Seducing the Beast (24 page)

* * * *

It was blackmail. The little strumpet thought she had him at her mercy. Placing her lips over the bite in her peach, she sucked steadily. He stared, transfixed. Closing her eyes she took another slow bite. A drop of juice dripped to her bosom, where it quivered as she breathed, rapidly joined by another.

Hot and irritated, he exclaimed, “It’s the queen’s decision, not mine. And it’s not done to quarrel with the queen.”

“As it’s not done to quarrel with you? Yes, I see how efficiently
that
works and what a good thing it is. How fine and fair you turned out.”

“Woman, you try my patience!”

“Hey ho!” She sucked again on the peach, her tongue sneaking out to lick the golden flesh. More droplets fell to her bosom and wobbled there, catching the candlelight as she moved.

Drumming his fingers along the edge of the table, he grumbled, “You know nothing of how these things work--the politics of court.”

She slowly wiped the droplets of juice with one finger, feigning complete absorption in the task, then bringing it back to her lips.

The damned woman would be the death of him. He cursed under his breath.

She suckled her finger, eyelids lowered contentedly, lush, dark lashes contrasting with the vivid blue beneath. Shifting too quickly in his chair, his knee hit the table, making the candles tremble in their iron holders.

With a sharp cry of surprise, she dropped the half-eaten peach and it landed on her high cleavage. Swearing low, she retrieved it, in the process managing somehow to wipe more juice across the rounded, pearlescent skin. From where he sat, at the other end of the table, he saw it gleaming with each deep breath she took.

He growled. “They call me the Beast, madam, but I’m not dumb.”

“No.” She paused. “But stubborn, arrogant and downright uncivil.”

“And you are a lying, scheming, underhanded wench who should’ve been raised with more discipline, before your character was willfully and shamelessly formed, to the detriment of any honest man with the misfortune to pluck you out of the river in a misguided attempt to rescue you.” Out of breath, he somehow managed to force the words out, each one sharper than the one before.

Flinty-eyed, she reminded him, “I thought fortune smiled
on you the day you rescued me.”

Tap, tap, tap went his fingers. If he didn’t do something with his hands he might overturn that table, send dishes, cups, flowers and candles crashing to the flagstones in his haste to get to her. He took a breath, waited, stilled.

Then he flexed one eyebrow. He smirked. “Perhaps fortune dropped you in the river that day, but Beelzebub himself made me drag you out again.”

It came suddenly. One moment she was enjoying her peach, in the next she was a woman on the attack. The peach hit him on the forehead, the smashed fruit dropping to his lap, leaving a sticky trail of juice down his nose and chin.

She had damned good aim. Once, he recalled in bewilderment, he’d dismissed her as too small to do him any damage.

Apparently she decided she was now too far in to retreat. Standing with a fingerbowl of perfumed water in her hands, she strolled to his end of the table and held it over his head. “Let me wash that off for you, my lord.”

“I suggest, madam,” he muttered, “you think again before you do anything further you might regret.”

“But I’m a woman. I cannot think.” She tipped the bowl and water ran through his hair, joining the sticky peach juice in rivulets down his forehead, cascading mint leaves on his head and shoulders. He gripped the table with both hands, slowly licking his lips, his attention riveted on her.

Now she dug both hands into the cream and saffron custard. “Will you, or will you not, listen to my case in defense of Nathaniel Downing?”

His reply was laconic, no doubt anticipated. “I shall not.”

Thus she smeared her creamy hands liberally across his face. Smiling with satisfaction at her handiwork, she patted his cheeks, squeezed them lightly, and whispered that he wanted a misbehaving woman, now he had one. Swinging around, she managed two steps before he caught her skirt in his tight grip. Oh no, she was not getting away with that.

He’d indulged her temper too much already.

She resisted, clinging to the table for leverage, but he was far stronger and dragged her back, inch by inch. Grabbing his platters and candlesticks, each one as they came within reach, she threw them to the floor, where they rolled and spun across the stone tiles. The servants made their hasty escape at Gregory’s urging, and the door closed with a concise thud behind them, leaving them alone.

Snatching the last candlestick from her hand, he threw it over his shoulder and stood so suddenly she almost toppled backward, her body crushed between his thighs and the table edge. Lifting the hem of her skirt, he slowly wiped his face clean. She was breathing hard, peach-sticky breasts pushing at the boundaries of her embroidered bodice.

“I know you have no taste for pomegranates, my lord,” she said, pert and breathless. “Perhaps I might offer you peaches?” He saw the lambent sparks under her lashes, the warning dimple in her cheek.

She was teasing, he realized. It took him a moment to understand, since the teasing he knew was vicious and mean-spirited. No one had ever teased him this way. His anger, which was surprisingly muted anyway, quickly abated. She was too beautiful tonight, and once again easily forgiven as she arched her back, offering her exquisite wares for his tasting.

He ducked his head and let his tongue follow the curve of those firm, full mounds, seeking out the spilled peach juice where it trickled into her deep cleavage. Tonight he would cleanse her with his tongue. The idea brought him quickly to a state of intense arousal. Her skirts gathered up in one fist, he used his free hand to reach down and open his own clothing.

“Wait!” she exclaimed. He raised his head, his lips a few inches from hers, the hunger raging and ravenous. She leaned back and he swayed with her, pressing his body to hers, his hands holding up the skirts and petticoats. “You’re too bold and brazen, sir! I offered you peaches and no more of my wares.”

“I’ve a hunger for more. Worry not, I’ll pay your price.”

“Mayhap you can’t afford it.”

He laughed low at the idea of anything being beyond his wealth. “Oh, I can afford it.”

“My price is high, sir.”

In that moment he would give her anything and he was sure she knew it. This was where she wanted him from the first. Now, having teased him to this point, she feigned affront.

“Gracious! I feel your impetuous cock against my bare thighs already, my lord. Is it never restrained by the Swafford rules?”

“It has a mind of its own in your presence.”

She stopped him again, fingers splayed against his doublet. “Here and now? In full view of those disapproving Swaffords in the gallery above? This surely is not proper Swafford tradition.” But her protest was half-hearted, to say the least. She was smoky-eyed with desire and he watched her bite her lips, almost drawing blood.

She was insatiable, he thought, yet again offering his thanks to whatever brought her into his life--devil or deity. Although a supposed novice, she already knew how to increase his pleasure with countless unexpected caresses. She’d learned how to hasten his climax, and also how to delay, to keep him red hot, trembling, a hair’s breadth from imploding. It came to her, as he said, quite naturally. Once buried hilt-deep in her wet, silky heat, he knew he would no longer care about her purpose there, only that she was his. For now he delayed, tantalizing her, as she had done to him. He needed to convince himself he was in control of this. Needed--

“Griff,” she whispered, her fingers unhooking his doublet, lifting his shirt. It was the first time she’d called him that since he’d brought her up to the manor house.

He kissed her hungrily, eating at her mouth as if she was another dish set there to tempt his appetite.

“What about the negotiation?” she gasped.

He nuzzled her warm neck. “I told you,” he grunted, resettling his feet to keep his balance, “’tis the queen’s decision.”

* * * *

Maddie fought to keep afloat, her own body betraying her, falling prey to the tidal force of their shared passion.

“But you are a favorite, she’ll listen to you.” It was running away with her again and she couldn’t allow it, or tonight would be like the last, when she was left abandoned in the rumpled sheets, the victory his.

“Your favors for one of mine, eh?”

“If you like, my lord,” she purred, resuming the game.

Suddenly he laughed. This time it was neither forced nor full of scorn. Taken by surprise, she waited until he found his breath again. “You needn’t act the part. I told you,” he sputtered. Wounded, she glared at him and he leaned in to whisper against her lips. “You’re a natural, my darling.”

She was determined all the sweet “my darlings” in the world wouldn’t soothe her feathers, even if it was the first time he ever called her that. And it was.

Rubbing himself on her thigh, it was his turn to tease, letting her feel the extraordinary length she could have. “You need play no role for me,” he whispered. “See? I’m ready for you.” Bringing her hand to the broad, swollen crest of his manhood, he let her feel the little wet bead trembling there.

“Oh, make haste,” she cried, sultry seductress forgotten, her body clamoring for him and that blissful state of completion.

Delaying, he slid his hands over her thighs. “You wear no stockings tonight,” he breathed.

“You’d only take them off again.”

He laughed huskily against her mouth. “Entirely the purpose, sweetheart.”

“Will you make love to me or not?” she gasped, hotly demanding.

In reply, he slid one hand under her knee, lifting her thigh to meet his thrust, but still withholding. Only when she whispered his name again, did he slowly fill her, igniting those little flames one by one.

Desire spinning and spiraling within her, she almost screamed. When he whispered in her ear the promise of what he would shortly do to her, those practical plans she once made--not to be drawn into his web-- were thrown aside, like his plate and his candlesticks. Somehow she dragged herself back from the precipice and found the courage to challenge him further.

“Take me to
your
chamber,” she whispered. He shook his head, too enraptured, eyes closed. She repeated the command, louder this time, hands under his shirt, fingers stroking the warm curls of his chest, seeking his nipples. Tonight she was determined to get her own way, to win some ground in this war of wills.
Aut Vincere, Aut Mori
, she mused silently.

“Damn you, wench,” he sputtered. “How many more demands will you make of me?”

But he picked her up, her legs wrapped around his waist, their bodies still joined, and carried her down the long corridors to his chamber. The vibration of his heavy steps felt deep within her, causing ripples of pleasure, until he fell with her to his bed--the one reserved only for Swafford earls and where no other woman was ever permitted.

“See?” she whispered, astonished at her own prowess and his concession. “Even you can defy tradition sometimes. The walls still stand, the world does not end.” The last word caught in her throat as he withdrew his full length and slickly reentered, barely a pause between. The force pushed her along the bed, his weight crushing her to the noble Swafford crest on his coverlet. She writhed, the silk tapestry caressing her bare bottom, as he thrust again and again, wildly plunging, the bed shaking, the floorboards creaking in shock.

“Did you…find the…herbs you...needed?” he gasped out.

There was no time for her answer.

Low, guttural growls escaped his open mouth as he came the first time that night, not waiting for her, but spilling rapidly, his hands under her, holding her, planting himself deeply and thoroughly, flooding into her body.

As he collapsed over her, she sighed belatedly, “I couldn’t find what I needed.”

He swore at his own carelessness. “We shouldn’t….a child,” he murmured, apparently to her right breast, his breath warming her erect nipple.

“If this occurs to you now, my lord,” she quipped, as he remained semi-hard within her, “did it not occur to you two minutes ago? Or those many times before?”

“The first time,” he reminded her drowsily, “was your idea. I seem to recall you begging me--”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It is?”

“That was once.” She faltered, knowing once was all it took. “And it was your fault.”

He didn’t argue for once. “It won’t happen again.”

Rolling her eyes to the tapestry canopy overhead, she was forced to concede the fault lay as much with her, even if she would never admit that aloud.

He lifted his head and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Now ’tis your turn.”

“I thought you forgot me,” she said coyly. The look he gave her as he slid her legs over his shoulders was more than sufficient for reply.

The Beast was, on this occasion, remarkably pliant to her and her whispered commands. When no one watched, she mused, he forgot duty and tradition, pleasuring her in many new, untraditional, ingenious ways, from head to foot and all places in between.

Propped on one elbow, he watched her sleep, restless, waiting for her to rouse again and play some more. Last night she’d called it “making love” and he wondered if she was even cognizant of the slip. He certainly was.

One hand on the curve of her hip, he considered the possibilities. She twitched like a pup napping. Asleep she looked even younger, her sable hair a tumbled sprawl across his pillows, as he’d once pictured it the first day they’d met. Pity overtook carnal need for a few moments. She was exhausted and he should let her sleep on.

The candles had burned throughout the night until he’d extinguished them a half hour ago. Wax draped over the pewter holders. The black wicks still discharged a drifting, smoky bitterness. On most days, within an hour he would be up and busy, but not this morning. Many things were different now.

He’d never woken with a woman in his bed.