Chapter 9 #4
From there he journeyed down, brushing his lips across the flat of her belly, caressing the velvet cream of her thighs, then pressing his face into the dark triangle between.
Genevieve gasped and tried to push him away, but he gripped the slender bones of her wrists and held her firmly.
Imprisoning her against the mattress, he dipped his head low and flicked his tongue deep inside her hot, slick opening.
She gasped again, but this time it was with pure, undiluted pleasure.
He began to lap at her, tasting her with slow, languid strokes, swirling his tongue in and out, and over the sweet pink petals of her.
He found the pearly nub in which her pleasure was centered and he sucked gently upon it, causing her to arch suddenly against him, raising herself up so that he might taste her better.
Genevieve jerked her wrists free of Haydon’s grasp and threaded her fingers deep into the ebony mane of his hair, pulling him closer as she opened her legs and wantonly offered herself to him.
She felt as if she were melting, and yet she had never felt so incredibly tense.
She wanted him to touch her and kiss her and lick her everywhere, to devour her whole, until there was nothing left of her that did not belong to him.
The pleasure roiling within her was unbearable, but it wasn’t enough, for the more Haydon’s tongue and lips swirled and stroked the intimate depths of her, the more she wanted him to taste her faster, harder, more deeply.
A terrible ache was blooming far inside her, a tight hollowness that could not be filled by the magnificent caresses he was raining upon her hot, wet womanhood.
And then he slowly pressed a finger deep inside her and began to move it in and out in leisurely, deliberate thrusts, dancing in rhythm with the agonizing caresses of his mouth.
It was more than she could bear, she was certain of it, and yet it wasn’t enough, and so she closed her thighs around the roughness of his jaw and held him fast, taking pleasure in the sandy feel of his cheeks against her silky skin, the scalding slickness of his mouth on her hot, coral cleft, the gloriously deep penetration of his finger as it slipped in and out, exploring and worshiping her until there was nothing but Haydon and the magnificent wet fire that was raging within her.
Suddenly she was gasping for air, tiny, desperate sips of breath that could not fill her bursting lungs, for everything was strained and tight and reaching for more, and Haydon’s tongue licked in rapid little strokes at her liquefying flesh while his finger drove deep inside her.
And then she was bursting into a shower of stars, which rippled over her in hard, breathless waves.
She cried out, a desperate cry of joy and wonder, and as the ripples eased, she clawed at Haydon’s shoulders, pulling him up until his powerful body was covering her with naked, hard heat.
Haydon fought for control as he felt his manhood pressing against Genevieve’s exquisite wetness.
He wanted to plunge deep inside her and take her fast, to slake the unbearable lust that was surely going to kill him if he did not sate it immediately.
She was a virgin, he reminded himself fiercely, and she required gentle care.
And so he claimed her mouth with rough hunger, as his hands roamed the silky hills and valleys of her body, rousing her again until her nails were biting into his rigid shoulders and her legs had twined with his.
Unable to bear the torment a moment longer, he entered her, just a little, feeling as if he had died as the scalding slickness of her closed over him.
Genevieve’s eyes fluttered open and she regarded him with smoky desire.
Then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and opened her legs wider, raising her hips, drawing him farther within.
Despite his determination to go slowly, Haydon felt the last thread of his control snap.
With a groan he drove himself deep inside, sheathing himself in her hot tightness.
Genevieve gasped.
“I’m sorry, Genevieve,” Haydon managed, cursing himself.
What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered furiously.
He had no more control than a schoolboy.
He held himself perfectly still, resolving not to move until she had grown accustomed to the feel of him within her.
“I think, if we wait a bit, the pain will pass.”
Genevieve blinked and nodded.
“I also think you should breathe,” Haydon added after a moment.
Slowly, she exhaled the breath she had been holding.
“Better?”
Actually, it was much better, Genevieve realized, especially when she allowed her body to relax. Longing to be back to where there were no words, she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him down so she could kiss him.
Haydon moaned as his tongue tangled with hers.
He began to flex slowly within her, swearing to himself that he would be gentle, that he would give her time to be roused once more.
But she seemed to be roused already, for she was kissing him deeply as her hands swept across the rigid curves of his shoulders and back and buttocks, pulling him into her as she thrust her body against his, opening herself to him and closing herself around him until there was nothing but wetness and heat and the silver sheen that was shimmering on their skin.
Again and again he drove into her, overwhelmed by the silky river of her red-blonde hair, the summery hot scent of her skin mingling with the fragrance of her passion, the soft, lean beauty of her elegantly sculpted breasts and hips and legs.
She was everything he had ever wanted, he realized with piercing clarity. And the realization was agony, because he knew she was not his and never would be. He had killed a man and lost his identity, and he could not stay without endangering her and the children to whom she had devoted herself.
Yet if he ever succeeded in reclaiming his life as the Marquess of Redmond he was certain she would not want him, for that selfish, careless bastard was not worthy of a woman like her.
The realization wounded and enraged him, for if he had but known that she existed he might have lived his life differently, might have refrained from drinking and gambling and heedlessly spreading his seed, creating children to whom he had no right and who he could not protect.
He wanted to join Genevieve to him, wanted to drive himself inside her and kiss her and hold her and cover her until neither knew where one ended and the other began, wanted to meld their flesh and their breath and their blood so that nothing could ever come between them.
But there was just this moment that would quickly be over, and the realization filled him with despair.
He tried to slow himself, tried to make this brief, stolen interlude between them last longer, but she was writhing and stretching beneath him, opening herself to every aching thrust with hot little pants of breath and her nails clawing desperately at his back, meeting his penetrations with gasps of pleasure as she gripped him in her tightness, until finally he couldn’t bear it a moment longer.
He shoved himself deep inside her, burying himself within the magnificently taut clench of her beautiful body.
And then he groaned and poured his essence into her, feeling as if he were dying, and not giving a damn, as long as he could stay joined to her, with her heart pounding rapidly against his chest and the whisper of her breath gusting soft and sweet against his skin.
They lay joined together a long moment, each afraid to move for fear of severing the fragile bonds between them.
But as his flesh cooled, his reason returned.
What had he been thinking? Haydon wondered, his mind suddenly reeling with self-loathing.
It was not enough that he had selfishly created one unwanted child—because of his lack of control, he may well have started another.
He had not lived the life of a monk since his torrid affair with Cassandra, but after Emmaline’s death he had vowed never to create a life so casually again.
Yet instead of withdrawing before his own climax, as had been his rule these past two years, he had buried himself within her.
How could he have been so careless?
He rolled off her and rose from the bed. He picked up his fallen plaid and wrapped it around his waist, then went to the window and stared grimly out at the infinite blackness of the night, cursing his own stupidity.
“Jesus, Genevieve,” he said, his voice low and harsh, “I’m sorry.”
Shame washed over her. Genevieve grasped the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around herself, shielding her body from Haydon’s perusal as she gathered up her nightgown and shawl.
She turned away and dressed beneath the tent of her blanket.
Tonight she had shown herself for what she really was, she realized, trembling with humiliation—a wanton slut who would writhe on a bed beneath a man’s touch.
She had kissed Haydon and held him and opened herself to him, drawing him into her body with no thought to the consequences.
He was not her husband, she reminded herself miserably, and he never would be.
He was a fugitive from the law, a convicted murderer, and he could not stay there a moment longer than was necessary.
Even if he did eventually reclaim his life as the Marquess of Redmond, he would never return to marry a woman like her.
No man of decent station or normal sanity would marry an impoverished spinster with five young thieves and one maid’s bastard for children.