Invitation to Ruin (17 page)

His eyes locked on hers. He replied in a way that would ensure she would not suspect his motives. “At this hour the gardeners will be working in the orchard down the back of the garden. We should be quite alone.”

“How lovely. I shall have you all to myself. I haven’t thanked you properly for helping Theresa and Alice this afternoon.”

His rake’s instincts were functioning normally; his member was hardening at her clear invitation to seduction. Hunger for a dalliance raged through him. He’d not had a woman since their mistaken tumbling and none three months prior to that. Their brief bedding had hardly been satisfactory.

Walking through the hedgerow arch, between the lawn and the rose garden, she halted, facing him. Her eyes searched
his, then she smiled—one of those smiles that left a man in no doubt as to her current appetite.

She stepped closer. “The garden is beautiful. A perfect place for me to offer my thanks. Don’t you agree?”

Her hand rose to his chest. She was close, almost in his arms. The rutting beast within came out of hibernation. He battled the primitive urges to simply pull her down on the manicured lawn and lift her skirts.

His inner rake wanted to very much come out and play. “It would be interesting to see what a lady of limited experience would likely offer in way of thanks.”

She laughed and settled against his chest, her face tilting up to his.

He teased. “Perhaps she would like a few lessons first?”

“I may surprise you.” She ran her hand down his chest and over the ridge of his erection. “I’m a very quick learner.”

He sucked in his breath at her touch. He growled against the silken skin of her neck. “As long as I’m the only one to teach you, I don’t mind a quick study.”

Her voice vibrated with laughter. “I think it would be pointless to wait until our wedding night. You’ve already taken my virginity. Who would care or even know if we indulged now?”

“I would know.”

He went rigid, worried about his ability to resist. About his potential lack of control, of the primitive need feeling her voluptuous curves evoked in him. That need even now was driving him to claim what she so readily offered. That need wanted her beneath him, above him, any which way he could have a woman. He wanted her surrender—wanted her.

It was a need unlike any he’d ever known—infinitely more powerful, more compelling than his normal longing to couple. It was a need that drove him as no desire ever had.

He tried to come to grips with what this driving need indicated, what it would mean to him. He looked into her eyes, trying to formulate a reason she’d accept for the Lord of Wicked to decline her gracious offer.

Finally he shook his head at her offer. “I want our first night together to be memorable.” How weak was that? The Lord of Wicked suggesting they wait for the proprieties to be completed.

   Melissa listened to the words; even more she listened to his tone. Hesitant, worried, uncertain. Her Lord of Wicked was afraid. He’d said the words of denial. His lips had moved, but his body sang a different tune. She caressed him intimately. He was as hard as rock under her fingers.

If not for the evidence, she could well believe he did not desire her. Why was he declining her offer? Apparently his customary mode of dealing with such an offer would have had her on her back, skirt hiked up with no further conversation.

She eyed him warily. “It will be memorable because I’ve become your wife. It does not stop us indulging here, now.”

His voice as hard as his member under her fingers, said, “I would prefer to wait. For once in my life I am trying to do the right thing.”

She continued to smile invitingly at him. “The Lord of Wicked trying to do the right thing.” She couldn’t imagine it. After reading her book, and seeing the tightness in his shoulders and thighs, she was confident matters between them could progress precisely as she’d planned this afternoon, precisely as she’d pictured on the carriage ride back to Craven House.

Still, she was truly wicked if she destroyed his one attempt at behaving as a true gent. Which suggested she should treat his current vacillation with some degree of magnanimity?

With reluctance, she dropped her hand from the most intimate part of him, and letting her lips curve more definitely, she reached up and wound her arms about his neck. “Very well. If you wish.”

The suspicion that flashed into his dark eyes made her smile even more. She drew his head down, lifting her lips to his. “Perhaps just a small taste of the pleasure to come.”

* * *

Their lips met. He relaxed. He was an accomplished rake, and setting the pace of any seduction was all but second nature to him. Why was he scared of allowing a few stolen kisses?

She broke the kiss, and giggling like a schoolgirl, she took his hand and dragged him deeper into the garden until they came across a stone bench next to the bird fountain. She pulled him down to sit next to her.

Sincerity clouded her kaleidoscope eyes, a true array of green and brown flecks. “I do thank you for your help today. It was most kind considering how I deceived you.” She smiled beguilingly. “How exactly would you like me to show you my thanks?”

Sliding into habit, he pulled her into his lap, into his arms, and felt her soft form through her gown. It was a mistake. The rake hiding deep down burst forth.

“I’m sure I can think of something,” he all but growled.

She eagerly reached for his face to bring it to hers. He found the hooks of her day dress, and without thought, as if he was simply following a script, he undid them. She wriggled closer and sank against him, her hands on his chest, her lips teasing and taunting—flagrantly tempting.

He answered her challenge, confident of staying in control. His words of restraint almost forgotten under his burgeoning desire. His hands roved her soft body, roved her curves, the experience all the more potent since he’d never actually had the pleasure of seeing her naked body before. He pitied blind men. To feel a woman’s curves but not be able to see them would drive a man mad.

She kissed him with unfeigned delight, openly encouraging. His mind refocused.

All too soon the kisses grew headier, more evocative; she grew softer, he commensurately harder. He’d made a logical rational decision that indulging her with kisses and caresses was only fair, since it would be dangerous to indulge once she
was his wife. Besides, she was already suspicious of his magnanimous gesture to wait for their marriage bed.

At no point did he entertain the notion that the Lord of Wicked could not, no matter how hard she tried, overcome his determination not to take her.

God help him, she didn’t.

It wasn’t Melissa who tumbled them onto the warm, fragrant grass. It wasn’t Melissa who trapped herself beneath him. Nor was it Melissa who swept aside her bodice, revealing her bountiful breasts, encouraging him to admire, caress, and taste that which he commanded himself to resist.

He’d touched her breasts before, but he hadn’t viewed them, hadn’t feasted on the soft flesh and dusty pink nipples. She arched wildly beneath him; her willingness to oblige him caught him unawares. Caught him with his defenses down, and before he realized her strategy, he’d almost lost the battle. His fortress of denial breached.

His lips were on hers, hard and demanding, his hand on one pert breast. His body roared for satisfaction, pressing her down, his intention brutally clear.

And she fed the flames. She smashed his battlements to dust, showing no fear. He kissed her more ravenously, more explicitly than he ever had before—with any woman.

She took, savored, and urged him on.

Her hands roamed freely over his shoulders and stroked his back, frantically clenching his hair. Then his waistcoat and shirt were undone, and her palms spread like liquid heat across his chest, fingers flexing, sinking in as she tweaked one pebbled nipple. She made small encouraging gasping sounds, her body arching under his experienced hands.

The sounds of her passion sent a primitive and unrestrained need slamming into him, filling him, shaking his resolve.

Through his raging desire, he glimpsed one instant of clarity. She was his—his to take whenever he wished, here, and now—if that was what he wanted.

The devil take him. He wanted to have her with a need so acute, every fiber in his being hurt. He hadn’t expected his own instincts to betray him, delivering up to him that which was his deepest fear—he must prevent his seed from taking root. Not easy to remember when his body craved her to distraction.

He could ease his pain. He could have her now, here: Even as his lips returned to draw one peaked nipple deep into his mouth and his body moved over hers, one thought flashed through his mind: don’t get her with child. The thought was almost enough to cause an extremely hard part of him to become morosely flaccid.

With a shaky breath, he acknowledged that indulging in his favorite pastime with Melissa could lead to his condemnation … to a child, a child whom he would never love.

He’d been captive of the flames often enough to know he had the willpower to wrestle back control. Now that he remembered the danger, his will kicked in and he began his withdrawal. She might have won the battle, but he’d win the war.

However, Melissa’s tortured breathing, her greediness for every touch, told him how close to release she hung. He couldn’t leave her disappointed for a second time. The night he’d taken her virginity had been rough, fast, with no finesse. His pride wouldn’t let him leave her on the edge once more—he wasn’t that cruel.

   Melissa was floating in a sea of sensation. She knew she was close to experiencing her first orgasm. The book could never have prepared her for the spine-tingling, exquisite torment. Beneath the staggering heat, urgency gripped her—drove her on. Her senses could barely cope, yet seemed to have expanded, heightened. Her skin was over-sensitized, yet greedy for all he could give her.

Her body melted, all resistance gone; his in contrast had only grown harder. Nevertheless, his strength wasn’t his source of power over her. His power stemmed from his expertise,
the way he made her body surrender. Her arms clung to his shoulders as if her life depended on it.

She felt the hard, hot evidence of his erection pressing into her stomach; all the while his lips ravaged hers. His hand kneaded her naked breast, his palm shooting sharp desire to the very core of her. She longed to feel him inside her. She heard herself moan deep in her throat. The hard rigidness of him held a promise of all she hoped would come.

She did nothing but encourage him when his hand left her breast, slid over her hip, and started to gather and lift her skirt. She didn’t care that it was daylight, or that anyone could stumble across them. She’d stopped breathing entirely—caught in a vise of anticipation, excitement, and sheer hungry desire.

Melissa was caught up in the masculine scent and feel of this man. A man who would on Friday become her husband. Never before had she wanted a man the way she desired Anthony. It was as if her body knew, before her head, that this was meant to be. Her heart clenched deep in her chest. Anthony was sweeping her past infatuation, heading directly down the path to love. She should be terrified. Terrified that a man like Anthony, a seasoned rake, who was only marrying her to protect them both from scandal, could ravage her heart.

She let out a gasp at the touch of his heated palm sliding up her leg. He shifted over her, pushing her skirts and chemise to her waist, leaving them bunched there, his hand sliding immediately to tangle in her curls. Then he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth as he cupped her—the tantalizing dance in her mouth distracting her before he opened her body and slid one finger into her softness.

Like a well-trained courtesan, she reacted, hips lifting against him. Being a quick learner, she picked up the rhythm of his tongue and finger, her movements triggered by instincts as old as time.

For one long minute she felt a flutter of panic. Her body was no longer hers. The heat within her built and built, until
she struggled against his attentions, wanting to break free and breathe. His charcoal eyes, their flint-edged heat, captured her gaze as he lifted back, his fingers continuing to work their magic between her legs. He watched, his eyes darkening, soaking in her gasps, and pants—while the weight of his body held her down, held her at the mercy of his incredibly amazing fingers.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.” His voice was raspy and his breathing heavy.

She felt him come up on his elbow and shift back. Her lids felt heavy, but she didn’t want him to stop, so she obeyed his command. She opened her eyelids and looked down his body, watching him watching her, where his hand rhythmically flexed between her naked thighs. His knee held them spread and she could feel the grass tickling her naked skin.

Slowly, at odds to the fingers working her steadily to the point of fracture, she watched his gaze roam back up over her hips, over her bare stomach, up over her midriff, over her rucked skirts to her exposed breasts, heaving, with their tight peaks pointed and begging for his mouth.

He captured her gaze. His expression was hard, etched as if in pain; yet something in the line of his lips suggested a softness, an intangible emotion she longed to see forever in his face. Between her thighs, his hand shifted; slowly, deliberately, he probed deeper. Then his thumb caressed, circling, increasing her pleasure. Tensing, she rose off the ground, her breathing ragged. “Please—make it …”

“Give yourself to me.” His lips twisted in a half smile. “Let yourself fly free.” His mouth bent and claimed her pebbled nipple. His tongue flicked. Then his lips suckled, hot and greedy on her breast. The sharp sensation of his mouth at her breast, coupled with the wicked intimate caress of his marauding fingertips, set her skin afire. Her lungs seized. Then his finger withdrew, and he pressed—breathless, she gasped his name as his clever thumb began its stroke against the nub of her womanhood.

She surrendered; she let him take her to the dizzy heights, to the moon and the stars.

She gave herself up to his expertise and floated on the tide of a sensual delight. Nothing she had read could have prepared her for a man’s touch, let alone Anthony’s clever ministrations.