Chapter 18 #2
She wanted to touch his skin, had regretted not doing it enough in Paris.
Never kissing him on that smooth, golden expanse, not ruffling her fingers through that fascinating patch of hair.
He pulled back and tore off his coat and then his shirt, and she rose up to flatten her hands against his torso, riding them up over the smooth slabs of muscle dusted with rough hair, the flat nipples and curve of square shoulders.
He was so solid and firm next to her softness, and before she knew it, he’d tugged the blankets away and was pulling her night rail up and over her head. It might even have torn, but she didn’t care.
Angelica was naked, silvery moonlight striping over her belly as he knelt up, looking down at her.
It occurred to her, absurdly, that she’d never sprawled on her bed in this condition before—nude and uncovered and bathed in natural light, a little breeze filtering over her sensitive, waiting skin. It felt delicious.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he murmured, “in all my hundred forty-eight years.”
She wouldn’t think about that now…not that he was so old, that he had this affliction, that at any moment, he could tear into her and draw out all of her blood.
He’d proven over and over he wouldn’t do that to her, and tonight…
there was something different. A restraint.
That wild glow was gone from his eyes; the heaving, gasping breaths were nowhere in evidence.
“But,” she said, later wondering from where such bold words came, “you’re still clothed and I am quite curious to see what a one hundred forty-eight-year-old man looks like without them.”
He gave a choked sort of gasp. “I do hope,” he said, unbuttoning the flap of his trousers with practiced, unhurried motions, “that doesn’t mean you know what a twenty-eight-year-old man looks like and want to compare us.”
She gave a nervous giggle that stopped in a short gasp when he slid his trousers and drawers down over lean hips.
Angelica wasn’t naive or innocent about the workings of coitus—she and Maia had traded many conversations with the chambermaids about that very subject.
But being confronted with the actual implement was enough to steal her breath.
She reached to touch it and he stilled. She glanced at him and saw his eyes close, his breathing stop, and she pulled her hand away.
His eyes flew open. “Angelica.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t know.”
“No, no, that’s not it…” His smile wavered and he drew in a breath. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to touch me.”
“Oh…” She closed her fingers around his erection, shocked by the rush of pleasure she felt at the taut, velvety skin. “My lord.”
“Voss, blast it, Angelica. My name is Voss. Say it,” he said in a pained sigh.
“Voss,” she replied. “I love you, Voss.”
He moved quickly at that point, and the next thing she knew, they were skin to skin, length to length.
His hands moved everywhere, and his mouth, soft and demanding, his tongue stroking and probing in places she hadn’t even known were sensitive: the hollow of her neck, the soft rise of her belly, the inside of her thigh.
Angelica gasped at that, when he bent between her legs, gently spreading them. She couldn’t have moved if she’d tried, but when his sleek, wicked tongue began to stroke her, his lips nibbling and tasting, she had to pull a pillow over her face to stifle her sighs and groans.
That luscious heat filled her to swelling, and as he taunted and teased, with long, slick strokes, then fast, short ones, she grasped blindly at his head, sliding her fingers through his hair until it all exploded and she fell into a shuddering, gasping mass of nothing.
“Voss,” she whispered as he yanked the pillow away, and she saw the fierce expression on his face.
He bent to her, his mouth musky and hot, and his hands sliding down between them. Their bodies, flesh to sleek flesh, curves sliding against firm muscle, slipped and shifted, and when he guided himself to her core, he raised his face from the ferocious kiss.
“Angelica,” was all he managed, but she read the question in his eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed, “I trust you.”
His eyes closed momentarily, and then opened again. Looking down at her, something blazing there that had nothing to do with the devil and everything to do with purity, he shifted and pushed…and filled her.
Angelica’s eyes widened at the pure shock of eroticism, a feeling she could never have imagined or described…then with a sharp movement, he went deeper. The pain was lost in a wave of pleasure, and then everything changed from gentle stillness to a hot, fast, building rhythm.
He muffled her mouth with his, or perhaps she was stifling him with hers…she didn’t know, and simply gave herself over.
And when he tensed and stopped, arched over her, his fingers sliding between them, she gave a little gasp of surprise, then tipped over once again, exploding into heat and light as he buried his face in her neck, shuddering above her.
“That,” he murmured into her neck moments later, “was worth every bit of the wait, my love.”
“Shall we do it again?” she asked, finding his lips, loving the taste of herself mingled with his own damp flavor.
Voss smiled against her. “Only if you promise to keep quiet. I don’t wish Corvindale to interrupt.”
Voss considered remaining intertwined with Angelica until someone came in and found them in the morning.
Then they’d have to be married. Then even Corvindale couldn’t find a way out of it…and all the explanations would be made.
But in the end he decided there was a better way to do it.
A bit more dramatic, and also, he confessed privately, deep in his heart, he wanted to stick one last pin into Corvindale simply to see the man squirm.
To force him to show some emotion, something other than the cold bastard side he showed to the world.
His soul might no longer be cracked and damaged, and he might have found everlasting love, but Voss was still imperfect. Just like every other man in the world.