Twice Fallen (14 page)

They kissed all the way down the hallway, stopping, touching, her slender fingers rumpling his hair, his hands cupping her bottom and bringing her against his arousal so she understood how much he wanted her.

Regina laughed and playfully licked his lower lip as they reached the base of the stairs, her silver eyes glimmering. “I adore it when you are impatient. It isn’t like you.”

“I like you naked,” he said hoarsely and unfastened her smock to toss it aside, so it caught on the banister and hung there in the dim illumination.

Definitely not like him.

“Fair is fair.” She adroitly twisted free the knot in his cravat and pulled away his neck cloth, casting it aside. It landed on a nearby table.

“I’m not making love on the stairs,” he warned her as she started to unbutton his shirt while standing on the
bottom step so they were eye to eye. She liked to be spontaneous and that was well and good, but he was traditional enough to like a soft warm bed and a closed door. Besides her studio floor, they’d used a moving carriage, a chaise in a summerhouse that had been decidedly too small for such vigorous exertion, and a grassy knoll by the river one afternoon where they would have been in plain sight if any boat had happened by. He wasn’t an exhibitionist by nature, nor did he like the idea of being interrupted. “I’m not an acrobat. I’ll toss you over my shoulder if I have to, but we’re going up to your bed.”

She yanked his shirt from his breeches and then pressed the palm of her hand against the prominent bulge between his legs. “If you insist upon a bed, then I will come along meekly.”

“Meekly?” His brows shot up and he choked out a laugh, the pressure of her hand causing him to harden even more. “You are never meek, my love. Now, since we are in agreement, shall we?”

My love
. It was not as if he dropped to his knees and declared himself, but there was a moment where Regina gazed at him, unmoving, her remarkable silver eyes shadowed, and then it passed and she dropped her hand, turning to lift her skirts and hurry up the stairs, throwing a teasing glance over her shoulder when she reached the top.

He still stood there at the bottom, paralyzed by that wistful look before he took off after her, rushing up the steps two at a time.

This chase represented their relationship. The thought struck him even as he gained on her, his shirt hanging
open, his body on fire. She was the elusive one, unrestrained, passionate, unconventional, but still aloof in many ways. He was the petitioner, the hot-blooded lover who had to have her despite the fact that it was not a role he usually played.

Were they ill suited?

Or perfect for each other?

At the moment he didn’t care. Not when he entered the bedroom to find her shimmying out of her unfastened gown. His mouth went dry at the sight of her full breasts, the womanly curve of her hips, the downy thatch between her pale thighs enticing in the firelight from the glowing embers in the hearth.

But it wasn’t
just
the potent physical attraction.

He’d been infatuated before… mildly so, he realized now, as it was never like
this
in any way. The normal path of his life had been turned upside down and had he been asked before he met her, his answer would have been:
impossible.…

Jonathan, the current Earl of Augustine and his first cousin, whose mother had been a member of an American tribe, would assure him the gods—heathen ones—were invested with a sense of humor and dabbling in the lives of the human beings they benignly watched was one of their pastimes.

Gloriously nude, Regina tossed back her hair in challenge. “And here I thought you were in a hurry.”

It brought his attention sharply back into the moment, where, considering the insistence of his swollen cock, was exactly where it should be. The flush of sexual need warmed his skin and he stripped off his shirt, watching with appreciation as Regina turned her back,
sensuously lifted her hair so her luscious bottom was exposed, and then exhaled audibly as she walked to the bed.

“Shall I wait for you?”

The delicately phrased question was meant to titillate and it usually worked. He said with a telltale rasp of sexual need in his tone, “Not if you don’t wish. I’ll join you in a moment.”

“That sounds… lovely.”

As he sat down to try to divest himself of his boots and breeches, she moved to recline on the bed, her dark hair spilling over the white linens, her hands moving to cup her breasts, her eyes drifting closed as she circled a nipple with a stroking fingertip, making it pucker and harden, the dark rose of the areola a contrast to the creamy purity of her skin. Knees bent, she parted her legs enough to give him a tantalizing view of her sex as well.

Her unabashed sexuality never failed to amaze him, and James heard his breath go out in a hiss as one boot landed on the floor. The other followed, and he yanked off his breeches, watching her pleasure herself, and when he stepped to the bed and pulled her hand away, replacing it with his mouth, she gave a soft gasp and her fingers sank into his hair.

Good. She held
him
in a damned thrall, so he should have at least a little retribution.

She always did.

It was his turn. He’d never really turned the tables on her in bed. That had suited him fine—he wanted to be her lover, not her master. This evening, however, it had rankled to be turned away only to be summoned back,
like an eager puppy one would shoo away and then pet later, once they had the time.

A logical part of his brain reminded him he didn’t understand fully the artistic process and it was possible she
couldn’t
be interrupted, but another part of him, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t experienced before meeting her, was afraid he would always be second.

Or that she might end their relationship altogether.

He’d have to analyze later the tumultuous emotion produced by contemplating that possibility, but at the moment, he intended she would be very, very glad she’d sent that note to summon him.

There was no question she wasn’t good at sharing her life.

After all, she was the outrageous sister of Viscount Altea, who was notorious all on his own, not to mention her questionable birth. To add to her sins, she embraced art as if it wasn’t considered a plebian endeavor—a trade—and despite her personal wealth, thanks to her generous father, she in general refuted society.

James knew it all. She’d never hidden that she had little use for conformity.

He didn’t seem to care. What’s more, from the glitter in his blue eyes, he embraced it.

So did she. Without shame she arched slightly under the seductive suckle of his mouth at her breast, his tongue making little wicked circles around her nipple.

While his mouth seduced her breast, sending tingles of sensation to her belly, between her legs, everywhere, his hands were not idle either, stroking her thighs with leisurely caresses belied by the hot press of his erection at her hip. The sight of his blond head bent over her was
as arousing as the erotic ministrations of his tongue and lips, and when he moved slowly to the other breast, taking his time to nuzzle the valley between her cupped flesh, she began to tremble.

Does he know?

Regina wondered if he realized that she’d
never
trembled before him. She’d had only three other lovers and those affairs had been brief, fleeting, meaningless in too many ways, which was why she’d ended them quickly and generally lived her life in self-imposed celibacy.

She’d very much considered not seeing him this evening. The past week she’d found herself distracted even as she attempted to finish her latest work, which never happened to her. Usually the frenzy at the end was the most satisfying part of the creative process, but thoughts of James had crept in and compromised her concentration and she still wasn’t done with the painting. Certain that all she had to do was concentrate, she’d turned him away when he called, but it hadn’t worked.

She’d abandoned it a few brushstrokes away from completion.

For this. Because she needed to see him. The desire was so strong it had even disrupted her art.

“You taste indescribable,” he murmured, the movement of his lips tickling her skin as he moved his mouth to the sensitive underside of her breast. “Like a fine dessert. Complex, yet simple. Sweet and salt. Like undefined paradise.”

The bedchamber was only lit by the brazier of the dying fire and the musculature of his lean body was all hollows and sculpted curves as he lay on top of her tasting and licking and…

“James.” His name left her lips in an involuntary plea, her hips shifting in an unspoken message that he couldn’t fail to understand.

But he didn’t position himself for penetration; instead he rose up to kiss her, his mouth gentle in contrast to the throbbing need she sensed in him, the fine sheen of sweat on his skin as she rubbed her hands up his back evidence of his arousal. “Tell me about the painting.”

Regina blinked, and then stared at him. His eyes were an intense blue, like a summer sky on a hot day, and he stared right back. “What?” she asked, a part of her incredulous, because she knew he wanted her—there was no mistaking it—and she had not invited him over for a discussion about art.

“James—”

He nibbled on her neck. “Tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because earlier you sent me away.”

“I was working.”

“I know. It was too important to stop. Tell me why.”

That silenced her because she wasn’t sure exactly how to answer. She’d abandoned the work when it was almost born, like failing to push a child from the womb, though she wasn’t sure she was qualified to make that analogy. It sounded, however, correct when put in the context of how the final minutes could be when the last touch was given to the canvas, when the artist stood back to behold what he or she had done, and the sense of relief flooded over because it was, after all, completely formed and perfect.

No, not true. Never perfect. If given the chance she would change each creation over and over until eternity,
but at the moment she wanted James, and he unmistakably wanted her, and if she could only say the right thing, maybe they would both be rewarded.

“I left him for you.”

“Left whom?” James kissed her, a lingering pressure of his mouth, possessive and hard. “Define it for me so I can understand or I swear I won’t fuck you.”

Shock rippled through her because he didn’t swear in front of ladies and he was never
that
crude, or least not in her presence. That wasn’t James Bourne in the least, but he held her hips with a firm grip and his eyes had a certain steely gleam.

Desire was a tangible entity in the candlelit room, her unsatisfied body pinned under his larger, rangy form, their eyes locked, the scent of arousal in the air.…

He needs this from me.

“I left the painting almost completed and I never do that,” Regina told him, her voice barely audible. “I still don’t know if William’s decision… I can’t explain why my perception has changed, if you want the truth, for I was sure all along what I wanted from the picture was to portray his dilemma… but then I found myself distracted by thinking about you.”

James touched her cheek, his fingers just a brush. “Why are you conflicted?”

“Because it is supposed to be a simple story.” Her arms twined around his neck and she lifted her pelvis so her stomach pressed his arousal. “But in the end it isn’t. I couldn’t continue because I can’t, as an artist, relate to his conflict.”

“You aren’t going to finish it?” He sounded genuinely startled.

“I doubt it.”

“Why can’t you relate?”

“William Tell took a terrible chance, James.” She didn’t wish it to be, but her voice was hushed.

“Do you believe life-altering decisions are ever simple?” He looked at her, close and real, like the images she created, but he was so… alive. She could smell his unique scent, male and spicy, and every detail of his face was clear; the straight line of his nose, the quirky line of one brow that was slightly higher than the other, the sensual curve of his upper lip. She didn’t think he was precisely handsome, but good-looking certainly, and his potent attractiveness had much more to do with
who
he was as a man. Thoughtful, fair-minded, responsible… all traits she should find dull but somehow didn’t, not when balanced with his undeniable intellect, his kindness and sense of duty to his family, his innate passionate nature.

His passion for
her
.

He was too young, she reminded herself, but at the moment all she wanted was to have him, and for him to have her.

“Does it
need
to be life-altering?” she asked, her hand sliding downward between them, circling his rigid cock so he briefly closed his eyes. “Now, I did my best to define it, and you need to keep your part of the bargain by fucking me.”

“No.” He caught her wrist and pulled her hand away.

“No?” Regina’s eyes widened and the sharp bite of disappointment tightened her throat. The firelight cast shadows over his features, making it difficult to read his expression.

“No.” He smiled then, but the light in his eyes was still
heated, molten. “Don’t mistake me. I am not leaving. I want to make love to you, and that is different.” Adjusting his position, he began to slowly enter her, the pressure of the invasion measured and slow and wickedly arousing. She was wet and ready for him, and Regina caught her breath at the exquisite pleasure as he joined their bodies. Her senses were heightened by the unusual surge of emotion, and when he began to move in deliberate thrust and withdrawal, she responded with uncharacteristic restraint instead of fervent wild passion, allowing herself to feel each slide of his sex into hers, tightening her muscles to hold him at the apex, and relaxing to let him glide almost out again.

James didn’t close his eyes but held her gaze as he moved, the cadence of their bodies taking on a magical quality that reflected not just the sheer intimacy of the act, but also the union of their mutual desire.

The blending of their souls.

She was hardly a mystic, but as Regina clung to him at the pinnacle, where surreal rapture and the earth met as she surrendered and should be oblivious to anything but the intemperate, carnal joy, she relinquished the battle, not to him, but to herself, by admitting this was different.