Like No Other Lover (23 page)

Her lids fluttered up in languid stages, as though she’d grown unaccustomed to the weight of her own eyelashes. Her pupils were nearly indistinguishable from that rich blue. It was like looking into midnight.

She met his eyes, her own dark, enigmatic, helpless, as though she would speak…if only she could. The uneven tempo of her breath breezed against his lips.

Excitement built upon excitement. His, hers.

“I don’t think it’s me you want,” he surmised relentlessly, punishing himself with his own logic and his own words, his voice a murmur, his fingers leisurely dragging his hands all the way down through that shining sheet of hair, down her back, to her buttocks. Through it his fingertips brushed the muslin nightdress; it was worn nearly as smooth as her skin, partly chilled from her sojourn down the hall, partly warm from the fire. God. So many glorious sensations belonged to this one woman.

“I think I’ve inadvertently shown you what your
nature
wants,” he said, “and you think there’s something in particular you’ve missed. And…” His voice became a hush. “…you think I’ll show you what this is. That I’ll show you what you want to know. What you now
need
to know. And you think that I’m…” And now his voice was a whisper:

“…safe.”

It had begun as a word, but he ended it as a kiss. As soft as the whisper itself.

She existed only to be touched, and everything else—speaking, breathing—was superfluous at the moment. Why didn’t he realize this?

She closed her eyes again. A vain attempt to keep him from reading her thoughts.

This large-nosed, broad-shouldered, warm-skinned, probingly subtle, bespectacled man was too clever. He was entirely right, of course, about her. Had always been. She felt exposed; she ought to feel resentful.

But now, his large hands were warm on the small of her back, spanning her waist entirely, and she was impatient to feel them on her skin. And surely this was a dangerous,
dangerous
way to feel.

Why then was she here? When her entire future was at stake? When all she had to offer a man was beauty, charm, and virtue?

And suddenly the hands were gone, his warmth was gone, his breath against her lips was gone.

He was gone.

She realized her knees had turned to water when she swayed forward and nearly stumbled.

Why? Where…?

She opened her eyes, disoriented. She saw that Miles had stepped back from her and was sitting in a chair near the fire. He gave it his weight with relief, pressed his back against it; it was, in fact, very nearly a sprawl. He squeezed his eyes closed briefly; tipped his head back. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair. This was the only sign of tension in the man.

He didn’t fidget, or tap a foot, or hum. No: whatever storms took place in Miles were given expression only when he touched her.

Or when he touched the likes of Lady Middlebough?

Was it the same for him with other women? Was it
always
the same for him? How could it possibly be? Surely if it was, it would have killed him by now.

It occurred to Cynthia to wonder whether perhaps
his
knees had turned to water, too, which was why he’d sought out a chair.

And now his eyes were open and hot, and his face was taut with whatever decision he was attempting to forge in that formidable mind of his. Silence elongated, but the fire had been recently built—the flames brilliant, lively and leaping—and the room was growing warmer and warmer still.

At least, she preferred to blame the fire for how much warmer she was feeling.

“Very well. I’ll show you, Miss Brightly.”

She nearly jumped.

His voice was soft and husky, hesitant; it seemed to come from somewhere inside her when he spoke. Oddly, he sounded…resigned. It sounded like a verdict he’d been reluctant to deliver, as he was uncertain of her reaction. Or even of the wisdom of delivering it.

Thus having delivered it, his mouth quirked at the corner. He was awaiting
her
verdict.

Thank God
, was what she felt like saying. She couldn’t yet speak.

He must have seen this in her face, because he gave a short low laugh: the sound of rueful desire.

“Come stand before me, Cynthia.”

She was tempted to disobey, simply to prove to herself that she still possessed free will.

Her body wasn’t interested in disobedience, however: she drifted over as surely as if he’d tugged her by a string.

She stood before him, looking down, her knees just shy of touching his, her heart thudding in her chest

Miles looked up at her, and she floated in the dark, hot, enigmatic world of his eyes for a long moment. She only became aware that his hands had moved away from the arms of the chair when she felt the air of the room sigh against the backs of her calves. And then, over the pop and spit of the fire, she heard the hushed slide of the nightdress being drawn upward in his hands.

On its way up it left behind a trail of gooseflesh, brushed over the very fine golden hairs of her thighs, turning her spine to liquid. Absently she considered the irony that her own nightdress could be used as a tool of seduction.

Ah, but this was not to be a seduction, she reminded herself. She could never allow it to be fully that.

I’ll show you
, he’d said.

There’s more
, he’d said.

And now she stood before him, scarcely able to draw a proper breath, as her blood seemed to have been replaced with fire itself.

She stood looking down, her nightdress gathered in Venetian folds at her hips in the hands of a man she’d known only a few days, her thighs bare and vulnerable, shockingly pale to her own eyes in the shadowy room, and wondered why it was only then that she considered herself stark raving mad for allowing this moment to happen.

Safe
, he’d said. Did she
truly
think this?

How had he known?

She trusted him. Then again, everyone seemed to trust Miles Redmond.

Reason began to invade her delicious torpor, and she tensed. Miles sensed it, of course, doubtless the way he would sense tension in any warm-blooded animal within his control. One of his eyebrows arced in question. He was allowing her a moment to decide. She felt the slight tremble in his fingers, too; heard the uneven in-and-out of his breathing—nerves or desire? And understood how difficult this was for him.

Safe.
She supposed she was safe with him.

And admitting this to herself, Cynthia slowly closed her eyes, and with that invited more sensation.

He wasted no time: his fingers began feathering, slowly, slowly, toward the tender insides of her thighs. Those warm fingers, coaxing them apart. They needed little coaxing.

“So soft,” he whispered, and there was a peculiar pain, an agony of want in the voice, that was erotic as his touch.

His hands slid beneath her buttocks and he gently pulled her forward. Until his knees were quite between her legs.

“Sit,” he whispered.

“Sit? On—”

“Me,” he completed easily. Softly. Making it sound altogether reasonable.

So she did.

She eased onto his lap, straddling his thighs. She felt the jump of his chest as his breath caught; saw the dark flare of his pupils, the taut cords of his throat, as their bodies slowly met. And through the confines of his trousers she could feel, she could see, the shockingly hard length of his erection.

Desire gave a great unladylike thump as she found herself groin-to-groin with him. She was weak, weak from it.

Even so, his hands remained downright decorous. Rested lightly at her hips, right at the point where he’d gathered up her nightdress. Even as his chest moved unevenly, swiftly.

“Why don’t you lower your nightdress, Cynthia?”

Again, it was a suggestion, silkily delivered. But it was also shot through with implacability, and hopelessly compelling for that reason.

And so her hands, just as much a slave to his voice as the rest of her body seemed to be, found the neckline of her nightdress. Her eyes couldn’t leave his face, so she fumbled for the limp ribbon that held it snugly closed about her throat.

Miles waited. Riveted. His hands motionless on her hips. Breathing in and out, the heat from his body all but burning her bare thighs even though his trousers.

She plucked at the ribbon until it gave way, releasing her neckline. It loosened, then sagged, and she felt the air in the room meet her skin. All the while savoring the searing fixity of his gaze.

She waited, testing her power over him, testing his patience.

Then suddenly feeling shy, she ducked her eyes from his as she shrugged her shoulders. The top of her nightdress dropped.

But not far enough to suit Miles. She felt a small triumph as impatience won over him, and his hands were on it, drawing it effortlessly down.

And in the next instant, it seemed, his hands were filled with her breasts. His hands were hot, roughened from riding, from the outdoors, from simply being who he was. They were urgent. His thumbs dragged hard over nipples already peaked.

“God.”

He took her gasped oath into his mouth because his lips were already there for a kiss. She feasted on this kiss with relief, welcoming his searching, hot tongue as his hands became thoroughly reacquainted with her breasts.

His mouth traveled her throat, to her ear, and ducked beneath to lick the tender hidden place there. She turned her head to abet him, to allow him access to every angle and valley, pleasure shivering through her, from lips, his tongue, his hands.

She’d been very ill with a fever once, as a child. So odd. It hadn’t been entirely unpleasant, living in a world created only of heat.

And this…this was a fever. She thought she could live in this world forever.

When his mouth returned home to her mouth, it was hot and open and savage, and she fell into the kiss, reveling in the clash of teeth, the sinewy darting tongue. He took his lips away from her briefly and raised two fingers to drag them across her mouth for her to suck them.

He drew his fingers away wet.

And without preamble he slid his kiss-dampened fingers between her legs.

“Oh.”
She jerked. The intimacy shocked her.

And she could not have possibly described the sensation, unless with one word:

More
.

“I’m going to make you come, Cynthia.” The words were coarse and fascinating and unbearably erotic. “Because I do believe that’s what you came here for.”

His fingers slid forward over her again, through her damp curls, her cleft, her—

Dear God…incredible…

“I—” she choked. What could she possibly say? Very well, then?

He locked eyes with her. She saw triumph and determination and a soft sympathy in his: he understood her suffering; he was the source, and succor.

His fingers slid again. She was drenched and hot and how did he
know
precisely where to touch her?

Her lips parted on a gasp; her breath came roughly now.

“How?” That whisper again. “How do you want me to touch you?”

Her head had tipped back helplessly. She pushed her body against his hand.
Touch me again
.

“I don’t
know
…” The words were shredded, airless gasps. She was angry to be asked. He
knew
, she thought; why didn’t he simply
give
to her? “Just…please…more…” She shifted against his hand.

“How?” He insisted on that brutally silky murmur. “
How
do you want me to touch you?”

She swallowed. She despised him for making her think, for making her form words. “Harder…”

How did she know that?

He stroked, deliberately, precisely…harder.

Lightning forked through her body. Her head jerked back on a sob of pleasure.

“Ah,” he murmured, pleased with this discovery.

“Again,” she suggested breathlessly, her head rocking back limply, then against his chin, where his own harsh breath fell hot on her ears. She moved her body against his fingers. “Please…again…”

She was distantly aware of his faint smile.

“Now we know
how
.” His voice was low and taut. “Show me precisely where. With your body. Your body knows.”

“Please just—again—” she nearly wept. She ached with the need. “Please…like this…” She moved against him, asking, begging.

“All right, all right. It’s all right, love,” a cracked whisper.

Glory of glories, he touched her again precisely the way she wanted to be touched, dragging his fingers harder over her. Circling deliberately.

A moan spiraled out of her. Guttural and primal. The sound of bliss through the ages. She hadn’t known herself capable of such a sound. It wasn’t enough.

He ducked his head against her throat, as seemingly moved as she was.

She felt his breath against her skin, cooling it; it was how she knew she was drenched in perspiration now.

She didn’t know how she could bear this. She should stop him. Stop him now. She was afraid; it was too new, too unknown, and she didn’t know where it was leading. She hooked her arms around his neck, stroked her fingers up through his hair, held his head fast.

She placed her mouth next to his ear. “Please don’t stop.”

She felt his chest leap in what might have been a short laugh.

Miles found her mouth again with his. He demanded a kiss, and he thrust and stroked with his tongue while his talented, insistent, obliging fingers made good on his promise, stroking, circling, and oh God, once, sliding deeply into the depths of her. Instinct guided her. She moved with him in a rhythm at first tentative, then deliberate, and then swift and abandoned as the pleasure swelled to something almost indistinguishable from agony.

She jerked her head, took her lips from him, buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“Miles…please—I want—”

It wanted something from her, this pleasure, or she wanted something from it, and she didn’t know whether to fight it or rush toward it, or how to do either. And still he stroked, insistently, a torturously exquisite rhythm, faster now.
He
knew.