you'll like that even better."

Placing her palms on the divan's edge behind his shoulders, she rocked on him again, and she gasped as sparks showered through her sex. She repeated the motion, moaning as with each rise and fall his shaft rubbed against her pearl. His lips closed over a nipple, licking, sucking, and the sensations shot straight to her womb, adding to the clenching delight. She thought it couldn't get any better until suddenly his hips surged upward, his cock butting an exquisite spot.

Lights danced before her eyes. "
Ambrose, my God—
"

"Goddamn, you're gripping me like a vise," he groaned. "I can't last much longer. Come for me, sweetheart."

His hands gripped her bottom, holding her prisoner to his ravaging cock. He slammed into her again and again. Her spine turned molten, and she dissolved in a hot rush of sensation. Pulse after pulse of pleasure travelled through her groin, catching fire in her belly, and she exploded, flew apart in sparkling, white-hot shards.

Strong hands lifted her, tossed her onto the cushions. Breathless, she lay on her back as Ambrose stood over. His neck corded, he tore off the French letter and fisted his cock.

"Do you want to feel me?" he rasped.

Floating in the aftermath as she was, she nonetheless felt a primitive quiver. Because she knew the answer. She
craved
his heat—wanted to absorb his essence into her very soul. His nostrils flared when she cupped her breasts, creating a valley between them.

"Here," she whispered. "Come to me here."

He was magnificent in his pleasure, all lean, quivering muscle, his eyes piercing and locked on hers. His passion brimmed as keenly as her own, and it was a bright, beautiful thing. One, two, three strokes and his spine bowed. His face tightened in a harsh grimace. He shouted out as his release arced from his cock and rained upon her skin.

A spatter landed on her right nipple, coating the sensitive peak. She touched the creamy essence and brought her finger to her lips, humming as his musky taste warmed her senses.

Groaning her name, he collapsed next to her and pulled her into his arms. "You'll be the death of me, woman."

"Perhaps the reverse is true. Here I was thinking you were a nice man, Mr. Kent," she murmured.

"Not
too
nice, I hope." She felt the shape of his smile against her cheek. "After all, my lady, I wouldn't want to bore you with my dull Johnny ways."

FORTY

The following morning, Ambrose looked at the group assembled in the breakfast room. The Hartefords occupied one end of the table whilst Miss Percy Fines and Gavin Hunt perused the sideboard together. Percy's mother occupied a chair next to Ambrose's father; the two appeared to be hitting it off. Samuel fed biscuits to the fat pug in Mrs. Fines' lap whilst the good lady went on about the details of her daughter's upcoming nuptials.

Despite the jovial chatter, an air of anticipation hung over the room. Marianne's friends had come to offer support and assistance; the scouts who'd gone to investigate Coyner's estates were due to return today. For purposes of minimizing the mayhem, Ambrose had asked Emma to keep their siblings occupied elsewhere.