Page 52 of The Hidden Heart

“No, of course not. I did not mean to do it. And I—well, I am very sorry, though.” She frowned a little worriedly.

He cut his eyes toward her. “I should probably let you suffer over it, but I won’t. Your apology is accepted. I don’t believe your blow would have knocked me out if he had not already hit me with a paperweight while we struggled in the study.”

“No wonder you were so woozy after I hit you.”

Cleybourne looked up at her. It occurred to Jessica then how close she was standing to him, how alone they were—and where they were. He was so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body, his head only inches from her breasts. Less than two feet away from her on the other side was his bed, wide and ornate, dominating the room. Her mind went involuntarily to his kisses the other night, to this evening, when he had leaned against her in his momentary weakness, his arm warm and heavy around her shoulders. Jessica could not deny that she had been stirred both times.

If she bent a few inches, her lips would be on his. She recalled quite clearly how they tasted. Abruptly she pivoted, going to the tray that Baxter had set on the small table.

“What are these pots?” she asked, though she had to clear her throat and ask it again when her first attempt to speak cracked.

Reluctantly Cleybourne pulled his gaze from her face and looked at the small pots. “Something to put on the cut, I gather. Miss Brown makes them from herbs. Woundwort?” He shrugged. “I’ve used whatever they’ve slapped on me for years and seem none the worse for it.”

“All right.” Jessica opened one pot and smeared a dab of the gooey dark jelly inside it on Cleybourne’s cut. Then she applied the dressing plaster and wound a bandage diagonally around his head to hold it.

Cleybourne glanced in the mirror. “I look as if I had been in a war,” he said critically.

“It is a difficult place to bandage,” Jessica pointed out a trifle defensively. “At least leave it on for the night.”

She washed her hands at the basin and dried them. She should leave now, she knew. There was no further reason to stay.

“Your Grace—”

“You could at least call me Cleybourne, now that you have knocked me in the head. I think we are past titles, don’t you?” He stood up, his eyes on her face. “It might even be all right to use first names.”

Jessica’s chest was suddenly tight; it was hard to look into his eyes this way and still remember to breathe. “I—it—it would not be proper.”

“And you are always so proper.” His smile was slow and warm. It licked like fire along Jessica’s nerves. “You have called me a coward and a fool, if I remember correctly. ‘Richard’ seems mild compared to those.”

He raised his hand to her cheek. His touch was light, his skin searing in its heat. His gaze went to her mouth, his eyes darkening with passion, and his thumb softly traced the curve of her bottom lip. “Jessica.”

Jessica’s knees went weak. This was what they meant, she thought, when they said someone swooned with ecstasy. It was this constricted airless feeling in the chest, the trembling all over that made one buckle at the knees, the fire in the stomach turning everything below it into flames—and all because of the overwhelming nearness of one person. How could her name on his lips affect her so?

Why did she feel as if the world might end if she did not have his kiss?

His face loomed nearer, and she closed her eyes, engulfed by a thrilling, terrifying eagerness. Then his mouth was on hers, and it was even sweeter than her memory, more tantalizing. Soft, then hard, seeking, then demanding, the pleasure intensifying and spreading with every moment.

Jessica let out a soft animal moan and pressed herself up into his hard body. There was a need in her that she had not known existed until now, a need so intense it was almost frightening. She wanted him to love her, to know her, to claim her with his mouth and hands and body.

Richard wrapped his arms around her tightly, his body jolted with passion at her unfettered response, and he pressed her even harder into himself. He could not remember when he had last felt this wild, this needful. He wanted to sink into her, to thrust deep into her until there was nothing else but this pleasure, no thought or feeling but her.

He sank his hands into the cloud of her hair, gathering the soft, fragrant mass and squeezing it in his fists, feeling it slip like silk through his fingers. He thought of her lying naked on his bed, her hair spread out gloriously around her, all fire and light and softness, and at the thought, desire shuddered through him.

His hands swept down through her hair and over the curve of her buttocks, and he lifted her up into him, grinding her against the hard, aching staff of his desire. He hated the clothes that lay between them, wanted to feel her flesh against his.

Jessica felt the hard length of him and knew instinctively what it meant. There was an answering, throbbing ache between her legs, and she wanted to open them to him, to take him inside her and ease them both.

He walked with her the few feet to the bed, and they hit the edge of it, tumbling back onto the mattress, sinking down into it. The luxurious softness cupped her body. His leg was between hers, tantalizingly touching the hot, throbbing center of her desire. Jessica arched up against his thigh, rubbing against him to ease the ache. He jerked as if someone had touched a red-hot poker to his flesh, and a groan escaped him. His fingers dug into the bedclothes, for he feared that he would bruise her if he touched her now, so powerful was the need to take her, subdue her, crush her beneath him.

He moved against her, unable to remain still, and his mouth left hers to kiss her face, her throat, her ears. His fingers fumbled at the line of buttons down the front of her dress, pulling, unfastening, even tearing at the more recalcitrant ones. His breath rasped in his throat, heavy and animalistic, and he could hear Jessica’s ragged breath, arousing him even further. She moaned, moving her pelvis against him.

Something was building in her, something powerful, unstoppable. She wanted him, wanted him inside her, easing the ache, wanted him to do something to her, she wasn’t sure exactly what. Jessica had never experienced such fevered, desperate, pleasurable sensations. They thrilled and amazed her, creating new and ever-more-hungry desires. With every delightful thing Richard did, the need built in her.

He opened her dress, and his hand slipped beneath it, curving over her breast, caressing and stroking, taking her nipple between his fingers and teasing it into hard, hot life. Jessica sobbed with desire, pressing herself against him, and her hands dug into his hair—painfully, if he had not been too far gone in his hunger to feel the pinch of pain. He cupped one breast in his hand, his hard, callused flesh curving enticingly around hers, so soft and sensitive, and, startling her, he softly kissed the rosy bud of her nipple.

Jessica let out a little sound of something, part need, part satisfaction. Then, amazing her even more, his tongue traced over the button of flesh, teasing it into hardening and prickling. She shivered, wanting more, afraid he would stop, but he did not. Instead, with a sigh of pure pleasure, his mouth settled down over her breast, pulling her nipple into the warm, wet cave of his mouth, stroking and caressing it with his tongue as his lips suckled gently at her breast.

She arched her back, groaning at the sensation of pure, almost unbearable pleasure. As his mouth tugged gently at her breast, moving in a sweet, unhurried rhythm, his leg pressed firmly into her. Jessica moved against it, the pressure inside her multiplying, expanding, swelling into something so huge that she was panting and desperate. Her hands dug into his shoulders, and she moaned his name, moving her hips in a mindless, instinctive rhythm.