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He took her mouth with his and she felt his hand on the waistband of her drawers, and she was defenseless against him. All she could do was kiss him back, making sounds deep in her throat.
When he pushed the undergarment down over her feet and raised his hand along her bare calf, then her inner thigh, she felt her body tense.
“Don’t,” he whispered, easing her legs apart. “You’re so beautiful, Sapphire, your body is made for a man to make love to. Let me.”
His deep, rumbling voice seemed to draw her on a wave that first splashed on the shore and then tugged her outward into the darkness, the unknown.
His fingertips brushed the apex of her thighs and she cried out incoherently, fighting the pleasure.
“Shh,” he murmured, resting his cheek on her abdomen.
Another moment and she forgot who she was, who she was with. He just kept stroking her, moving upward and then back again, and she found herself straining against him, desiring…what she didn’t know. Needing him, his touch more than anything she had ever known.
Sapphire reached down to run her fingers through his dark hair, her eyes closed, her body moving with his touch. “Blake,” she heard herself moan. “Blake.” The aching filled her, consumed her, and time seemed to stretch until it stood still. Suddenly her entire body shuddered, burst, and a second later she felt as if she were floating, slowly falling to earth again.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, half ashamed, half joyful, tears in her eyes.
He stretched out beside her, a smile on his lips, as he cradled her in one arm. “I told you your body was made for loving.” He pushed back a lock of her hair that had fallen over her cheek.
She drifted on the last waves of the pleasure he had given her.
“I…should go home,” she whispered.
“Not now.” He kissed her mouth lightly, almost lovingly. “Sleep now and we’ll talk in the morning.”
Sapphire knew she couldn’t stay, not here in his bed, not undressed, not like this—but she couldn’t stay awake another moment.
15
At the sound of movement in the room, Sapphire opened her eyes drowsily. She knew at once where she was; the lamp still burned on the nightstand, but Blake was no longer in bed beside her.
He was seated in a chair near the fireplace, pulling on a pair of tall leather boots. He wore a woolen patterned coat that appeared more a working man’s garb than the elegant frock coat he had discarded after the ball. There was a wool cap on his head and several leather satchels on the floor beside him. He appeared to be leaving….
She almost smiled. Of course he was leaving. Blake Thixton was more of a gentleman than she had first given him credit for. He would say nothing of what had passed between them in this bed, this mistake, error in judgment, whatever it had been. He would slip out the back of the hotel, bribe any servant who had seen them enter earlier, and she would wake in the morning and return home with some tale to protect herself and her virtue.
At that thought, she almost laughed aloud. How could her virtue possibly matter at this point? Half of London believed she was a courtesan!
“Ah, you’re awake. I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet.” Blake rose from the chair, pushing the cap farther back on his head as approached the bed.
Suddenly shy with him after her earlier response to his touch, she pulled up the light blanket until it touched her nose. She realized she was completely unclothed beneath the coverlet and she looked around quickly, in horror. Every stitch of her clothing was gone—the beautiful white gown, her petticoat and chemise, even her eyelet drawers.
“Where are my clothes?” she whispered accusingly, wishing she could take back her thought that he could be any sort of gentleman.
He gave her that half smile that had been attractive earlier but now only infuriated her.
“They were quite ruined, beyond repair.”
Tightening her grip on the edge of the blanket, she stared up at him. “But…but I have to have something to wear home.”
“You’re not going home.”
“What?”
“My offer. You’ve accepted.”
“What offer?” she breathed.
“To become my mistress.”
