Pleasures of a Tempted Lady (23 page)

Meg smiled tremulously at him. She didn’t want to wait any longer. The temptation was too strong. She wanted the pleasure of him—of his body—again, after all these years.

Slowly, she turned over onto her side. She breathed a few deep breaths, and then she whispered, “Will you help me with my dress?”

She heard his breath catch, then felt his fingers as they moved over the buttons of her dress, then her petticoat, and finally, the laces of her stays. He took his time, as if he cherished the undoing of each button and the loosening of each lace. She held very still. His fingers felt different from those of her maid—there was more warmth, more heaviness, more masculine power in them. More sensuality.

He peeled back the material of her dress and petticoat, leaving her stays gaping open. Meg slid off the bed and let the layers of fabric fall to the floor. He moved to stand beside her, and, without a word, lifted off her stays, leaving her clad only in her chemise and drawers.

She was nervous. Anxious. But she wanted this. Really, she’d wanted it from the moment she’d awakened to see him gazing down at her on the
Freedom
.

She reached up and tugged on the string at the neck of his shirt. She plucked at the tie, and the shirt gaped open, revealing the hardness of the top of his chest.

He pulled his shirt from the waistline of his trousers and tossed it over his head, revealing his chest in all its masculine perfection.

He was so beautiful, it brought tears to her eyes. She remembered each muscular curve of that chest. She’d traced it with her fingertips when they’d lain together all those years ago, and she’d stored each strong curve and angle into her memory. She had recalled them in her darkest days, when she’d thought she’d never be free of Jacob Caversham.

Will hadn’t changed very much. If anything, his chest had grown stronger, larger. It had lost that last bit of youthful softness and thinness. The dips and curves had become more pronounced, as if a sculptor had taken years to painstakingly chip off the hardest pieces of marble to create him.

His chest was hairless but for the thin trail of dark hair that descended from his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.

“Take off your chemise,” he ordered, his voice gruff, his eyes steady on hers.

She obeyed breathlessly, still staring at all the perfect skin he’d just revealed to her. She pulled her chemise over her head and let it drop to the floor. Now she stood bare from the waist up.

His gaze skimmed her breasts, leaving a trail of heat
in its wake. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “You haven’t changed at all in eight years.”

“But I have.”

He just smiled and moved back onto the bed, motioning for her to join him. As soon as she crawled onto the mattress, he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her underneath his body.

“You’re so warm.”

“For you, Meg. Warm for only you,” he said, and kissed her again.

This time, the heat of his chest collided with hers, bringing warmth to her nipples that traveled deep inside her, coalescing into a mass of light and energy that tingled and burned, centered between her legs. She squirmed to relieve that ache of desire, but then she slipped her arms around Will and drew him even closer against her, because he was the only one who could warm her inside and out, the only one who could slake her need.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “My beautiful Meg.”

His hardness pressed against her thigh, moving against her as his kisses traveled down her cheek, jaw, collarbones, and up the curve of her breast until his lips skimmed her nipple. She moaned, a low, needy sound, and he took her nipple into his mouth and reverently suckled first one side then the other until she was gasping and squirming wanting—no,
needing—
more.

“Please, Will,” she whispered. “Please.” She bucked up against the solidness of his shaft, and he slid his hand between their bodies to work the falls of his trousers. When they were loose, his hand moved away to fumble with her drawers until his fingers found the slit in them and skimmed her sensitive folds.

“Oh!” she gasped, arching underneath his touch, seeking more of it. He obliged her, stroking gently at first, then more firmly, his fingertips skimming her most sensitive spot until she was a writhing, panting mass of need, begging him for more.

This time, he didn’t oblige her, not right away. He teased her to the brink of explosion, then brought her down, twice, three times. The desire was so powerful, she was sobbing with it, when she felt him tug on her drawers. She lifted her body, and he shimmied them off, sliding them down her legs, his callused fingertips skimming her thighs and making her nerve endings jump as he did so.

He kissed his way up her body again, the warm press of his lips seeming to dive beneath her skin as he kissed her toes, then her shins and thighs, and then his mouth pressed just over the mound of her womanhood, making her gasp with the wicked pleasure of it.

He continued moving upward, his lips caressing her hipbone and her stomach. He took his time at her breasts again, kissing the underswell of each before returning his focus to her nipples, gently scraping his teeth over each of them. She wrapped her hands in the soft strands of his black hair and held him against each nipple, her breasts so sensitive now that each touch of his lips and teeth sent sparks of sweet heat shooting through her.

Finally, he moved up again, his mouth brushing over her collarbones and jaw and finally coming to her lips, pressing against them softly as his knee nudged her legs apart.

The tip of his manhood pressed at her entrance, and she stilled at that first breaching push. He hesitated, then she arched up, meeting him, encouraging him with a low
groan, and he slid all the way in, so deep and so hard, it stole her breath.

“Oh, Will,” she whispered against his lips. “Oh, Will.”

Opening his eyes, he looked down at her, his dark, questioning gaze so tender, she felt like she could devour it.

“Again,” she pleaded.

He withdrew nearly all the way before plunging deep and hard back into her, making her release a sharp gasp of pleasure. His body was larger and even more powerful than she’d remembered. Every move he made was so strong but also so tender, so loving, that she wanted to weep.

Her body met his thrust for thrust, her fingers digging into the thick cords of muscle in his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his thighs and drawing him closer, tighter, harder.

He filled her so deeply and so thoroughly that he forced the air from her lungs with every thrust. Each time he entered her, then pulled back, the friction of their flesh moving together unraveled her, until once again, she was panting and writhing and begging for more. But this time it was no tease. He pushed her and pushed her, until her body arched upward and then undulated as she exploded into a thousand pieces and then floated back together.

But he wasn’t finished. He thrust inside her, more exquisitely forceful, deeper, passion suffusing his dark eyes and mottling his chest with pink.

And then, he, too, came, holding her tight, his face buried in her hair as he emptied himself inside her.

He held himself there for several long moments, and then he slipped out of her and rolled until they lay side
by side, keeping his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.

Meg’s body hummed from the delicious sensations, and she reveled in them, not moving or speaking until they faded, leaving her feeling languid and content. Finally, she looked at him. He was gazing at her. He looked so young, so unsure of himself, her heart squeezed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened. “Sorry? About what?”

He flinched. “It’s been so long for me. Once I was… Once we were joined, I lost myself. Forgive me.”

She held him tighter. “Oh, Will, no. You’re wrong. You gave me so much pleasure, I—Well, I cannot even describe it.”

He didn’t answer, but some of the concern left his face, and he kissed her, the warmth of his lips sparking some of the embers still burning within her.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she murmured, stroking her fingers through the hair she’d tangled during their lovemaking. “Eight years of complete abstinence? Truly? I’ve heard that’s not… Well, I’ve heard it’s quite unusual for a gentleman.”

Yet she believed it, because not only had Will told her he’d been abstinent for so long, but Serena had confirmed it.

A soft shade of pink suffused his cheeks. “I made one mistake,” he said gruffly. “And that experience—it was so different from being with you. There was no love, no passion. It was only a physical act.” In a very low voice, he added, “I promised myself it would never happen again. Not until there was as much love, as much caring, as much meaning, as there was between you and me.”

“And you kept that promise?”

“I did.”

“And there hasn’t been that much meaning with any other woman?”

He looked steadily at her. “No.”

“Even after you discovered Serena wasn’t me and you thought I was the one who died?” Surely he’d felt free to explore relationships with other women then.

“I discovered that you were the one who’d fallen overboard almost two years ago. I learned that it was a ghost I’d been courting all that time, that you were lost at sea and presumed dead. The chances of you being alive were so slim…” He hesitated, and she saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. “How could any man think of bedding a woman when he’s mourning the only woman he’s ever loved?”

She stroked her hand up and down his back. “I wish you hadn’t mourned.”

“I wasn’t the only one. Your family mourned you. Serena never recovered.”

She closed her eyes tight. “I know. I wish none of you had had to suffer like that. Early on, I wrote a letter intending to let you know I was alive, but Caversham discovered me writing it. He dragged me on deck and made me watch as he tore the letter to pieces and threw it into the sea. He told me that’s what he’d do to me if he ever caught me writing to my family again.”

“Did you try again?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a near whisper. “He didn’t tear me to pieces… but he came close. Close enough that that was my last attempt.”

The look on Will’s face was murderous. “Mad bastard.”

She stared up at the ceiling. “Some might call him mad, but I think of him as more… fanatical. He obsessed about making Sarah into a proper lady. He obsessed over his inability to be as powerful and influential as his brother, the marquis.”

“But he’s violent toward those who are weaker than himself.” A trait, Meg could tell from the tone of his voice, that disgusted Will above all else.

“Yes,” she admitted. “He’s given to fits of anger—especially when his will is thwarted. Hence his rages at Sarah, Jake, and me when our behavior didn’t meet his expectations.”

Will leaned up on his elbow and looked down at Meg, his expression growing tender. “You’re amazing, do you know that? After eight years of being under that man’s thumb, of suffering your own pain from his rages and his abuse, you still retained your humanity. You retained
yourself
.”

“Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

But even that was saying something. When she’d first arrived in England, she was certain she’d kept nothing of the Meg of eight years ago. Only in the past few days had she realized that she did, indeed, retain something of the girl who could finish her twin sister’s sentences and who served as a substitute mother to her younger sisters. Something of that happy eighteen-year-old who’d come to London for the first time and had met the tall, dashing Navy officer, William Langley, and fallen madly in love.

“But sometimes,” she continued, “I think about Sarah. How he took everything from her and left her a shell of herself. Sometimes, I, too, felt like a shell when I was
under his thumb. But once I discovered a purpose, I felt like something close to whole again.”

“And that purpose was caring for Jake?”

“Well, for Sarah, at first. Then, when Jake was born, both of them. For the last few months, it has been just me and Jake.”

“You miss her,” Will said softly.

“I do,” she said. “But from the day I met her, her soul was so full of sorrow. I like to think that she’s in a happier place now.”

Will stroked the hair away from Meg’s brow. “I am sure she is.”

She gazed up at him in silence.

“Marry me, Meg.”

She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. She just continued to look at him as thoughts reeled around in her mind.

Will didn’t understand, not really. He didn’t know Caversham, and he didn’t know the marquis. To him, both men were ideas, specters. They were two bad men who might come after Meg and Jake, but Will intended to merely unsheathe his sword, play the knight in shining armor, and whip them into submission. He expected that they’d slink away with their tails between their legs, and he, Meg, Jake, and Thomas would live happily ever after in some sugar-coated castle.

That would not be how it went. In a way, she wished she were as much of an idealist as Will was. If she were, she’d marry him tomorrow, to hell with Jacob Caversham and his brother. But she wasn’t an idealist. And she wasn’t stupid.

“You don’t wish to marry me.” His voice was flat.

“It’s not that,” she whispered. “It’s just that we’ve spent
the past few days pretending to have a home here—a family. We’ve behaved as though everything is as it should be, and it has been lovely. But everything is
not
as it should be. I am running away from Caversham, from his brother, and ultimately from the law. I’ve already involved you too much. If you married me, you’d have to run, too.”

Will blew out a breath through his teeth. “We’ve been through this so many times.”

“Yes, we have.”

They stared at each other.

“Then I suppose there’s nothing more to say.” Pain was etched deep into the corners of his eyes.

A harsh ache settled in her chest. “I wish it wasn’t this way.”

“So do I.”

“I love you,” she said, an edge of desperation in her tone. It was the first time she’d told him those words since he’d found her on the jolly boat. And they’d come out wrong. Those three words should never be shrouded in panic and despair.