Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Page 21

  He watched her face. She was enthralled—there was no other word for it. And while more women than he could count had looked on him with even greater lasciviousness, her appreciation was infinitely sweeter.

  Ultimately she used her weight to push him fully onto his back. He told himself he allowed it because he was burning with a sensual curiosity he’d never before experienced—wondering what a virgin might think to do next. Luckily the rucked sheet still separated their lower bodies; if it hadn’t, he doubted she would have been so successful in keeping her concentration so clearly fixed on returning the pleasure he’d given her . . .

  Her intent was novel enough to capture him.

  To have him let her come over him and take his mouth—to have him lie back and let her kiss him as she would, as deeply as she dared, as tauntingly, as challengingly.

  Even while his senses purred and gorged themselves on her promise, on the unstated acknowledgment of the surrender her kiss declared would soon be his to claim, while he held her steady above him and let her kiss him with fiery abandon, some part of his mind was noting, registering, storing away the observation that few women he could recall had ever been as bold as she, as insistent.

  Most had lain back and let him love them; few had exerted themselves to freely love him back. And to take delight in that loving; as she drew back from the kiss, her sensuously sultry expression declared she was definitely delighting.

  Admittedly she was a virgin, but he doubted all virgins were this giving.

  In mimicry of his loving of her, she skated her lips over his jaw, then down his throat to its base. From there she licked and laved her way to the flat disc of one nipple, licked, lapped, sucked—then nipped. The strange little pain shot fire to his groin; as she switched to his other nipple, he raised a hand to cup her head.

  Before he could stop her she nipped again, and he jerked, pulled taut by the lancing sensation. The short exhalation of her near breathless laugh, redolent of pleasure and delight, turned him harder than iron.

  He hauled her head up to his, kissed her with enough heat and fire to wrench the reins once more from her grasp. With the hand cupping her head, he held her to the kiss; his other hand he sent skating down the svelte planes of her naked back, slipping under the barely there chemise, down to the curve of her derriere.

  Caressing the sweet globes, then kneading evocatively, he waited until she was panting, gasping, close to demanding, then he stripped the crushed chemise down, baring her hips, her bottom, then her sleek thighs, baring her to his touch if not his gaze.

  He tipped and rolled her over as he stripped the flimsy garment down her calves, then slipped it from her feet. Left it lying somewhere amid the rumpled sheets. All with the kiss unbroken.

  Then he gathered her to him, let her breasts, peaked and aching, brush against the hair on his chest, then drew her closer yet, crushed her to him, feeling the soft mounds flatten against his harder flesh as he increasingly evocatively plundered her mouth.

  As her hand rose, uncertain now, to touch, then gently stroke his cheek.

  That touch nearly undid him, filled with a simple, innocent longing, one the experienced rake within him recognized and thirsted for.

  Hungered for.

  But he had his plans, his necessary goals.

  He pushed her down into the bed, ignored the increasingly urgent impulse to simply strip the sheet from between them and sink his throbbing member into the slick, scalding softness between her thighs. Instead, he abruptly broke the kiss, slid back and down in the bed, with hard hands gripped her thighs and spread them wide, ducked his head as he wedged his shoulders between, and set his lips first to her curls, then at her strangled gasp, one filled with shocked realization, traced lower. Put out his tongue and lapped delicately.

  Heather felt her heart pound, thought she might die. Sensation sharp as shards streaked down every nerve; heat shot along every vein. She couldn’t breathe, but no longer seemed to need to; her hands blindly clenched in the sheets in a vain effort to anchor her whirling senses. She could barely believe that he would do such a thing . . . yet some part of her was eager to feel it, know it, experience whatever he would show her.

  She’d initiated this new journey; contrary to her expectations, from the moment she’d kissed him, finally pressed her lips to his, she hadn’t felt the slightest qualm. The slightest fear, nor any real modesty; on every level this—him and her together like this, naked and heated in a bed, his hard hands and hot mouth roaming her body, claiming her, his body hers to delight in and pleasure—seemed utterly right.

  Grappling with the unstoppable cascade of sensations he artfully, expertly, sent crashing through her, she shook her head, gasped, tried to reach him, but could only clench her fingers in his hair and hang on. The tip of his tongue swirled about the sensitive bud tucked beneath her curls, and her world quaked; she tensed, tried to pull away, but he shifted before she could, set one heavy arm across her waist and held her immobile while he ever more blatantly tasted her, licked and traced until she was mindless, until she felt flames licking over every inch of her skin, set alight and racing by the abrasion of his beard against her inner thighs, intensified by the echoing rasp of his wicked tongue over flesh that grew only more sensitive with every deliberate stroke.

  The flames flared, roared, and sank into her flesh, claimed that, too, cindering every inhibition along the way, until she was waiting for his next touch, panting and so damningly eager for the next sliding lap of his tongue, wanting and needy and hungry for something—for one last critical touch . . .

  He kept her there, on the cusp of some cataclysmic revelation, sipping and tasting, even as the heated tension within her built, even as it coalesced into a solid knot at her core. Until she was writhing beneath his arm, all but fighting him, but for what she didn’t know . . .

  Breckenridge pushed her as hard as he dared, as far as he judged she could bear. In the instant that instinct told him the time had come, he felt a sharp surge of elation. He pushed her thighs wider, pressed nearer, and slid his tongue past her entrance into the heated channel beyond—

  She shattered; he only just remembered to reach up and muffle her keening cry.

  Her body bowed, caught in the throes of ecstasy for the very first time.

  He licked, lapped, then licked one last time, savored her tart ambrosia on his tongue for one last, lingering moment, then he pushed first one finger, then worked a second as well, into her still rippling sheath, pumped his hand, his fist pressed against her swollen flesh as he rose over her, as he settled his hips where his shoulders had been.

  Lowering his head, removing his hand from her mouth, he replaced it with his lips. With a kiss so unadulteratedly passionate that she gasped, then, small hands clinging, grasping wildly, she rose to him again.

  Desperate and hungry, eager and yearning, frantically reaching for him.

  He drew back from the heated exchange. Worked his fingers in her sheath, stretching her, readying her.

  His own head was spinning. He rested his jaw against her hair, registered her sobbing breaths. “Sssh, sweetheart. Soon.”

  She gasped, “Now!”

  And reached for him, found him hard and throbbing, filled her palm with the heavy head. Small fingers reached and stroked, traced the flaring rim.

  He cursed, seized her hand and drew it up. Pressed deeper between her thighs and, drawing his fingers from her scalding sheath, guided his erection into her snug entrance.

  Pressed in. Just an inch.

  Felt her catch her breath. Start to tense.

  Swallowing a curse, with his free hand he seized her nape and hauled her to him, back into a kiss that was ravenous beyond belief.

  Felt his reins fray as he pushed her deeper into the bed, trapping her beneath him; holding her to the flagrantly passionate, near-violent exchange, he gripped her hip, anchored her, pushed d
eeper, then, caught in a haze of erotically charged, passionate need, driven by wracked urgency, he withdrew, thrust powerfully through her maidenhead, and sank heavily home.

  Pressed deeper still, forced her to take every last inch.

  And felt his reins snap. Felt control fall away as she cried into his mouth, froze for barely a heartbeat, then clamped, tight as a glove, all along his length.

  Need, desire, and passion beat at him with fiery wings, tore at him with talons tipped with raging hunger.

  He wanted to go slowly, wanted to show her every small facet of the glory, but she moved beneath him, undulating, urging, and any hope of regaining control vaporized.

  Primal need roared; he withdrew and thrust again, hard, heavily, taking and claiming.

  Gone was any glimmer of sophistication. Gone was any mask; there was no way to hide. Not from this.

  Not from the passion, the need, and the want that rose through him and answered her primitive call.

  Not from this elemental claiming.

  And she was with him, writhing beneath him, hips lifting to take all he would give her.

  Heather was caught in the passionate fury, ensorcelled, enslaved, by the driving urgency. Captured, trapped, by the shattering intimacy.

  By the sheer feel of him, hot, hard, and heavy at her core, with each powerful thrust filling her, completing her, with each relentlessly deep penetration claiming her, her senses, her body, her heart.

  That driving rhythm was all she knew, the compulsive beat her all, her everything. In that moment, nothing mattered beyond having him, holding him, knowing him like this.

  Being with him—his—like this.

  Locked in their kiss, she could no longer breathe, breathed through him. Didn’t care. Breathless, dizzy, with pleasure and passion spiraling ever higher, she clung and rode with him, delighted, desperate, needing, wanting . . .

  Desire dampened their skins; slick and heated, they shifted and slid. Fingers gripped, tightened. Held on. Held together.

  Breckenridge was blind. Lost. For the first time in his life, fully victim to the spell. Then beneath him she rose, peaked again, sobbed again, and softly keened his name. Her nails raked and scored his back, her sheath contracted, rippling powerfully along his length, drawing him on, urging him on, milking and stroking . . . desperately breaking from the kiss, head lifting, tipping back, teeth gritted he fought to stifle his roar as his climax surged over and through him, as it shattered him, wracked him, razed him.

  And left him drowning beneath a wave of completion so intense he couldn’t breathe.

  He collapsed half on top of her, too wrung out to move, his lungs working like bellows, his heart thundering, pounding.

  Gradually, it slowed. Sensation, muted awareness returned, enough to register the gentle stroking of her hand, the soothing touch calming, strangely claiming.

  He wanted to find his sophisticated armor and put it back on—before he faced her, before she saw . . .

  Before he could move, she did; turning her head to his, pushing back the damp hair from the side of his face, she touched her lips to his jaw, then, her lips curving sleepily, touched those swollen lips to the corner of his.

  “Thank you.” The words were a sigh, the softest of feminine exhalations. “That was . . . thrilling. And . . . so very fine.”

  He nearly humphed. Fine? The intensity had damned near killed him, and she labelled the moment “fine?”

  She fell back, fully relaxed on her back in the bed.

  After a moment, he turned his head and looked at her. Studied the madonnalike expression that had claimed her face, the bliss that infused her features.

  He filled his lungs, then managed to summon sufficient strength to disengage and lift from her. Slumping on his back alongside her, he stared up at the ceiling, but there were no hints or clues written there.

  For the first time in his extensive career, he didn’t feel, even now, in control. He felt . . . exposed. Uncertain. Not his usual polished, urbane, somewhat boredly smug self.

  Yet he was the one who was supposedly used to this, accustomed to all the nuances. Who knew all the appropriate moves to make, and when to make them.

  She . . . he glanced at her again, at her face.

  Hesitated, then gave into impulse and reached for her. Drawing her to him, he pulled the covers over them, then settled her against him, cradled within his arm, her head pillowed on his chest.

  She made a humming sound, then her limbs eased against him.

  He dipped his head, placed a kiss on her forehead. “Sleep.”

  He felt her lips curve, but she didn’t reply.

  Instead she slid her hand up, curled her fingers against the side of his throat, and relaxed into his arms.

  Inexplicably satisfied now as well as sated, he closed his eyes. And found slumber waiting, dreamless and deep.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following morning, Heather woke to find Breckenridge already up and gone from the bed, and the tiny room. Blinking awake, she yawned, stretched . . . felt the pull of muscles unaccustomed to the, for her, novel activities of the night.

  Those activities . . . had surpassed her wildest dreams, her most exotic fantasies.

  A smile unfurled across her face; warmth still flowed through her, unexpected yet welcome.

  Then she remembered, lifted the sheet, and looked . . . “Thank heaven.” She had bled a little, but her crumpled chemise had been trapped beneath her and had caught the few drops.

  Relieved, she climbed out of the cocoon of the covers, hurriedly dressed, sans chemise. Peeking out of the door, she saw only Mrs. Cartwright making pikelets on the griddle; her back was to Heather, and the sizzling masked most sounds. Peering around the jamb, Heather saw the doors to the back porch and the bathing chamber beyond standing ajar. She slipped out of the bedroom, whisked out and into the bathing chamber, shut and latched the door, then she relaxed, grinned, and set about her ablutions.

  Her mood remained sunny through breakfast, taken with the Cartwrights and Breckenridge, who’d appeared from outside when Mrs. Cartwright had called. Apparently he’d been chopping wood to help the old couple. With the extra coins he insisted they take on top of payment for room and board, Heather felt they were leaving the old couple happier and better off for their stay.

  They left the cottage with the sun climbing higher into the morning sky, walking out of Gribton hand in hand, their satchels on their shoulders. When they regained the lane, their route to Dunscore and Kirkland beyond, Breckenridge, whose face had remained unreadable throughout the morning, halted and pulled out his fob watch.

  He consulted it, grunted, then tucked it back in his pocket. “Just nine o’clock.” Looking ahead, he grasped her hand more firmly and started walking. “I had another look at the map. We might reach the Vale, or at least be close enough to it by nightfall to risk going on without halting, but, more likely, the way will become more mountainous the further we go, which will slow us considerably.” He glanced at her. “We’ll probably have to find somewhere to spend one more night.”

  Still smiling, she blithely nodded. “There’ll be somewhere—a hamlet or a farmhouse. Just like last night.” Just like last night.

  His only reply was another grunt.

  Her smile deepened. They walked on in companionable silence as the sun slowly rose and beamed down upon them. It was a glorious spring day, with birds singing and bees buzzing in the undergrowth bordering the lane. The sky gradually lightened to a cerulean blue. Everything seemed fresh, dew-sparkling, filled with intrinsic promise. She drank it all in, felt her heart swell and overflow with a similar brightness.

  She felt like skipping or dancing along, but in deference to the grunter beside her, kept striding evenly by his side. He’d long ago mastered the need to adjust his pace to hers. They progressed toward the hills rising ahead of them
at a steady rate.

  It was impossible, of course, to keep her mind from revisiting the events of the night. The feelings, the physical sensations. The intimacy, that indefinable heart-to-heart, body-to-body connection, the power of the moment, the bliss-filled aftermath.

  Thanks to him, her eyes had been well and truly opened. She couldn’t believe she’d been willingly avoiding, and therefore missing the benefits of, the activity for all these years.

  Then again, she seriously doubted any other man would have lived, or could now live, up to her expectations, not those she’d previously had, and even less those she now possessed.

  The truth was, if she’d known how it would be, she would have waylaid Breckenridge years ago.

  The notion made her smile, yet brought her thoughts circling back to them, to the inevitable. Despite the indescribable pleasure, she knew to her bones that her path hadn’t changed. She would never accept a socially coerced husband, no matter how incredible a lover he was. The events of the night might have further shaded her evolving view of him, and she could but hope that he’d revised his view of her, yet in terms of their separate future paths nothing had truly changed.

  What had perhaps altered was their immediate future. Their next days.

  She glanced at him. Quite aside from her losing her virginity, something between them had subtly shifted. Perhaps it was a change that always happened when a man and a woman were intimate. She couldn’t tell, but she did feel both closer to Breckenridge and a lot more easy in his company. On many levels.

  What exactly that might lead to . . . she considered the prospects as they marched on.

  From the corner of his eye, Breckenridge watched her. Took in her serene, yet pensive, expression. He would give a great deal to know what she was thinking. Experienced as he was with women, he’d long ago learned not to try to predict how their minds might work; they inevitably surprised him, and he was sure she’d be no different in that respect.