Chapter 8
The servants prized discretion, the villagers preferred conjecture, and the crofters, who possessed little patience for either, merely observed that silence clung stubbornly to the estate. The sort of silence that suggested not peace, but endurance.
Verity’s hands slid upward along Lucien’s muscled arms, over the taut ridges of his shoulders. Far from resisting him, she was pulling him closer, her body nearly weightless in his embrace, hunger answering hunger.
He deepened the kiss, mouth coaxing hers open, and she rewarded him with a shy flicker of her tongue against his own.
He groaned, a sound of pure pleasure that trembled between their lips.
His hands slipped downward to her waist, spanning it easily, the pressure of his fingers urging her closer to him.
Verity was dizzy with sensation. She could not think.
Her mind had been reduced to a babble of animal wants, the grip of Lucien’s hands, the wet heat of his mouth.
When he broke away, it was only to attack the hollow of her throat, tracing the beat of her pulse with slow, sucking kisses.
She gasped at the first touch of his teeth, only to find it sent a shock of pleasure through her entire body.
His body was so much larger than hers, all lean muscle and impossible heat. She was shocked to discover how much she wanted that strength, how much she needed to be held, claimed, overwhelmed by it.
Lucien’s hands wandered from her waist, trailing up and down the length of her spine, stopping to cup her shoulder blades, then dropping lower.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered, and it was the truest thing she had ever said.
She reached up, suddenly desperate to touch his bare skin.
Her hands fumbled at the buttons of his coat, black wool so fine it seemed to drink the firelight.
He did not help her at first, instead continuing his earlier exploration of her throat, his lips and teeth gentle but insistent.
Then he leaned back with a frustrated snarl, unwinding his cravat with one impatient hand, before returning to his vigorous examination of her person.
At last, she worked the buttons free of his coat, tugging at the lapels.
He shrugged it off in one smooth motion, then she set about unfastening his jacquard waistcoat, a brocaded silver thing that shone in the shifting light.
She undid it with trembling fingers, and when it fell away, she saw the white linen shirt beneath was open at the throat, the V exposing the shadowed hollows of his neck and chest.
Breaking contact, she leaned down momentarily, grasping one of his polished black hessian boots, the leather cool and thick under her palms. Quick to help her, he instantly tugged the boot free, then moved to kick off the other.
At the same time, she worked to unfasten his pale buckskins, her fingers fumbling at the buttons while his hands roamed her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips.
She was not sure how she knew to do this other than a desperate need to feel his naked skin against hers.
His legs emerged as she slid the buckskins down. They were thick and muscled, dusted with dark hair that contrasted his skin’s bronze hue. This left him in nothing but small clothes, his arousal evident and straining against the linen.
He dropped to his knees before her, his height still such that his face was almost level with hers even when kneeling.
His hands moved with increasing urgency.
He swept them up from her hips to her collar, then to the row of buttons at the bodice of her dress.
He hesitated only long enough to raise a questioning brow, seeking permission.
She nodded, breathless, helpless to resist.
He undid the first button, then the next, working down with hands that trembled slightly.
When he reached the last, he pushed her bodice open.
Removing her gown in swift, urgent tugs, he loosened her stays, his thumbs brushing the tips of her breasts through her thin shift, circling, slow, and torturous.
He leaned in and promptly suckled her nipples with his hot mouth through the fabric, provoking an indescribable sensation that shot through her writhing form as she keened in shocked fascination.
Then he stood, lifting her as though she weighed nothing.
He carried her to the hearthrug, slowly lowering her onto its thick, soft surface.
She watched him as the fire painted his body above hers, flickering gold and shadow.
He knelt over her, large and looming, yet nothing in his face suggested a predator.
Instead, he looked delicate to her, as if he might shatter.
She reached for him, drawing him down, and when their mouths met again, it was with a ferocity neither could disguise.
Now on top of her, his hands roamed everywhere, filling her body with heat, until at last he pulled off her stockings, quickly followed by her shift, exposing her breasts to the air.
He paused to admire them, the pink tips already drawn tight, the soft swell rising and falling with each shallow breath.
He lowered his mouth to one, and the sensation was so intense she cried out, her hands flying to his hair, clutching at him for anchor.
He moved to the other, lavishing it with equal care.
After a minute, he drew back, his eyes locked on hers, a question in their golden depths … do you want more?
She let her legs fall open, just enough to answer the question. He pressed a trail of kisses up from her ankle to her calf, worshiping her upwards. She shivered, anticipation coiling through her, a sweet ache she had never felt so strongly.
His hands slid up her calves, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other.
He looked at her as he felt her with mouth and hand, his eyes full of admiration, as though she were a priceless treasure or a queen.
She reached for his hair again, winding it through her fingers, and he looked up, face so open and earnest she thought she might weep for the beauty of it.
Then he pressed his mouth against her most secret place, the wetness and heat of his lips a revelation that made her arch from the hearthrug, her fingers now tightening in his hair.
In an effort to anchor herself, she looked back down at him. The firelight danced across his broad shoulders, casting shadows that deepened the mystery of this man who knelt before her like a supplicant at an altar, yet commanded her body with the authority of a lord born to rule.
She gasped as she suddenly felt him place his tongue against her. Velvet and delicate, it slowly traced the sensitive spot at the top of her folds, then re-traced it again and again, each stroke sending ripples of exquisite torment through her veins.
Her breath was now coming in ragged bursts, the air she breathed in thick with the scent of burning wood and their mingled arousal. The world beyond him faded into oblivion, all dissolving in the blaze of sensation he kindled within her.
His large hands, those long fingers and wide palms that had earlier spanned her waist with possessive ease, now gripped her thighs, parting them wider to grant him fuller access. He held her open to his ministrations, his touch firm yet tender.
He continued to circle the pearl of her pleasure with his tongue, still slow and deliberate at first, teasing her with languid laps that built up a pleasure so profound it bordered on agony. She felt herself unraveling, thread by thread, her body a tapestry of need woven by his skillful devotion.
His gaze lifted to meet hers again, his eyes dark with passion.
In them, she saw a man consumed by the same hunger that clawed at her.
Still looking at her, he redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking with greater urgency, delving with more pressure into her silken warmth.
One of his hands slipped upward, his fingers joining in, tracing her entrance with feather-light caresses before pressing inward, filling her with a gentle intrusion that made her hips buck against him.
The sensations were overwhelming, a symphony of feeling that crescendoed with each thrust of his fingers, each swirl of his tongue. Her head fell back against the rug, her locks spilling everywhere, her body arching in supplication.
As it all intensified, she began to whisper his name, over and over, a litany of “Lucien … Lucien,” as if invoking a deity to grant her release from this sweet torment.
He answered with his mouth closing over her sensitive bud to suckle with insistent pressure, sending waves of pleasure chasing through her.
And then, with a final, masterful stroke of his tongue, she shattered.
He held her through it, his mouth gentling as she rode the crest, his fingers stroking her inner walls to prolong the ecstasy until she lay spent, quivering in the aftermath.
When she opened her eyes, he was in front of her, watching her with awe, his own desire plain in the tight set of his jaw and the hunger still burning in his gold-flecked eyes.
She reached for him, wanting more. Their mouths met once again, the promise of what would come next hovering between them like a held breath. Reaching to tug off his small clothes, she could not hide how desperate she was to feel his skin on hers, to feel all of him, not just his hands and mouth.
Soon she felt the slick head of arousal at her entrance, and a thrill of fear and anticipation raced through her. She remembered all the warnings she had heard, all the dire predictions of pain, but she wanted this. She wanted him.
He pulled back, and for a moment, all she sensed was his masculinity, a sheer musky masculinity. Staring up into his golden eyes flecked with black, she noted every mote of those fascinating depths, committing them to her memory.