When she turned back to him, he was standing there magnificently displayed, the flickering flame in the lamp sending light and shadows dancing over him. She rose up on her knees, sat back on her heels, and simply appreciated the sight of him, of what she longed to touch.
With a devilish grin, he crooked a finger at her. With widened eyes, she wondered if he’d managed to read her thoughts, if he knew her deepest desires resided in sharing more with him. “What are you thinking?”
“Just come here.”
She scooted to the edge of the bed, made to get off of it, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Lay back, your legs dangling over the edge.”
She’d be so extremely exposed, and while he’d seen all of her, touched all of her, to do as he asked made her feel vulnerable. Yet how could she deny him, and she wondered when his wants and needs had begun to take precedence over hers. She did as he asked, lay back, and stared at the canopy.
He skimmed his warm roughened hands over her, and she slid her gaze down to his. At least he allowed her to hold his gaze.
“You’re perfect, you know,” he said.
“Careful. You’re beginning to sound like that poetry you abhor.”
“You’re far more comfortable with me than I’d ever hoped you would be.”
She was far more comfortable with him than she’d ever expected to be. But she sensed that he was not nearly as comfortable with her. Oh, when it came to the physical, certainly he had no qualms about baring his flesh to her, but it was his soul she longed to see, his heart she yearned to find.
Kneeling, he gently parted her thighs and buried his face against her soft curls. She sighed in bliss. She dearly wanted to rub her soles up his back, over his shoulders. Instead, she pressed her tongue against her upper lip and fought to concentrate on her own escalating pleasure instead of what she might give to him.
With his tongue, he worked his magic, circling and stroking. Oh, the wicked, wicked man. Welcoming the sensations rioting through her, she dug her fingers into the sheets. Glorious, glorious. She wondered if he was spoiling her for any other man.
She thought she might be beginning to understand why a woman was ruined if she was bedded before she was wedded. Having known one man, would a wanton forever compare the next to the one who’d come before?
With his hands, he kneaded her breasts, and the sensations tripled, quadrupled, threatened to overwhelm her, to bring tears to her eyes. It felt so good. She shouldn’t allow it to be so, but she could no more deny herself the gift he gave her now than she could deny the acceptance of the pearls.
When she thought she could stand no more, her body folded in on itself, raising her back off the bed before slamming her into a whirlwind of pleasure that had her crying out. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched as he rose to his feet like some sort of god emerging from desire, his face set in a mask of determination, his nostrils flaring, his eyes burning with want, want of her. Cupping her thighs, he brought her nearer before plunging into her with one bold sure stroke.
She was fascinated by the pumping of his hips, the undulating of his flat stomach. She could see him so much clearer from this position: the tautening of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth, the flopping of his hair against his brow. The muscles bunching in his arms as he adjusted her position, held her legs.
Throwing his head back, he growled low, slamming into her with his final thrusts. His body was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes were closed tightly, his lips parted, his breathing harsh. While she thought it inconceivable, he’d never looked more beautiful—in a barbaric sort of way. Untamed, uncivilized. Fierce.
When he finally opened his eyes, they shone with the victory of a conqueror. He took a deep breath before slowly extricating himself from her. Her legs weak, she scrambled back. He fell onto the bed, stared at the canopy, his breathing still labored. She thought if she were allowed to place her hand on his chest that she would feel his heart pounding, fast and furiously.
One of them should say something. Instead, she remained silent, curled on her side, and simply watched him, wondering all the while what sort of musings traveled through his mind.
She was going to be the death of him. She was different from the others. He tried to convince himself that it was because of her innocence, because she was his mistress, because she was supposed to be different.
But it was her, the essence of her, not whatever label he’d given to her to make her less dangerous. It was the manner in which she trusted him, the way she opened herself up to him, the unaffected way she responded. She was honest, pure, even now.
He feared he would come to care for her. Along that path lay disaster.
Rolling his head to the side, he discovered she’d fallen asleep. As gently as possible, without disturbing her, he reached down, grabbed the blankets, and brought them slowly up over her. She released a soft sigh, and snuggled in against them.
He experienced a sharp pain in his chest as though his heart had ceased its beating. How desperately he wanted her snuggling against him, her hand furled on his chest, her breath stirring the fine hairs.
What a fool he was. He needed to stop this mooning about. She was nothing more than a convenience, a very lovely one to be sure, but the means to an end, not the end itself. She was spoiling him, however. When he was done with her, he would acquire another mistress. He discovered that he rather enjoyed the expediency and accessibility of having a woman at his beck and call. When the need struck, she was there.
The problem was, with her at least, the need seemed to strike with increasing frequency. He wasn’t spending nearly as much time at the club as he needed to. Tomorrow night, he vowed he would not return here until midnight.
He would regain control of himself, of the situation.
Chapter 15
Because if anyone saw her, they might think she was mad, Evelyn slipped out of the residence and into the night without telling a soul—other than her lady’s maid, who’d assisted in dressing her—of her plans. The lights in the garden were not flickering, but remained dark, so it was only the moon that guided her steps to the far wall. When Rafe had left that afternoon, he’d told her he would be late so she was not expecting him until well after midnight.
The nights were usually the loneliest. During the day the air filled with the rattle of carriages and the clop of horses’ hooves. She would hear the din of people passing by, children running about in the distance and laughing. But when darkness fell, everything became quiet and she merely passed the time, like an ornament set on a mantel waiting to be taken down and admired, studied, touched.
