On a Wicked Dawn c-10 Read online

  Luc kept his lips on hers, trapping her laughing gasp. He grasped handfuls of her hair and held her down so he could ravage her mouth — and take one long moment to savor the feel of her naked and squirming beneath him. He used his weight to subdue her, kissed her long and hard, then swiftly drew back. "Wait."

  The hissed whisper echoed through the room. She lay there, wide-eyed, golden curls in bountiful disarray, the soft candelight playing over the even richer bounty of her body, naked and waiting — all his. She watched as he sat and dispensed with his shoes — carefully setting them aside. No thumps. Then he stood and stripped off his breeches, flinging them to join his coat.

  He turned back to the bed, and surprised her delicately licking her lips. Her gaze was fixed a long way south of his face. He would have laughed, but didn't dare; instead, he crawled back on the bed, back to her, running his hands slowly up the sides of her bare legs, his mind quickly scripting all that was to come — he would have to keep his lips on hers the entire time.

  She started to reach for him, to pull him down to her; he grasped her waist and lifted her. Startled, she would have gasped, but he sealed her lips with his, drank her surprise, then arranged her as he wished. She acquiesced; through their kiss he could sense her curiosity. Her hands touched his shoulders, drifted down his chest as he set her on her knees before him.

  He held her there and shuffled forward to sit on his ankles, his spread thighs on either side of her knees. One hand splayed in the small of her back, he pressed her hips to his stomach so his rigid erection throbbed in the valley between her thighs — safe for the moment from her wandering hands.

  She seemed fascinated by his chest — he let her explore while he took his own time exploring the wonders of her mouth, the sleekly feminine planes of her back, the decidedly evocative curves of her bottom. He touched her as he wished, knowing when her breath hitched, when her attention refocused on his hands, and on what he was doing. On the soft dew that dampened her heating skin, on the tightness of the pebbled peaks of her breasts that he knowingly brushed to aching hardness with his chest, on the tautness of her stomach when he pressed a hand between them and evocatively kneaded, on the wetness his questing fingers encountered when he speared through her curls and touched her. Opened her, probed her.

  All the while holding her lips with his.

  When her hips tilted against his hand, when her nails sank into his shoulders, he drew his fingers from her, slid both hands to the backs of her thighs, gripped, and lifted her to him, laying her spread thighs over his, bringing her hips to his abdomen. Instinctively, she grasped his hips with her knees — slowly, he let her down until her knees rested on the coverlet.

  She took control of the kiss, surprising him, pressing a burning caress on him, one nothing short of a flagrant invitation. It sank through him, distracting him; she reached down and closed one small hand around him.

  His heart stopped, then she eased her hold and caressed, then closed her hand again. Caught, trapped, he let her play, unable to summon the strength to stop her. There was a sense of dedication, of wonder and joy in her touch that snared his jaded mind, that prevented him from cutting short a moment that, given who she was, what she was, was frankly somewhat shocking. How long she held his senses in thrall he didn't know; only when he was aching, throbbing with the need to sink into the haven of womanly warmth that hovered but a few inches above, did he shift his hands, closing them about her hips, taking control of their kiss again.

  Or attempting to — she didn't, this time, willingly yield, as she usually did. Instead, she met him, matched him — rather than draw her hand from him, she braced her other hand on his upper chest, and guided his erection to her entrance.

  They both held their breaths, forgot to breathe.

  The instant her swollen folds enveloped his head, she let go and he surged in — then stopped, and, chest laboring, let her, as she wished, slide her knees farther past his hips and sink, slowly, inch by inch down, taking him in willingly, eyes closed, lips on his, impaling herself on him.

  He let her do it; held back the raging impulse to seize her hips and fill her deeply — instead, muscles flickering with the strain of desisting, he savored the gift of her body as she gave it, as she opened and eased about him, sank lower yet, her breath catching in her throat as she realized how high inside her he was.

  When she could go no farther, she shuddered beneath his hands, then wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him — openly, deeply — in absolute surrender. She was clinging to her wits, to her senses, by a thread.

  He let his hands firm on her hips; holding her immobile, he thrust the last inch to embed himself fully — drawing a shattered gasp from her. He drank it in, aware to his bones of the precious moment, of the emotion that welled through him, through her, in that instant of complete giving, of unconditional acceptance.

  It held them, a shimmering net more evident this time than before, stronger, more definite. As he moved within her, as she brazenly adjusted and moved on him, the net tightened and locked about them.

  And it was no longer a question of who was driving whom, but what was driving them — and even then, there was no real question. He accepted it; he had no choice. Lungs laboring, heart thundering as their dance escalated, the sheer intensity of sensation all but blinding, he didn't need to think to know that this was what he wanted, what he desired above all else.

  She closed hotly about him, pressing low, taking him all; he sank his fingers into her hips, held her down, and thrust deeper still. Their mouths had merged, frantic with the need to smother her moans, his groans, their gasps. He shifted one hand to her breast, closed hard about the firm mound, found her nipple and squeezed — and felt her shudder.

  Felt her arch, felt her body tighten, the spiraling tension ratcheting up another notch…

  Amelia thought she'd go mad, demented, if she couldn't reach the glory beckoning so strongly, if her body didn't achieve the satisfaction she knew existed just out of her reach — soon. Yet Luc held off the moment — how, she didn't know — until she was all but weeping with need. His hand, as hard and demanding on her breast as his lips were on hers, his body slowly, tirelessly plundering hers to the same relentless rhythm with which his tongue plundered her willing mouth, he held her there, on the cusp of completion, while, emperor-like, he savored her.

  On a moan, she surrendered, gladly, wantonly. Let her mind slide, let her senses free. Abandoned to the moment, to the clawing, rapacious need, she simply wanted him there, inside her, linked with her, as deeply as he wished. Her thighs spread wide over his, his hand wrapped about her hip, fingers gripping as he held her so he could plunder even more deeply, the fingers of his other hand on her breast, torturing one nipple so lightning speared through her to the same steady rhythm, all underscored her vulnerability.

  A vulnerability that touched her, trailed cool fingers over her naked, undulating flesh, and made her shudder, yet beneath it, behind it, through her very surrender to it, came a joy, a wonderment, a triumph more satisfying than anything she'd dreamed.

  And it was real. She sensed it through their kiss, through the merging of their mouths, their joint devotion to this moment in all its glory.

  The sensation of him filling her, of him being there, strong and alive, buried within her, had become an addiction, a potent, demanding one. The slow slide of his erection, hot, rigid, and powerful, again and again pressing in, filled her mind with desire, filled her body with heat, filled her soul with a nameless craving.

  She clung to him and gave herself up to the wonder, to him. Concentrated on using her body intimately to caress him as he was so devotedly, equally intimately, caressing her.

  Her body tightened again, one more notch — suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't make her lungs work.

  She tried to pull back; Luc caught her, ruthlessly held her to the kiss, releasing her breast, sinking his hand into her hair, holding her tight. He gave her his breath, gripped her hip, pressed
her fully down.

  And thrust deep.

  She screamed.

  He drank her keening cry as she came apart in his arms, cresting the wave, riding high. With a calculated rhythm of thrust and grind, he ruthlessly drove her on. And on, until she shattered again, this time completely; linked deep in their kiss, for one fleeting instant, he could have sworn he glimpsed her soul.

  And then he was there, too, soaring from the pinnacle, plunging into the whirlpool, the fire, and the glory. The mind-wiping ecstasy of primitive passions slaked, of the deepest sensual sexual gratification.

  Never had it felt so profound, so draining, so complete.

  Never had he known such deep contentment.

  Such abiding joy.

  It still held him when he awoke, hours later. It was still dark outside, and inside, too; the candle had long guttered. Instinct warned him dawn was close; he would have to leave her soon.

  But not yet.

  They lay slumped in her bed, cocooned in the coverlet. She lay curled beside him, her cheek on his chest, one arm reaching across, her hand spread as if to hold him. A warm, feminine weight alongside him, his wife in fact if not yet legally.

  He shifted, turned to her. Took great pleasure, a purely male delight, in gently stirring her body to life. She shifted, still asleep, restless but not knowing why; he smiled and moved over her, nudged her thighs apart so he could settle between.

  She woke as he entered her; her breath caught, her lashes fluttered, opened wide, then, as he pressed deeper, fell. Her fingers clutched his shoulder; her spine arched. He found her lips and kissed her — and she sighed. Her body relaxed and let him in — let him slowly penetrate her warmth until he was fully sheathed, then she closed lovingly about him.

  He held still, savoring again that inexpressible joy that, once again, had infused the moment.

  Her hand stole down his back to his hip, then lower. She tilted her hips fractionally; her hand gripped, urging him on.

  Stifling a smile, he complied, moving slowly on her and within her; their lips remained fused yet this gentle morning coupling was a time for soft sighs, not screams.

  She crested slowly, easily, with a soft female urgency; he followed close, joining her in the warm sea of satiation.

  Later, he drew away, soothing her protests with a kiss. He quickly dressed, then leaned over her to whisper, "There's a bench on the north shore overlooking the lake. Meet me there at eleven."

  Through the gray light of dawn, she blinked at him, then nodded, and drew him down for one last kiss.

  It was too early for heroics — he left by the door.

  Chapter 10

  "There you are, m'lord — that ought to do it."

  Luc accepted the bouquet of apricot and yellow roses, the stems wrapped and tied with agapanthus leaves, with a grateful nod. He passed a silver coin to the old gardener. "Worth every penny."

  The old man grinned. "Aye, well, I knows how it is when a young lady needs to be persuaded-like."

  His lady didn't need persuading, but distracting. Luc inclined his head. "As you say." Leaving the gardener, he headed for the lake.

  It was nearly eleven o'clock; from the rose garden to the lake was not a short distance. As he rounded the corner of the west wing, he glimpsed a figure in a white muslin gown, curls gilded by the morning sunlight, appear briefly on the path that circled the lake. She passed out of sight, screened by the bushes that bordered the ornamental water; he lengthened his stride.

  At least this morning he knew where she was — just where she was supposed to be.

  Just where he wanted her.

  Last night, more precisely the hours he'd spent with her, had eradicated all lingering doubts over what now was the best way forward. There was no point carping over the fact she'd seduced him; impossible to pretend he hadn't enjoyed it. The fact he — his will — hadn't been strong enough to resist her temptation spoke for itself; there was no point denying he wanted her in that way — and no sense wasting time before bringing the situation back under his control.

  Especially given the confirmation of last night.

  She hadn't realized. Hadn't seen, wasn't experienced enough to know that what they shared — the way they shared, that emotion that welled and flared between them when they came together — was not the norm. She'd never been with a man before; she was a sexual innocent — a novice. Why would she guess?

  As long as he didn't tell her, didn't reveal how much deeper his involvement with her went, she never would.

  Which meant he was safe. He could have her, along with all she brought him, that unnameable well of emotion, could claim her and it and allow it to grow, develop as he wished, all under his control. That he coveted it as well as her was not in question; the entire package called to his conqueror's soul. As matters had fallen out, he could have the whole without making any sacrifice beyond that which he'd already been prepared to make.

  All he needed to do was marry her.

  Quickly.

  And whisk her off to Calverton Chase, where he could learn to handle her and their newfound emotion in safe isolation.

  The need for a quick wedding was obvious — if he didn't want her to guess how he felt, he had to avoid situations that would make him react in ways that would, at least to her, educated by her mother, her aunts, and her cousins' wives, scream the truth. He'd been lucky once; he couldn't count on fate smiling twice. Limiting the time they spent in society before their wedding was an essential element of his plan.

  Once he'd settled into his role as her husband, once he better understood the practicalities of controlling this emotion that now bound them, then when they returned to London and the ton later in the year, he'd know how to manage. Without giving her a weapon with which to manage him.

  His best way forward was crystal clear.

  The path had been steadily climbing; now it opened into a clearing, high above the lake. Amelia was sitting on the seat facing the distant house, scanning the lawns and the walks — wondering where he was.

  So engrossed was she in searching for him, she didn't sense him draw near.

  Until he stepped around the seat, swept her an elaborate bow, then offered her the bouquet. "My dear Amelia, will you do me the inestimable honor of consenting to be my viscountess?"

  Reaching for the flowers, she froze, blinked, searched his eyes, then took the bouquet and glanced around.

  Lips quirking, he sat beside her. "No, we don't have an audience, or at least, not an immediate one." He nodded toward the house. "No doubt someone will see us and take note, but there's no one else up here."

  Cradling the blooms, Amelia held them to her face and inhaled. Then she looked at him. "I thought we'd already agreed to marry?"

  Still watching the house, he shrugged. "I thought you deserved a formal offer."

  After an instant's hesitation, she coolly replied, "You didn't go down on your knees."

  He met her gaze. "Take what you can get."

  Still puzzled, she searched his eyes.

  He faced forward. "Anyway, I meant immediately."

  If she'd been surprised before, now she was stunned. "But I thought—"

  "I've changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  "You mean aside from the little matter of spending last night in your bed? And, of course, that wasn't the first time we'd indulged."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Indeed — aside from that. That doesn't necessitate an immediate trip to the altar, as we both well know."

  "True, but it does raise the question of why not. Why not get married immediately, so we can indulge as we wish, without me having to risk my neck climbing creepers? I'm no lightweight, and besides, what will we do when we get back to London?"

  What was going on? "Stop trying to distract me." He was still gazing at the house. "The reason we weren't going to get married for at least the next two weeks was because you didn't believe society would accept our attachment and not look for other reasons."

  "As
I said, I've changed my mind."

  At the cool, arrogant statement, she raised her brows to the absolute limit.

  He was watching from the corner of his eye. His lips thinned, then he inclined his head. "All right. You were right. The old biddies have accepted us as a couple — indeed, they're expecting an announcement. We don't need to play at wooing any longer." He looked at her; both his eyes and his expression were uncompromisingly hard. "Don't argue."

  Their gazes locked, and she bit her tongue. He was right. Take what you can get. She would, especially as it was precisely what she'd wanted. She could go on as she'd planned from here.

  "Very well." She looked at the flowers, raised them to her face, and breathed in their perfume. Over them, she met his eyes. "Thank you, kind sir, for your proposal. I will be honored to be your wife."

  The flowers' perfume was heavenly; she closed her eyes for an instant, savoring it, then looked again at him. "So — when should we wed?"

  He shifted and cast a frowning glance at the house. "As soon as humanly possible."

  Their decision to marry quickly was going to be interpreted as primarily if not solely due to his impatience.

  By the time they quit Hightham Hall late that afternoon, that much was clear; even though they'd said not a word, their intentions had somehow been divined. After being twitted for several hours by every lady, young and old, Luc bundled Amelia into his curricle, left Reggie, greatly entertained, to see to his mother, her mother, his sisters, and Fiona, and escaped.

  As he tooled his curricle down the drive, he felt like he was fleeing.

  Amelia, beside him, parasol deployed, a smile on her face, wisely held her tongue as he negotiated the narrow lanes; he felt her occasional glance, knew she sensed his underlying irritation.

  When they reached the main road to London, however, she asked, "How long does it take to get a special license?"

  "A few days. Less if one can arrange an audience quickly." He hesitated, then added, "I've already got one."

  She glanced at him. "You have?"

  Keeping his gaze on his horses, he shrugged. "We agreed to wed by the end of June — given we weren't going to announce the fact three or more weeks in advance, we were going to need a special license regardless."