My Lady, My Lord (21 page)

“I don’t need poetry.” His voice sounded peculiarly uneven. His waistcoat and crumpled cravat followed his coat to the floor, and she drew his fine linen shirt from his trousers, then off.

Poetry
. Art. The perfection of the male form. He stood very still and Corinna’s breaths shortened as she reached for his waist. His skin was taut and warm beneath her palms. Holding her gaze he covered her hand with his and slowly slid it up over his abdomen to his chest.

Good heavens
, he was good at this. Corinna hadn’t thought out anything clearly for days. But most devastatingly, she hadn’t thought how a man with considerable experience wooing worldly women would know a thing or two about making them want him more than life. He was hard everywhere, hot and lean and muscular. She’d seen this body every day, touched it. But not like this, not with her own eyes, not slowly and deliberately with her hand, guided by his. He flattened her palm against his nipple, she felt his quick heartbeats, and hers matched the tempo.

He drew her hand up and placed his open mouth upon her palm, his clear gaze locked in hers. His tongue stroked, and Corinna’s legs turned to jelly. Prickling with feeling, her breasts felt peculiarly heavy and alive. She leaned toward him, needing contact. His hand curved around her waist, then slid upward. Corinna trembled.

“Ian—”

“Corinna, you have the body of a goddess.”

“Shh! Don’t offend anyone, for heaven’s sake.” She laughed, euphoria stealing through her. She had never imagined this, never thought she would hear him say such things—touch her this way—recite scandalous ancient poetry to her. “You’ve seen it before, anyway.”

“A man never tires of looking at a beautiful woman, nor of touching her.”

His thumb stroked along the underside of her breast, then lightly across the nipple. She felt dizzy. His fingers caressing her seemed to entirely deprive her of air.

He bent and took her nipple into his mouth. She gasped, gripping his shoulders and swaying into his hold, and all poetry, all words, all rational thought were forgotten. His tongue stroked, and she succumbed to feeling.

“I’ve wanted to do this for weeks,” he said, the sound muffled by her flesh.

“Then don’t stop.”
He had
? “You have?”

“Of course I have.” He circled the tight peak with the tip of his tongue, teasing. “It was exquisite torture every day to see this body so close and not touch it.”

“Torture?” She could easily argue that he could have—in fact must have touched her body. But she understood his meaning. And she didn’t want to argue, not ever again if he would continue his present activity forever.

She had once read a scientific paper that noted the susceptibility of women to pleasurable sensations through stimulation of their nipples. Still, she had often wondered why women paraded their breasts around in low-cut gowns and padded corsets, like proud peacocks strutting about. Now she understood. Ian’s caress felt like worship designed expressly to make a goddess happy. And a goddess must have her parade, after all.

She watched him kiss her breasts and she reveled in the vision—his silky black locks rather too short, sooty lashes, and firm jaw, his lips touching her skin—touching her with astonishing intimacy, making her weak. She threaded her fingers through his hair and tilted her head back, need spreading from where his mouth worshipped her. Between her thighs, she ached deliciously.

“Ian?” Her voice quavered, thick and unrecognizable to her own ears.

He trailed his tongue between her breasts, his hands caressing now. His lips teased her throat.

“Don’t say you’ve changed your mind,” he said. “I won’t allow it.”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

His mouth, his hands on her made her long for more, for this always, for everything.

“Did you—?” How could she say it, even now?

“Did I what?” His thumb passed over her tight nipple, pleasure rippling into her belly.

“Did you touch yourself, when—when you were me?”

“Like this?” He stroked the tender peak of her breast again, and she moaned, throbbing fiercely where she wanted him to touch her next.

“No.” She slipped her hands along the sides of his neck. “Below,” she whispered.

“Yes. But only briefly.” He spoke softly, his voice wonderfully rough. “I wanted to touch you with my own hands.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Do you want to now?”

A rumble shook his broad chest. “Most assuredly.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

He didn’t reply; instead, he cupped her head in one big hand and brought her mouth beneath his. He coaxed her lips apart and she drank in his heat, spinning and tingling and singing inside from the expert teasing of his tongue, the caress of his hands on her breasts. Then his hands moved to her waist to hold her tight against him, and it was only his mouth upon hers, but it was enough, controlling and commanding her submission, dragging her deeper, faster into her need.

She broke free, unshocked to find herself panting against his cheek. “Do you intend to touch me there now?”

“Invite me to.”

“Please touch me, Ian.” She wanted him with desperation that consumed her. She didn’t even care that he was making her beg for it. “Touch me there.”

“Corinna, I’m going to touch you there, and then some.”

H
E DIDN’T DO THIS
.

He didn’t deflower virgins, even on-the-shelf virgins. And as a rule he didn’t make love to bluestockings.

Of course, no other bluestocking looked like Corinna—like a tousled temptress. Or smelled like her—honeysuckle and heat. Or felt like her—soft as silk. Or tasted like her—sweet, hot desire.

And he sure as Hades never recited ancient poetry. To anyone. Under any circumstances.

He must get her out of his mind and senses and life. This was the best way. These past few days his fantasies had driven him mad. Those fantasies would end if he took what he wanted from her now. She was just another woman, shortly to be only one of the many he enjoyed, satisfied, and left behind.

He bent and removed his shoes and stockings, and she watched without speaking. He took her into his arms again. Dear God, she was beautiful, ivory skin and dusky pink nipples, gently full breasts, slender waist, curving hips, luxurious hair. She quivered against him, clutching his waist as one by one he plucked the remainder of the pins from her hair, and then threaded his fingers through the rain-heavy tresses until they spilled about her shoulders like a courtesan’s. But no courtesan had eyes as wide with innocent, eager anticipation.

He lowered his lips to hers. Her mouth was hot, hungry, tasting of woman and desire. Her fingers tightened on his neck and she moaned softly, pushing into him. A virgin, untouched, giving herself eagerly.

Corinna... wanting
him.

He crushed her mouth beneath his, touching her everywhere—her neck, throat, the tight tips of her breasts, her round behind—aching to be inside her, to take her hard and fast and get satisfaction finally. But that wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.

Panic threaded through his insanity. Perhaps if he went very slowly, took his time savoring her...

He needed her
now
.

In one move he lifted her and swept her knees around his hips. She grabbed his neck, tightened her thighs, and kissed him like the courtesan she wasn’t, rising above him, her hair cascading about his face and shoulders, her body lithe and supple in his hold as she used her tongue to devastating effect.
Quick learner
. He gripped her buttocks, his cock straining against her womanhood. She bore down on him and his knees nearly buckled.

He carried her to the bed and took her down, burying his face against her throat, breathing in the clean, rich scent of her skin. She arched to meet him, and he slipped his hand between her thighs. Her body shuddered into his touch, silken and beguilingly damp. Ready for him. But not yet. First, he would taste her.

He unfastened her garters and drew her stockings from her long, lovely legs. She stretched, and he bent and kissed the gentle curve of her hip, urging her knees apart with his hands.

“Ian? What are you doing?”

“Hush, Corinna. Don’t offend the goddess by rejecting my offering.” He trailed his tongue along her tender skin to the nexus of her femininity.

“Ian?”

He covered her with his mouth.

She gasped, then released a breathy, ecstatic sigh.
“Ian
.
”
His name from her lips like this, in surrender to the pleasure he gave her, spurred his hunger. He cupped her buttocks in his palms and, like an epicurean, tasted the banquet she spread only for him.

She was fragrant, hot, and wet with need. He licked, exploring her beauty, making her moan with hard caresses and gentle teasing. She tilted her hips up to meet him, her breasts rising with uneven breaths. Words issued from her lips too soft to hear. Her thighs fell to either side, her hands twisting the bed linens.

“More.” It was barely a whisper.

Urgency swelled Ian’s cock, his tongue caressing the entrance to her hot center where he wanted to be coming hard inside her. He dipped in. She shifted against him, her hips rocking, and he gripped her and sucked her sweet, taut womanhood until she writhed. “Oh, Ian. I beg of you.”

He thrust a finger in, touching her deep, then again, and dragged his thumb across her. She shouted, her body jerking as her release came.

So easy. So exquisite in her pleasure, her glistening lips inviting. Intoxicating him beyond sanity. He could not wait much longer. He bore down on his need as he eased his finger out of her. Slowly, with care, he kissed a path up her silken body.

She gulped in air and draped an arm over her face. For many moments she said nothing, her breaths coming brokenly. Finally, she spoke.

“How did you do that?” Her voice seemed to hum low in her throat. “You may not be practiced in political treatises, Lord Chance”—her lips curved into a smile—”but you certainly do have a worthwhile expertise.”

Ian laughed and settled himself between her legs. The contact of his chest with her damp, naked skin nearly undid him. “Are you saying I’m a whore, Corinna?”

Her eyes flew open. “No.” Eyes wide, she bit her lip that was reddened from his kisses. “Are you?”

“Not remotely.” No harlot ever wanted a partner as he wanted her now.

“The gossip columns are full of hints about your numerous peccadillos, but they never specify.”

“Admitting to reading the gossip columns, now? Interesting.” He touched his lips to her neck, tilting her chin up to play his tongue along her throat. Here in the home of her voice she tasted rich and honeyed. Like Corinna. Virginal Corinna with whom he must take his time, no matter how his brain seemed to be shutting off with the sheer physical effort of trying to control his need.

“How many women have there been, Ian?”

“None, save you.”

Her fingertips pressed into his shoulders. “Don’t be absurd.” But her voice lacked conviction. She shifted her hips beneath his, lifting her knees, and made a purely feminine sound of pleasure as her arousal came into contact with his through the fabric of his trousers. “I should stop speaking, shouldn’t I?”

“Speak all you wish.” He stroked her with his cock and she moaned softly, driving his torment higher. “All night long if it pleases you. But you may come to find it difficult.” He kissed her, delving into her mouth, sweeping her tongue with his, inside her softly sensuous flesh but still not enough.

“Why?” she said when he allowed her breath. “Because you are going to continue using my tongue in this manner?” She looked hopeful.

“Because I’m going to make you scream.”

Her eyes glimmered. “Again?”

“And again and again.”

She gripped his neck and kissed him. “You feel good.” Her fingers twined through his hair. “This feels good.”

“It used to be longer.” He smoothed his palm along the curve of her shoulder and her arm, following it with his gaze. Good lord, she was beautiful. Too beautiful. “It was recently cut.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t give a damn about it, Corinna.”

“Why are you still wearing your trousers?”

“Haven’t yet gotten around to removing them. I’ve been otherwise occupied.”

“It’s time to remedy that.” Her palms pushed against his chest. He sat back, reaching for the buttons, but with a quick grin she said, “Allow
me
,” and set to the task. She made short work of it, unfastening the buttons with deft movements then removing the trousers and his drawers. Without delay her hand came around his cock fully, her thumb passing over the damp tip. She squeezed gently and stroked to the base, then again.

“Good lord, Corinna,” he managed to utter, his vision going spotty. “How much practice did you give yourself?”

“None. I couldn’t bring myself to. It was your body, after all. It seemed wrong.” She stroked again, and Ian caught her hand and stilled it.

“Then perhaps you don’t know you cannot continue this for long without untoward consequences.”

“I wanted to,” she said as though she hadn’t heard him, bringing her other hand into play as Ian struggled for breath.
Corinna
’s hands.
On him
.

“I have r—read about it,” she stammered, but her touch was sure, driving him mad. He grabbed her wrists and, pinning her arms to the bed above her head, he trapped her body with his hips. He kissed her lips, the curve of her throat, the tender depression beneath her ear, and shifted against her swollen folds, forcing back his need to be inside her. She moaned and lifted her knees, cradling his cock in hot, moist heaven. He stroked again, lifting his head to watch her face as he gave her pleasure.

“What else have you read about?”

“What you just did to me.” Her lashes fluttered shut. “What I want you to do to me now. Ian, make love to me.”

“Open your eyes.”

Her lashes lifted. Wide, green-gold jewels shone up at him with desire and a hint of wariness. He released her wrists and smoothed a tress off her brow.

“I will not hurt you, Corinna. I could not.”

She laced their fingers together.

“Stop talking,” she whispered, her breasts rising fast against his chest, “and do it. I want you.”

He reached down and guided himself into her. She sighed softly, spread her thighs for him, and Ian lost control.

Years ago he had taught himself restraint, clamping iron willpower around his need in service to a greater good: a woman well pleasured, willing to please in return, over and over again. Corinna’s gentle whimper thrashed that restraint, shattering his command. His body ached for her. He could not hold back. Her hands gripped his, her hips tilted as her back arced, jutting her breasts up, and he thrust deep, right through her maidenhead.

She cried out, Ian pulled back, and she shouted, “Please!” and met his next thrust with her own. Then again. Dear God, temptress, tight, needy, voluptuous. He plunged into her, sinking himself to his full length, stroking her hard. He groaned her name. She was all desire, all heat and beautiful woman, embracing, massaging, pulling him in. Her neck arched, her beauty open to him, mobile, demanding and giving at once.

“Corinna,” he uttered. “Corinna.” He thrust harder, wanting her, needing to be deeper, all his strength straining to her. She bucked beneath him, whimpering her pleasure, gripping him so he was thoroughly trapped, craving her heat, her depth, sinking into her until he would never climb out again.
“Corinna
.
”
Her name tore from his throat. He grabbed her thigh, pulled her knee high, and drove into her until he knew nothing but the need to empty himself inside her. She moaned, a long cry of ecstasy and her body shook, rippling around him as he surged into her, an onrush of heat and pleasure so hard he choked on the word as he came. “Corinna.”

He ducked his head and buried his face in her hair, his words a rough whisper. “What have you done to me?”

~o0o~

For a lengthy interval, their fast, heavy breaths and the patter of rain on the windowpanes were the only sounds. Finally, Corinna sighed and slid her other knee up around his hip, running her hands along his muscular back.

“I rather think you have that the wrong way around,” she murmured, the scents of rain and sweat-slicked skin and her discarded innocence surrounding her like an opulent bath.

Ian lifted his head, his eyes dark. “Could it be possible that you are arguing with me at this moment?”

She forced a grin to her lips. “Why should this moment be any different from always?”

He laughed. “Why, indeed?” He drew out of her and rolled onto his back.

She turned onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek, exhausted and vitalized at once. Ian bent his arms up and rubbed his hands over his face, strength manifest in even that small gesture. She allowed herself to stare, memorizing. She might never see such a thing again—a gorgeous naked man beside her, or anywhere, for that matter, except in paintings and sculptures—unless, of course, another meddlesome deity chose to visit a lesson upon her. But she guessed that wouldn’t happen. They had learned their lesson well. Their presence together here testified to it.

But she didn’t want to gawk at just any naked man. She wanted to remember the image of only this man forever.

He turned his head and looked at her. The touch of his gaze tangled with the pleasure lingering in her, rich and warmly humming. He climbed from the bed, a god in his own right. Not only physically. The power he had over her heart now was certainly divine.

He reached down and took her hand, drawing her up from the mattress.

“What?” she protested. “Throwing me out already?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “We must get your hair dried.” He pulled a blanket from the bed and led her to the hearth. She let him wrap the blanket around her shoulders, though his lovemaking, his gaze, and the fire at her back warmed her sufficiently. He added coals to the grate, stirring the cinders, amber light playing across his muscles as upon the finest Michelangelo. Corinna sat on the thick rug before the blaze, watching as he knelt before her and with great gentleness combed his fingers through her soggy hair.

“We wouldn’t want you catching a chill and falling into fatal decline, now would we?” he said with the half-smile she had come to know—devilish but playful.

“My family certainly would not thank you for it.” She laughed, fluffing her hair in the warm air.

He sat back. “Your family wouldn’t know to not thank me.”

Her amusement died. But she forced her voice to lightness. “Oh? Wouldn’t you come forward and claim responsibility for my sudden demise?”

“Is that really how you would wish to be remembered?”

“I daresay, no.” If it meant that her last night alive would be this one, she might. He drew the blanket off one shoulder, baring her again, and his gaze scanned her face and body.

No, she wouldn’t mind being remembered this way. What woman would not wish to imagine desire in Ian Chance’s eyes for the remainder of her life, however tragically brief? She recalled the Shakespeare volume atop her escritoire,
Romeo and Juliet,
and nearly laughed aloud at her giddiness. She dipped her gaze and discovered the evidence of Ian’s thoroughly non-tragic desire for her.

Her eyes widened, then shot to his. He lifted a brow.

“What does it feel like?” she asked.