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er she unfastened the buttons, four of them. “Now push my breeches down. ”
She took her other hand from his bare shoulder, placing them both on his hips, and shoved the breeches down his thighs, and she felt him spring up against her, thick and hard.
He kicked his clothes away, and then he was just as naked as she was, in the dark, his body pressed up against her.
She reached down and touched him, gasping at the silken smoothness, letting her fingertips learn him. “This is ridiculous,” she said in a choked whisper. “This can’t possibly fit. ”
She felt his laugh more than heard it. “Trust me. ” And he put his arm under one of her legs, lifting her, bracing her against the wall. With his other hand he took the head of his sex and slid it against her, against that place that seemed so powerful to her overwrought nerves, and he was wet as well, smearing the dampness all around her, sliding down her cleft, and then up again. Her quiet moan of disappointment was unstoppable, and he laughed again.
“Hold on to me, Miranda,” he said, and she did, putting her arms around his neck as he lifted her, and she could feel him at the entrance of her sex. He thrust inside her, a thick, wet slide, and she cried out, not in pain but in sheer, guttural pleasure. He hoisted her higher, using both arms to support her under her thighs, bracing her against the wood paneling behind her bare back, and he began to move.
She let out a strangled cry, dropping her face onto his shoulder, letting her hands slide down his heavily scarred back, clinging tightly. He no longer seemed to mind, he was too intent on the sinuous movement of his hips, thrusting in, withdrawing as her body clung to him, then moving in deeper still, and each time she cried out, in blind, helpless pleasure.
She felt the first convulsion begin to sweep over her, and she clutched him more tightly, trying to speed him, needing more, needing harder, faster, but he must have felt the fluttering contractions, and instead he shoved all the way in, holding her completely still as wave after wave washed over her. She fought him then, fought his iron control. She needed more, but he was adamant, refusing to move, in so deep she could feel his leathery sac against her, and all she could do was dig her fingernails in as her body trembled.
Author: Anne Stuart
As the first wave passed he started to move again, and she murmured a strangled protest, one he refused to listen to, and this time when her climax came it was even stronger, and she cried out, begging him in strangled tones, but once more he held himself in deep, impaling her.
She was sobbing by then, unable to control herself, and when he began to move again she begged him. “No more,” she gasped, her body shaking apart. “I can’t take any more. ”
“Yes,” He thrust deeper still. “You can. ” He was moving faster now, and her body was accepting his rhythm, his dominance, in this at least, and she knew she was past fighting. She surrendered, letting her fingertips caress the corded scars on his back, her legs tight around his hips, and she told herself this was for him, now. The last of her had burned up in a storm of desire and there was nothing left.
Nothing left but his thick, heavy thrusts as she clung to him, nothing left but his final, powerful slam into her, and she could feel him, feel his climax, feel him fill her with his seed, and out of the darkness something took over, some dark, terrible, wonderful place, and she buried her face against his neck to muffle her scream as she was lost once more.
He was trembling, every nerve and muscle in his body suddenly weak, and he could only be glad he had the wall to brace her against, or they would have both collapsed on the floor in a comical welter of limbs. He could feel her face against his shoulder, the heated puffs of her breathing, the wetness of her tears, and he vaguely wondered how he was going to disentangle them. When he didn’t really want to.
He wanted to stay buried deep inside her. His cock was still twitching, still semierect, and he knew if he stayed that way he’d get hard again. Because no matter how thoroughly he’d fucked her, he still seemed to want more of her. He couldn’t imagine ever having enough.
But he pulled free, because he didn’t want her to know how much he needed her. Not that she would guess—for a ruined woman she seemed to have the sophistication of a nun. But he liked that. He liked that she seemed to know almost nothing about the intricacies of pleasure. He could thank St. John for his ineptitude after all.
He let her legs down onto the floor, carefully, then caught her as her knees gave way. He took her down onto the padded floor with him, letting her fall against his body, and he found he was cradling her in his arms as she wept silently. Her tears were hot against his already heated flesh, and he found he was stroking her back in wordless comfort, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Why she needed comfort after what had had to be as soul-shattering for her as it had been … almost had been for him.
No, he could understand. The power of it, the vulnerability. She was trembling slightly, just an errant shiver that ran over her body and had nothing to do with cold.
He was sorry there wasn’t some kind of shawl in here to pull over them. He hadn’t been thinking, at least, not much. He’d been so angry with her. He’d spent the entire day trying not to think about her body pressed up against his, about the smell of her in the fresh spring air, and then the sight of his appalling rooms had simply set something off. He’d come storming in, to find her soft and sweet and rosy in her hot bath, and all he knew was he needed to be naked with her. Immediately.
He’d had enough presence of mind to know that it was still light outside. And he didn’t let anyone see his back, the damage that had been done.
It was bad enough that she could feel it, and he’d wanted to pull away from her then, when he’d felt her hands on him. Almost. But her touch had been so gentle, her mouth so sweet, that instead he’d let her stroke him, hold him as he pumped into her body, let her dig her fingernails into him as she reached her final climax.
He could barely feel it—the scar tissue so thick that the top layers of his skin were numb. Though oddly enough, her gentle caresses had been unmistakable.
He tucked her head against his shoulder, wrapping his arms and his body around hers. He didn’t tend to fall asleep after sex; he was always too intent on escaping. But right now he felt he could close his eyes and drift off quite easily.
That wasn’t going to happen. He could feel her tears slow, feel her body relax into sleep, and he carefully pulled away from her, stifling his groan. He didn’t want to. Her dressing room was big enough, perhaps he’d have the servants tuck a small bed in here. Most dressing rooms had a place for a lady’s maid to sleep. Though he didn’t necessarily want to disport on a servant’s bed.
It took him a while to find his abandoned clothes in the dark, even though his eyes had become accustomed to it. He dressed quickly and quietly, then opened the door to her bedroom, letting in a shaft of twilight.
She was pretending to be asleep, but the tears on her face were fresh. He didn’t stop to consider the ramifications, he simply went and scooped her up in his arms, thanking God she wasn’t that big and his leg wasn’t that weak. He carried her over to her bed, setting her down as he pulled away the covers, then placing her under them, tucking her in. She was still crying. Pretending to be asleep, but he’d felt the heat and wetness on his skin.
He stared down at her, not certain what he should do. He could mock her—she would rise up and fight back, the tears forgotten. Perhaps.
But what if she simply cried more? He was usually impervious to crying women. Any women who spent time with him usually ended with tears, because he simply wasn’t interested in the little games they tended to play.
Miranda’s game was anything but little. And for some odd reason her tears bothered him, perhaps because the rest of the time she was so fearless. He opened his mouth to chide her, then closed it again, and for some damnable reason he stretched out his hand and pushed the damp strands of her hair away from her tears.
Christ, if he stayed any longer he’d probably climb into bed and start comforting her!
