“Will you ease yourself of your own clothes, my lord?” she whispered, mortified and yet bold with need.
“Absolutely not,” he said at once, voice roughened by restraint. “And for the love of God, you are standing bare before me—you may call me William.”
Her blush deepened to the roots of her hair.
“Lie down,” he said, quieter now.
She obeyed, settling on the bed, hands fluttering to cover herself but falling helplessly away when he touched her. He paused once more, looking at her—every curve of her, every shaking breath—and the thought struck him like a blade: she was perfection, and he was damned for it. His fingers traced her as though learning her by heart, every caress drawing shivers.
His lips followed, leaving a trail of fire over her throat, down to the tender swell of her breasts. There he lingered, enthralled. He cupped the soft weight, thumb brushing across the taut peak until it drew impossibly sharp beneath his touch. Then his mouth closed over her, warm, insistent.
She gasped aloud. The sensation overwhelmed her—his tongue circling, teeth grazing, hand kneading until her back arched clear from the bed. She had felt him there before, but nothing had prepared her for this. Her cry broke free, raw and helpless, and before she could understand what was happening, a jolt of pleasure tore through her—her sex clenching on nothing, desperate for him.
He drew back only slightly, watching her shudder and pant as though he had uncovered some secret treasure. A low sound escaped him, half-growl, half-moan. “Christ,” he muttered, his mouth returning greedily to her, suckling and nipping, as if he meant to devour her.
The taste of her, the way she quivered beneath the barest flick of his tongue, made him ravenous. It wasn’t enough—nothing was. He had meant to be gentle, measured, but now a savageneed drove him lower, his mouth trailing down her stomach toward the heat he knew waited for him.
She opened to him then without hesitation, her thighs falling wide, baring herself in all her glory. The sight stole his breath. Sleek, glistening, unguarded—she was a vision both innocent and ruinous.
“Perfect… impossibly perfect,” he murmured hoarsely, almost to himself, as he bent closer still. Then, with a snarl that was almost surrender, he pressed his lips to the slick, aching center of her.
Jane jolted, her hips jerking, fists twisting in the coverlet. Never in her most fevered imaginings—never in the pages of that wicked book—had she dreamed of such a thing. His tongue moved with sure strokes, teasing, coaxing, until she was writhing beneath him, her breath coming in broken sobs. “Oh—please—my lord—”
Her voice spurred him on. His hand slid upward—one finger slipping inside her, filling her, moving in rhythm with his mouth as he worked over her swollen nub. Then two. The sensations crashed over her in waves, unbearable and exquisite. She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer, straining helplessly against him.
The peak came swiftly, consuming her whole. She cried his name, every nerve alight with rapture. Yet he did not stop. He urged her higher again until another climax seized her, fiercer still, leaving her gasping, clutching hard around his fingers. But even then, her body yearned for more—desperate to be filled, truly filled.
When she could breathe, she dragged at him desperately, lips parched, voice fractured. “Please, William—take me—I cannot bear it—”
For a moment, he only stared at her, the weight of his arousal pressed hot and hard against her thigh. Then a crookedsmile broke across his face, wry, almost cruel. “Are you not an insatiable little thing?” he murmured, his words rough with hunger.
Before she could answer, he bent again, his mouth fastening to her pulsing sex with renewed fervor—lapping, sucking, drinking up her every drop. She cried out, back arching, her nails scoring his shoulders as the torment began anew.
He wrung another orgasm from her, and another still, until she sobbed, every nerve alive, every moan a plea. And each time she begged him for more, begged him to take her. His refusal was absolute, his voice a ragged growl against her skin: “No. You do not know what you ask. I will not shame you.”
Yet even in denying, he devoured her, worshiping her with lips and hands until she shuddered beneath him, trembling and utterly undone. At last, she collapsed back on the pillows, her chest heaving, tears bright at the corners of her eyes, pleading for reprieve.
William lifted his head, his mouth wet, struggling to steady himself. For a heartbeat he simply drank her in—flushed, spent, wholly wanton in her nakedness—and his self-command nearly snapped. His arousal throbbed painfully, his body demanding release, every instinct screaming to take her then and there.
He tore himself away. With a sound that was half-curse, half-groan, he pushed from the bed, straightened his coat with shaking hands, and strode for the door.
“My lord—” she whispered, her pulse still wild.
He did not look back. “God help me, Jane, I cannot—”
And then he was gone, the door shutting hard behind him, leaving her breathless, burning, her body still echoing with the pleasure he had given—and the ache of his absence. He had fled from her. Was it her pleading? Her lewd cries? A flush of mortification swept through her. Perhaps she had disgusted him, after all.
Chapter 14
William had kept his distance in the days that followed, though it was torment to do so. He thought staying away after the night in the library had been hard. But this was worse. Far worse. If he lingered near her, if he allowed himself even a moment’s weakness, he was certain he would disgrace them both—hoist her over his shoulder and carry her off to some private corner, to take her as his blood clamored for. He burned with want, an ache that no brandy nor long hours in the saddle could ease. Distance was his only salvation.
Jane saw the distance too, and took it for contempt—proof, she thought, that he had fled her chamber in revulsion. The thought pricked at her with every hour, even as she tried to go on as before: lessons with Margaret, long walks, quiet evenings with her books. She told herself she must put it from her mind. Yet her heart remained raw, restless—her body trembling with what he had taken, and what he had refused to give.
It was early July, and only now, nearing midnight, had the air begun to cool. The house was quiet, Lady Margaret long since asleep, when Jane crept to the library. She told herself it was only to busy her thoughts. But in truth her pulse quickened with a shameful eagerness—she wished to know what happened next in that hidden tale, theMemoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.
She pushed the door softly, expecting solitude at such an hour. Instead, she halted at once. Lord Blackmeer stood before a long oak table, the candlelight striking his features into sternrelief. Calfskin volumes and folded papers lay spread across the surface. His mouth was hard, pale with determination, as he leafed through one after another and cast them, without hesitation, into a waiting trunk.
He looked up at her briefly, eyes turned heated the moment he spotted her, but still storm-dark. “It was bad enough you found one,” he said curtly. “But what if Margaret should stumble upon them in a few years’ time? What lesson would that teach her?”
