Lovers Forever (18 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Lovers Forever
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Hardly aware of what she was doing, almost impatiently, Tess shoved aside his shirt, her own questing fingers seeking his flat male nipple. He shuddered at her first uncertain caress; his mouth crushed hers even more hungrily, and she gloried in the half-savage, half-tender pressure. When his lips left hers to slide warmly down her throat to her breast, she felt oddly bereft, but the feel of his mouth closing around her nipple sent a surge of delight through her. Her hands closed around his dark head, holding him to her as he suckled her breasts, and an odd feeling of tenderness speared through her. It is not, she thought dizzily, just passion that binds me to him, not just his touch that I crave ... but something more. Ah, God! So much more!
Nicolas's head suddenly lifted and he growled thickly, “I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I'm afraid that these infernal clothes of ours
really
must go!”
Rearing up from her, he tore off his shirt and quickly dispensed with his breeches. Tess's breath caught in her throat at the sheer magnificence of his naked body, her gaze riveted by his engorged, upstanding member. But then she had no time to think as he reached for her and impatiently, ruthlessly, stripped her clothes from her, ripping the old fabric.
When his long, muscled length was finally once more pressed intimately against hers, the warmth of his flesh nearly scorching her, Tess wondered how she could have imagined forbidding herself this intensely sensual pleasure. Their limbs entangled, and his mouth returned to her breast, a sigh coming from both of them as his tongue curled erotically around an aching nipple.
“Do you know,” he said softly against her breast, “that I've thought of little else but making love to you this past twenty-four hours? I was a fool to leave you alone last night, but I swore to myself that I would not rush you, that I would give you time to get used to the idea.” He looked at her, a twisted smile on his lips. “At least that's what I tried to do, but I find that when I am near you, the baser promptings of my body override all other considerations. I want you, sweetheart, and if you're truthful to yourself, you want me just as desperately.”
Not waiting for a reply, he brushed her stiffened nipples with his warm lips, one hand gliding down to cup the curly mound between her legs. Tess's breath quickened, and to her embarrassment, her thighs parted automatically for his exploration. He glanced up at her, satisfaction flaring in the black eyes. Huskily he asked, “Are you going to tell me again that you don't want me? That you're not as hungry as I am to share again the pleasure we found in each other's arms?”
Tess almost hated him at that moment; he was making her admit, once and for all, how helpless she was against him, making her admit aloud how very much she wanted him. Oh, dear heaven, she did want him, she
ached
for him, burned for him, was nearly dying for him to continue his ravishing caresses....
Impassively he watched the struggle within her, and then his head dipped, his mouth once again brushing against her nipples, a gently probing finger sinking deeply within her damp, welcoming flesh. Tess moaned with pleasure.
“Do you want me, sweetheart?” he asked again, nipping her breast lightly. “Do you?”
She gave a groan of defeat and arched up as a second finger joined the other, seductively stretching the clinging flesh. “Damn you!” she cried shakily, the lavender eyes dark with desire.
“Yes!”
Chapter Eleven
H
er capitulation should have filled him with satisfaction, but it didn't. He was all too aware of the hollowness of his victory—her
body
wanted him, but the part of her that made her unique, the heart and soul of her, did not. Beyond insuring that his partner achieved an equal measure of pleasure in his previous amatory experiences, Nicolas had never wondered what might be going on inside a woman's head. This time, however, he did—because it mattered, he admitted bitterly. It mattered a great deal.
It shouldn't have—she was, after all, just a scheming little minx, albeit an utterly adorable one, who had tried her wiles on the wrong man and was now paying the price. But, to his astonishment, he discovered that he didn't want
just
her physical cooperation, he wanted something more, something he had never expected from or shared with another woman—he wanted her to feel for him, some intangible emotion that he dared not identify, and
that
knowledge terrified him.
Tess moved with innocent wantonness beneath his caressing fingers, her thigh brushing against his swollen, aching member, and suddenly he lost the thread of his thoughts. She was so sweet, so hot, and he so ready to give them both the ecstasy they craved that he could think of nothing but how much he wanted her, how very badly he needed to feel himself glide slowly within her slick, silken depths.
Calling himself a besotted fool for even caring about anything other than the immediate physical gratification to be found between her thighs, Nick let his teeth close gently around her nipple. The shudder of pleasure her body gave was all the encouragement he needed to leave off his unsatisfactory musings. Driving his fingers deeper within her, he lost himself in the carnal delights that awaited both of them.
Snared by the elemental needs that were in command of her body, hungry for that moment when he would join their bodies together, Tess tossed restlessly on the bed, her hips moving in a primitive rhythm to the probing caresses of his fingers. She ached for him. Every part of her ached for him—her mouth for the thrust of his tongue, her breasts for the hot, tugging caress of his mouth, and between her thighs ... oh, dear heaven! That ached most of all. The sweet sensations seemed more powerful this time, more intense; this time she knew what was going to happen, and she was eager for it, needing him, wanting him desperately. Every thrusting movement of his fingers within her, every pull at her breast, increased the hunger within her, and a sharp moan of half demand, half need burst from her throat. She could not wait. She wanted him now!
Her hands closed around his dark head at her breast, urging him upward, and when their lips met she surprised both of them by kissing him deeply, her tongue sliding between his lips to tangle with his. Drunk on the flavor of his mouth, her fingers tangled in his thick hair, Tess gave herself up to a sensual revelry, her senses on fire; nothing mattered except this wild, bittersweet emotion that held her in thrall. Helplessly she arched up against his moving fingers, the yearning he had aroused between her thighs driving her half mad.
“Please, please,
please
,
”
she moaned softly into his mouth, the increasingly frantic movements of her body revealing her need as clearly as her words.
Her actions shattered the last of his control; his fingers slipped from the warm dampness of her flesh and his hands tightened on her thighs, pushing them farther apart, making room for his big body between her legs. Nicolas was nearly shaking from the force of the desire that consumed him, as little in command of himself as the woman twisting on the bed, and he could think of nothing but the smooth warmth of her skin, the taste of her mouth, and the sweet burning heat in which he would bury himself.
Tess knew a moment of vulnerability as he pushed her thighs apart and slid between her legs, but as he settled his weight against her, as his chest brushed against her breasts, it vanished, leaving only breathless, eager anticipation in its wake. His warm hands left her thighs, one now gently stroking her mound, making her writhe with pleasure, the other swiftly guiding his hard shaft to the hot silken sheath hidden by the fiery red curls between her legs.
She was tight, but so moist and hot that with little impediment Nicolas slid full length within her, shuddering when at last he was buried to the hilt. His hands moved to her hips, pulling her even closer to him, and his lips crushed hers, his tongue delving deep, filling her mouth as fully as his rigid, broad member filled her body.
Tess welcomed both invasions, her arms closing around his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips, and her mouth opening to accept the urgent probe of his tongue. She was filled with him, her body stretched and deliciously broached by him, every nerve, every fiber of her being seeming to have been imbued by him. She ached, but it was a different ache now, harder, stronger, hungrier than before, more demanding, more insistent. She pushed up wildly against him, pleasure flooding through her when he groaned and half gently, half painfully, bit her lower lip, his lower body rocking violently against hers.
“You're burning me alive, sweetheart,” he gasped, his hold on her hips tightening. His mouth slid to her throat. “But it's a fire in which I gladly burn.”
Tess couldn't think, couldn't speak; all she could do was feel, and when he began to move on her, his powerful body driving again and again into hers, when his plundering mouth traveled from her throat to her breasts and then back up to her waiting lips, she wondered if a person could die of pleasure. The intensity of sensation grew until she thought she could not bear it a second longer, and she twisted and strained to meet his every thrust, her body humming with wanton eagerness, wanting,
needing
to reach that most passionately longed-for pinnacle. Suddenly her body clenched, and splintering into a thousand pieces, she cried out, her hips bucking frantically upward as ecstasy exploded through her.
Her cry was captured hungrily in Nicolas's mouth, his own body pumping madly into hers as his seed erupted from him and he drowned in the sweet,
sweet
delirium of utter pleasure. Buried deep within her, his movements slowed, but his hands held her hips hard against him, and he savored every moment, every tremor that came from either of them.
Tess was floating, her entire body feeling sensitized, almost as if she had embraced lightning. She tingled and burned, but the urgency was gone; now there was just lazy contentment spreading slowly through her.
Nicolas's kisses softened, the hard edge of passion momentarily satiated, but it was with great reluctance that he finally slid from her body and lay beside her. He pulled her next to him, putting her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, his hand lightly caressing her hip. They lay there for a long time, neither saying a word, busy with their own thoughts.
Tess didn't want to think about what had just happened between them, but she couldn't help doing so. A battle had been fought, and she had the lowering feeling that she had lost—badly. Whatever unfair means he had used, the fact still remained that he had forced her to admit that no matter what she might say or do, she wanted him. She was painfully aware that there was no going back—why keep fighting the same battle, a battle one knows will be lost? Whether she liked it or not, she had become the mistress of the earl of Sherbourne, and she could not pretend otherwise.
Nicolas moved just then, interrupting her unhappy thoughts. His mouth brushing her hair, he said simply, “I want you. Again. Now.”
She didn't even offer a token protest; she had come too far for that. He had taught her traitorous body well, and just his very words sent a delicious thrill through her—to her resentment, her nipples tightened into hard little peaks. When he leaned over her and his mouth settled warmly on hers, her mind shut down and she let the dictates of her flesh rule her.
There were few preliminaries this time once he had made certain that her body was ready for him. His mouth crushed against hers, he sank slowly and deeply into her tight little sheath, and effortlessly he took them both to the edge and over into an abyss of carnal pleasure.
It was with some reluctance that Nicolas left the bed several minutes later. To his great astonishment, and despite the near blinding ecstasy he had found
twice
in her arms in a remarkably short period of time this afternoon, he discovered that with very little exertion on his part he could do so again quite willingly. He gave a rueful smile. He hadn't been this randy since his youth—nor possessed of the stamina!
His back to her, he dressed swiftly, his thoughts troubled. This afternoon hadn't gone as he had planned; he had planned merely to visit and present her with the much needed additions to her wardrobe—additions he had discreetly spent the morning procuring, raiding the stock of every modiste and seamstress within a twenty-mile radius. His chaise was currently half full of all manner of feminine fripperies that he'd had Lovejoy buy from the few dressmakers in the area. There weren't many, and they seldom kept finished garments on hand; but Lovejoy hadn't fared too badly, and at the earl's direction, several more elaborate gowns were already being sewn up. He'd arranged for fittings in two weeks' time. Unfortunately, while he had never considered himself a particularly sensitive man, even he could realize that after what had just happened between them, his little Dolly wasn't going to be overjoyed with his generosity. Even he could see that it would smack too much of payment for services rendered. I should have kept my hands off her—as I had planned to do, dammit! he thought with a scowl, attempting to make some order of his crumpled cravat.
But he hadn't, and glancing at the worn pink gown on the floor where he'd thrown it, he saw that he'd also ripped it badly in his haste to get her out of it. He sighed. He wasn't, it appeared, even going to be able to wait until tomorrow to give her the new clothes.
Angry at the situation, especially at his own lack of control, Nicolas turned to look at her. His face softened. She looked well loved as she lay there among the tumbled bedclothes, her lips still red and slightly swollen from his passion, her fiery hair cascading wildly across the white linen pillow, and one coral-tipped nipple peeking from beneath the sheets that enticingly outlined her slender body. She looked vastly appealing, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from tearing off his clothes and rejoining her in the bed.
Becoming a little annoyed at his body's blatant response just to the sight of her, he said flatly, “I'm sorry about your gown—I'm afraid that I ruined it.”
Tess was almost grateful to have something as mundane as the state of her clothes to think about. Clutching the sheet modestly to her body, she sat up and looked around for her gown. Spying the crumpled pink fabric, she held the sheet even more protectively against her and scrambled from the bed, reaching for the garment. She hadn't wanted to believe him, but it was obvious that the gown was beyond repair.
With an accusatory expression on her face, she looked at him. “And what,” she asked tartly, “am I to do now? Or is it your intention that I am to be kept naked—ever ready for your use?”
Nicolas winced at her choice of words. He didn't want her to view their relationship in that ugly manner, and her words angered him. Why couldn't she just accept the situation? None of his other mistresses had ever given him this sort of trouble, and even as that thought crossed his mind, he realized that she wasn't
just
another mistress, that inexplicably, in the startlingly brief time they had known each other, she had come to mean much more to him. Yet she
was
his mistress—there was no denying it. So what the hell do you want from her? he asked himself savagely. He had no answers. Deciding to get the unpleasantness over with at once, he said, “While that is an excellent idea, it won't be necessary. They may not fit you exactly or be the style and color that you prefer, but I have several new garments for you in my chaise. I hope that they prove satisfactory until other clothing more to your liking can be procured.”
He sounded pompous. Feeling out of sorts and confused by the entire situation, he turned away from her and mumbled, “I'll have Rose and Jenny bring the things up to you—and some, er, other things for your use.”
Tess wanted very much to fling his words back into his arrogant face. But since she had no enthusiasm for parading around naked, it seemed best to swallow her rage and pride and wear the damned clothing. She didn't have to like it, but she had to accept it, and she found
that
most galling of all. She stared bitterly at the door as it closed behind his tall form. Why was it, she wondered gloomily, that he always won? Why did she seem always to be in a position that forced her to bow to the situations of his making?

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