His Mistress By Christmas (31 page)

For a long moment he didn’t say a word. “For a minute, I thought you were going to tell me you had changed your mind about marrying me.”

“Goodness, Sebastian, I was not the one whose judgment was impaired last night. I said I’d marry you, and I have every intention of doing so.” She shrugged. “This, then, is your first discovery. Once I have decided upon a course of action, I rarely change my mind.” She closed the book and smiled at him.

He chuckled. “Ah, but you changed your mind about becoming a mistress.”

“About becoming
a
mistress, not about becoming
your
mistress.” She rose to her feet. “There’s a difference.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Well, while I thought the idea of being a mistress in general was rather brilliant, it wasn’t until I met you that I truly decided.” She moved toward him.

He narrowed his gaze. “You’re saying you only wanted to be
my
mistress?”

“So it appears.” She grinned. “It’s a brilliant idea.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I know. It’s most endearing.” She gazed up at him. “I don’t see any reason why I can’t be both your mistress and your wife.” She slid her arms around his neck. “Do you?”

He paused, then wrapped his arms around her waist. “Why, no.” He bent his head to nibble the curve of her neck. “In fact, you’re right. It is a brilliant idea.”

She shivered. Good Lord, when he did that… “I suspected you might agree. However . . .” She pulled out of his arms. “As I am not your wife yet and have never, in truth, been your mistress . . .”

“But . . .” He stared. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know that, darling, but it has occurred to me that the only thing that might save us from complete, utter, devastating scandal is the fact that we have not shared a bed.”

His eyes widened in disbelief.

“We have not really done anything that, oh, can’t be undone. We have not yet made love.” She cast him a pleasant smile.

“Well, no, but . . . it is Christmas Eve,” he said hopefully.

“Indeed it is.” She nodded. “And tomorrow is Christmas Day, and sometime after that, we shall tell your family that we aren’t married, and soon after, we shall likely be wed.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Then, you and I, we are not, that is, tonight . . .”

“All things considered, it would be best.”

“Did I mention it’s Christmas Eve?”

“More than once.” Oh, this was fun.

“Still . . .” He chose his words with care. “Given that it is Christmas Eve, and we are going to be married . . .”

“But we’re not married yet.” She shook her head. “And you did say it was not proper to seduce the woman you intended to marry.”

“I did say that.” He considered her thoughtfully. “As you are already dressed for bed—”

“And you have already discarded your coat and are scarcely properly attired—”

“It’s probably most improper for me even to be here.”

She heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “I would think so.”

His gaze traveled over her, over the French lace and silk dressing gown that revealed no more than a hint of the provocative sheer nightgown underneath. “That is . . . most becoming.”

“Do you think so?”

“Only a dead man would fail to be . . .” He cleared his throat. “Moved by it.”

“And you are certainly not dead.”

“It’s the sort of thing a mistress would wear.”

“Really?” She glanced down. In the right light, he could probably see right through it. “I thought it might be the sort of thing a wife would wear.”

“One can only hope. But you are now my . . .” He thought for a moment. “Betrothed?”

She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Indeed I am.”

“Then I should give you a chaste kiss good night and retire to my bed,” he said smoothly.

“It would be best,” she murmured, ignoring a vague twinge of disappointment. Apparently, two could play at this game.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze locked with hers. Her breath caught. “I should say good night.”

“Yes, well, probably . . .”

“It seems only proper,” his lips murmured against her hand.

“And I have tried my best to behave properly with you.”

“I have noticed.”

He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “In hindsight, it might have been a mistake.”

“Oh?” She swallowed hard.

“But, it seemed to me, when something is as important as finding the woman with whom you intend to spend the rest of your days, one should probably follow the rules of propriety.” His lips moved to her wrist.

“Why?” she asked without thinking.

“I’m not sure. Apparently, there’s more of the proper Hadley-Attwater in me than I suspected.” He brushed aside the lace of her sleeve and trailed light kisses along her arm to the inside of her elbow.

“Sebastian . . .” Who would have imagined that particular spot would be quite so sensitive? She scarcely noticed his free hand untying the belt of her dressing gown.

“Although I have never been fond of rules.” He pushed the gown off her arm, then bent to kiss her shoulder. Her breath caught, and she was only vaguely aware of the silk and lace confection drifting to the floor.

“I had heard that about you.”

He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her closer. A tiny voice in the back of her head, sounding suspiciously like Portia’s, demanded she wait, as they would be married soon. Veronica ignored it.

His other hand slid over her silk-covered hip, and he leaned in to cover her mouth with his. She opened her mouth to his, and he tasted of brandy and promises and desire. And forever. Her breath mingled with his, and his tongue dueled with hers, teasing and tempting. Need shivered through her. He pulled away and kissed that spot where her neck met her shoulder. She wasn’t sure how he knew, but that particular spot, and the way his lips caressed her, fairly melted her bones.

She moaned softly. “When you do that . . .”

“Yes?”

She abandoned herself to the sensation of his lips on her skin. “You’re very good at this.”

She felt his smile against her neck.

“You’ve had a lot of practice.”

He raised his head and gazed into her eyes. “And that’s all it was, Veronica, practice. For this. For you.”

Her heart caught. “It doesn’t matter to me, you know. Anything before we met. It’s not the least bit important.”

“Good, because it doesn’t matter to me, either.” He smiled into her eyes. “Nothing in my life mattered before the moment we met. My life began with you.”

She swallowed hard, tried and failed to adopt a light tone. “My, that is polished.”

“Only because it’s true.” Again his lips met hers. Passion surged between them, strong and overwhelming and irresistible.

His hand on her hip gathered the silk of her nightgown until his fingers touched the bare flesh beneath it. She shivered and tugged his shirt free from his trousers. He shifted to allow room to pull her gown up over her head and toss it aside. She pushed his shirt up until he pulled it over his head and let it drop. She rained kisses on the base of his throat; her hands roamed over the hard muscles of his chest. His fingers explored the curves and valleys of her derriere and skimmed over her hips and the small of her back. She pressed her hips against his, the hard evidence of his arousal pressing into her through the fabric of his trousers. His hands caressed her, his fingers tracing the seam of her bottom. She slid her hand between them to fumble with his buttons, frantic with desire. Dear Lord, she wanted this man.

She popped open his buttons and slid her hand into his trousers. Her fingers found his hard, swollen cock straining against the confining fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath. His chest rose and fell faster against her. Her hand curled around his cock and stroked him, and he moaned.

“Oh God, Veronica.”

He shoved his trousers down his hips, let them fall to the floor, and kicked them aside. She caressed his cock and his ballocks, trailing her tongue and her lips down his chest. She slowly sank to her knees and gazed up at him.

He stared down at her, his eyes glazed with desire. She cupped his ballocks with one hand and wrapped the other around his cock, pulling back the foreskin. Still staring up at him, she flicked her tongue over the tip of his cock. He gasped, his hands clenching at his sides. She wanted to give him pleasure. Wanted him to ache to take her. Wanted him mindless with desire, with wanting her. Charles had taught her well. And, God help her, she had enjoyed it all. A mistress at heart.

She circled the head of his cock slowly with her tongue. He shuddered, and she sucked him slowly into her mouth until he filled her. She pulled away, raking her teeth lightly over the length of him. He groaned. Moisture pooled between her legs, and she throbbed with need. She sucked at the head of his cock, squeezing gently and caressing his ballocks. He rocked his hips slightly toward her, driving himself into her mouth, as if he were trying to restrain himself but couldn’t.

She drew back, and he pulled her to her feet. He slid his hand down her hip and lifted her leg to wrap around his. His mouth took hers. Claimed hers. Plundered hers. His cock slipped between her legs and rubbed against her wet, slick center of desire. She moaned into his mouth.

He shuddered and pulled away, then scooped her into his arms and strode into his room to deposit her on his bed. She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at him. She’d only ever seen one other naked man. Charles had been a handsome man, but Sebastian was . . . finely chiseled. Sculpted. Like a marble statue. Or a god. Broad shoulders, tapered hips, long muscled legs. All that coupled with the scar above his eyebrow and the desire darkening his blue eyes and . . . She was his for the taking.

He slid onto the bed beside her and took her in his arms. Her breasts pressed to his chest. His legs tangled around hers. His mouth, his hands were everywhere at once. He cupped her breasts and teased her nipples with his tongue, sucked and nipped with teeth and mouth. She writhed beneath his touch. Everywhere he explored, every inch of her, was alive with sensation, intense and overwhelming. He slid lower, trailing kisses between her breasts and over her stomach. She moaned and arched up to meet his mouth, his touch.

He moved to kneel between her legs and feathered kisses over the inside of her thighs. He parted her with his fingers, and his thumb rubbed over her. She cried out and her body jerked and she raised her hips. He held her open, bent low, and blew over that sensitive, throbbing point of pleasure. He lowered his head and flicked it with his tongue, and she wondered if one could die of unbridled bliss. And didn’t care. He licked and suckled, and exquisite pleasure washed through her, over her. Her hands twisted the bedclothes, and her hips rocked against his mouth in a mindless aching need for more.

“Sebastian . . . dear Lord . . . please . . .”

His shifted and positioned himself between her legs, then slid into her until he filled her, possessed her. Her muscles tightened around him. He withdrew slowly, allowing her to feel every inch of him, then slid into her again. She hooked her legs around his and urged him on, urged him deeper. His movements grew rhythmic, faster. She rolled her hips against him, meeting his thrusts with her own.

Faster and harder, he pushed into her. Tension, exquisite and demanding, built within her. And she wanted, she needed, more. She clutched at him and moaned and rocked harder against him. And lost herself in the feeling of pleasure, of being one with him, connected body and soul. Until he thrust hard and groaned and shuddered within her. Her muscles tightened around his cock, and her body exploded in release. Waves of sheer bliss washed through her, and she arched upward and called his name. And wondered at how very good and how very right and how very consuming it was. She was his and he was hers and would be forever. And in a corner of her mind not completely incoherent, she thanked Charles for teaching her to revel in the relations between men and women, and thanked the heavens for once again bringing her love and joy and Sebastian.

They collapsed in each other’s arms, and for a long moment they lay exhausted, struggling to breathe, their hearts beating together as one.

At last she raised her head. “What happened to not seducing the woman you intend to marry?”

“I have already admitted that was a flaw in my plan. And a man should be willing to admit when he is wrong.” He cast her a tired but altogether too satisfied grin. “I was wrong.”

She snuggled against him. “There is something irresistible about a man who acknowledges his mistakes.”

“Which reminds me.” He paused. “Now is probably a good time to tell you—”

“A confession? Oh, good.” She kissed his neck. “Almost as much fun as secrets.”

“It’s not a secret, nor a confession.” He sighed. “My birthday is two days after Christmas.”

“My, that is a revelation.” She chuckled softly. “But I already know that.”

“You do?”

“Your mother told me.”

“Oh.” He blew a relieved breath. “And you’re not at all bothered by it?”

“Not in the least.” She shook her head. “I was born in April. Do you mind?”

“No.”

“Very well then.”

He grinned. “Do you know why I want to marry you?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “No. Why?”

“Aside from the fact that I love you.”

She smiled. “I knew that, too.”

“I want your face, your smile, to be the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.”

“I look dreadful in the morning.” A warning sounded in her voice.

He chuckled. “I thought you liked mornings.”

“Oh, I do.” She shrugged. “They don’t like me.”

“There is something else. . . .” He untangled himself from her, rolled over, opened the drawer in the stand beside his bed, and pulled out a small, ribbon-tied, velvet-wrapped packet. “This is for you.”

“For Christmas or to celebrate Christmas Eve?” She grinned wickedly.

He laughed. “Both.”

She hefted it in her hand. “It’s heavy.” It was also padded, no doubt with tissue, which made it impossible to discern a shape. “May I open it now?”