16
Her lips were as warm and soft as they’d been a few days ago, but hotter, somehow, and sweeter. So, so sweet. Her lips parted beneath his, her tongue touched his, and he groaned into her mouth, sliding his arms around her, tightening his hold until her body was pressed fully against his own.
The desire he’d been trying so desperately to curb, desire he’d tried to keep at bay by staying away last night, was rushing through him now, through every cell and nerve of his body. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it sounded like a trip-hammer.
But past all that, he heard a door open in the distance—the doors of the lift, he realized vaguely—and then voices, echoing softly around the corner and along the corridor where they stood, reminding him that he had to stop now, while he still could.
He tore his mouth from hers. “You’ve got to go,” he muttered, grasping for sanity. “We can’t stand here making love in the corridor.”
Instead of answering, she reached around him with one hand and opened the door, while her other hand flattened against his chest. “Good thing we have a room then, isn’t it?” she whispered, pushing him to urge him backward.
He shook his head vehemently and didn’t move. “Not now. Not yet.”
“So you do have a mistress, then?” She rose on her toes and kissed him, sending his resolve tilting dangerously sideways.
“What? No.” He grabbed her arms. “Delia, we can’t do this. It wouldn’t be right. I’d be taking advantage of you. You don’t know—”
“Really, Simon,” she interrupted, a soft, grumbling sigh as she kissed his chin, “all these rejections are beginning to hurt my pride.”
This reminder that he’d been blowing hot and cold with her from the beginning added a hint of guilt to the quixotic mix of his emotions, but before he could reply or pull away, she spoke again. “Your sense of morality is quite honorable and one of your most endearing qualities, but you really needn’t worry.” She paused, her arms tightening around his neck as she kissed him again. “I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
The voices around the corner grew louder, coming closer, and this time, when she steered him backward, he gave ground, stepping backward into the room before anyone could see them. Delia followed him, closing the door behind them, and as it clicked into place, he cursed himself for thinking kissing her once and saying goodnight would ever work. Where Delia was concerned, his oh-so-laudable morality, along with his restraint and good sense, went straight out the window.
Valiantly, he tried again. “Delia, listen to me. We can’t do this.”
She sank back on her heels with a sigh. “Why not?”
“Because I’m in love with you, that’s why. And if—”
“What?” She stared at him as if he’d just grown a second head. “You are?”
“Yes. You see—” He broke off, watching as a radiant smile lit her face, and he forgot completely what he’d been about to say next.
“How marvelous,” she said, her hands sliding up his chest, her arms winding round his neck.
“Is it?” His voice was strangled, desperate, and his arousal was growing impossible to contain. “It doesn’t feel marvelous to me. It’s been hell, if you want to know the truth.”
“Goodness, as bad as that?”
“And if I take advantage of you this way now, it’ll be worse, because you’ll never fall in love with me.”
“Oh, well, it’s too late to worry about that,” she said as she rose on her toes and began pressing kisses to his lips, his chin, his neck. “That particular deed’s already done, I’m afraid.”
“What?” He pulled back, staring at her askance, not sure if he could believe his own ears.
She nodded, laughing. “I’m in love with you, too. I realized it when I found out about your mistress.”
Joy and jubilation rose up inside him like fireworks, and as torturous as all this was, he knew he’d never be happier than he was at this moment. “I don’t have a mistress. That’s a groundless rumor, and I have no idea how it got round, but—”
He broke off, realizing he was getting into the weeds and away from the vital point. “You mean it?” he asked and grabbed her arms. “Really?”
“Well, of course.” She kissed him. “You don’t think I’d risk yet another rejection, fling myself at you like this, and give a damn about your mistress if I weren’t madly in love with you, do you?”
“Well, frankly, Delia,” he muttered, “when it comes to you, I never know what to think. You seem to adore throwing me off my trolley.”
“It has become one of my greatest delights, I confess. Speaking of delights,” she added, leaning closer, her hips pressing his hard arousal, “are we going to make love?” She paused, her hips moving against his in a slow, tormenting tease. “Or am I going to have to beg?”
He groaned, a groan of agonized pleasure that made her smile, the little devil, and with that, all his willpower slipped irretrievably away. He never could manage to resist her. “I suspect I’ll be the one begging before it’s all over,” he muttered. “You are such a tease.”
“Tease?” she cried, having the nerve to sound indignant. “What an abominable thing to say.”
Even as she said it, she was untying the sash of her robe, and then she pulled the edges apart just enough for him to see the shadowy outline of one luscious breast beneath her chiffon nightdress, and she laughed again.
“I rest my case,” he said, wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and stopped her merriment with a long, hard, searing kiss. Only when she tore her lips from his with a shuddering gasp did he relent. Pulling back, he untied the sash of her robe. “Now, I think I’ve earned the right to look my fill.”
He slid the garment off her shoulders, revealing filmy layers of cream-colored chiffon and the voluptuous outline of her silhouette beneath. Unfortunately, the nightgown also had a long, tedious row of very tiny buttons.
He was fully, flagrantly aroused, and he was tempted to just tear the delicate chiffon fabric apart, but he pushed aside this base masculine desire at once.
Given what he knew that she did not, making love with her now was morally questionable—at best. He ought to wait, as he’d planned, but God help him, he just didn’t have the strength. Still, he wasn’t about to compound his sin by rushing the moment and taking her in a grasping rush. It might assuage his present agony, but it would leave her profoundly unsatisfied, and that was not a price he was willing to pay.
So he took a deep, steadying breath and lifted his hands to the base of her throat, his fingers undoing the first button under her chin.
“Simon?”
His hands stilled and he looked up to find her smiling.
“You don’t need to unfasten any buttons,” she told him. “There are ribbon ties in the back.”
“Thank God,” he said with such heartfelt relief that she laughed.
“I was tempted to let you undo them all,” she told him and laughed again. “But I decided that would take too long.”
“Did you now?” His resolve renewed, he turned her around. “Then I shall definitely be taking my time.”
She groaned, and it was his turn to laugh.
He suited the action to the word, beginning with her hair. Untying the ribbon, he unraveled the braid, and as he did, he caught the scent of her perfume in the raven-black locks. As always, the erotic fragrance sent his arousal flaring higher. Grasping a handful of the waist-length strands in his fist, he lifted them, inhaling deeply of the luscious scent before he wrapped them around his fist and tilted her head to the side.
He pressed kisses along the side of her throat as he lifted his free hand to her breast. He cupped it in his palm, relishing the full, round shape, his body supporting her weight as she leaned back against him with a soft moan.
“Ah, that’s what I like to hear,” he murmured, toying with her nipple through the thin silk, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until her breath was quick and shallow and her body was moving agitatedly in his embrace.
Only then did he relent, and only long enough to turn them both around so that her abdomen was pressed against the footboard of the bed. Then he let her go, shoved the long tresses of her hair over her shoulder, and untied the bow at the back of her neck.
He pulled the edges of her nightgown apart and continued untying ribbons as he sank to his knees behind her, kissing his way along her spine until he reached the small of her back. Then he pulled the nightgown down her arms, over her tummy and hips, where it fell in a pool of filmy silk at her ankles, exposing her entire backside to his gaze—her slim, straight back, the deep curve of her waist, her shapely bum.
He pressed one last kiss to the dent in the small of her back; then, praying for fortitude, he grasped her hips and turned her around.
She was stunning. No other word for it. Her pale skin, luminous in the lamplight, her hair falling in black waves around her shoulders. Her breasts, round and full, with their erect nipples as rosy and tempting as ripe berries. His throat went dry, and he felt a sudden, uncharacteristic pang of uncertainty. He was no virgin, of course, but having had three husbands, her sexual experience far outweighed his, and he could only hope he could give her the pleasure she deserved.
“Simon? Is something wrong?”
He looked up, laughing a little. “I’m feeling a bit out of my depth, Delia, to be honest. You see, I’ve only been with two women in my life.”
“Two?”
“The first,” he hurried on, “I was eighteen, and on leave in the army, so it was a prostitute in Cape Town. The whole thing was a rushed, sweaty, rather disappointing encounter.”
“The first time usually is,” she assured him. “Mine was.”
“It was?”
“Oh, yes. It was quick, and painful, and I was quite disillusioned. Things got a little better, but not much. Cocaine, I can only assume, was what made him so unpredictable and moody. And when the mood struck Roger to visit my room, things were always far too rushed. Who was the second woman?”
“As I said, I was in the army. Most of the time, I was at some fort in the middle of nowhere, receiving dismally low pay, so I couldn’t keep a mistress, and after my first disillusioning experience, prostitutes held no appeal for me. After I left the army, I acquired a mistress, which was better, but we were never love’s young dream. I didn’t much care for the shallowness of that sort of arrangement. But this—” He paused, drawing a profound, shaky breath. “This is altogether different. I love you, Delia. I want tonight to be right for you.”
She stared down at him, taking in every detail of his countenance. His hair—burnished gold in the lamplight. His thick brown lashes—gilded at the tips. His face so stunningly handsome—filled with a combination of love and desire.
Looking down at him, his words echoing in her ears, she felt things she’d never felt in her life before. This, she thought, was love—not the calf love she’d felt as a girl infatuated with a moody poet; not the frantic, snatching love she’d felt while rebounding from grief; and not the warm, bland affection she’d felt for an older man. No, this was something new and altogether different. Because Simon was a man she could rely on, a man she knew she could absolutely trust, and that knowledge humbled her and awed her and made her—just a little—afraid. If she ever lost him—
She cut off that unbearable possibility before it could take hold. “It will be totally right, Simon,” she told him. “Just do what you feel.”
He leaned forward, wrapping an arm around her hips, cupping one of her breasts in his free hand, his thumb caressing her nipple. He played with her breasts, shaping them, toying with them. He suckled them, softly at first, and then harder, wringing sensation from her until she was moaning low in her throat and her hands were raking through his hair.
His arm was tight around her hips, anchoring her in place as his hand left her breast, and she shivered as his fingertips danced lightly over her ribs and stomach. As he moved his hand lower and lower, she could feel her tension rising higher and higher, but when he reached the apex of her thighs, he pulled back and she gave a moan of protest, arching her hips toward his hand in a desperate plea for more.
But he didn’t give it. Instead, his arm moved up around her waist, and he leaned his weight into her, settling the curve of her hip into the dent of his shoulder as he slid the tip of his finger into the crease of her sex. He touched her, his fingertip moving up and down in a light caress filled with promise.
She was close to climax, she knew, but it seemed to hover tantalizingly out of reach. She could get there, if only she could move. She tried again to wriggle her hips, more insistently this time, but his superior weight kept her still, and all she could do was stand there, helpless to move as he mercilessly lashed her with this teasing caress.
Suspended here, hovering on the edge of climax, was an unbearable torture. She wanted to tell him that, but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and the only sound she could make was a cry of frustration and need.
He seemed to understand what she was asking for, but instead of complying, he only teased her more. “Is there something you want?” he murmured. “Tell me.”
“More,” she managed, the only word she could say, but he merely laughed.
“Bastard,” she panted.
“Delia, Delia,” he chided, his breath warm against her dampness, making her shiver. “What an unladylike thing to say.”
“Damn it, Simon,” she ground out. “Stop torturing me!”
He laughed again. “Open your legs,” he ordered, easing back enough for her to comply.
She did it gladly, eagerly, expecting him to stand up and take her straightaway, but he didn’t. Instead, he nuzzled her intimate feminine place. He kissed her there, sending keen, sharp sensation through every cell and nerve ending in her body.
He stroked the crease of her sex with his tongue as his hand caressed her stomach. Free at last, she moved against the footboard, and her panting breaths mingled with the faint squeak of the bedframe as her hips worked against his mouth. His tongue lashed her with these carnal kisses until she was trembling all over and every breath she exhaled was a sob.
She came at last, a powerful wave of pleasure that flooded every part of her body with glorious sensation. Even before it could ebb, it came again, then again, and yet again, over and over, each wave more powerful than the last, until she finally collapsed.
His arm tightened to keep her upright, and she looked down, panting and wordless, as he pressed a last, tender kiss to her stomach. When he lifted his head, she could only stare at him in amazement, still rocked by the most powerful series of orgasms she’d ever experienced.
A puzzled frown creased his brow as he looked up at her. “Delia, are you all right?”
“Heavens,” she gasped. “For a man who’s only been with two women, you learned a lot.”
He laughed, his breath blowing warm air against her stomach.
“I’m a quick study.”
He pressed one last kiss to her navel and moved to rise. As he stood up, she saw the outline of his penis against the aubergine velvet of his dressing robe, and she realized just how much of an asset her own prior experience could be. Kicking her tangled nightgown sideways from beneath her feet, she stepped out from between him and the bed, grasped his arm, and came around, turning them both until their positions were reversed. “Two,” she said as she pushed him gently back a step, “can play this game, my love.”
He frowned a little as he hit the footboard behind him. “I sense trouble ahead.”
“Oh, you have no idea, you tease.”
With a quick tug, she pulled the sash of his robe, then she sank to her knees, and before he had the chance to realize just what she was doing, his penis, hot, engorged, and rock hard, was in her hand, and her mouth was opening around the tip.
His groan, an agonized rumble from deep in his chest, filled her with joy. She took him as far into her mouth as she could, pulled back, then came forward again. She moved her tongue in a teasing swirl around the tip, relishing that she could now do to him what he had done to her; but her delight, sadly, was far too short-lived.
“Enough, Delia,” he ground out, his hand entangling in her hair, pulling her head back. “That’s enough.”
His hand left her hair and he pulled her to her feet. “This night isn’t going to end like that, with you on your knees.”
“No?”
“No.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her around the side of the bed, then he eased her down onto the bed and pulled off his robe.
Delia fell back with a sigh, drinking in the sight of him with unabashed admiration. His body was magnificent. No other word for it—wide shoulders tapering to powerful arms, a lean torso of rippled abdominal muscles and narrow hips. And his desire for her on full display.
“My God,” she breathed, “you’re splendid.”
He laughed. “You’re a bit of all right yourself, Countess.”
“Only a bit?” she echoed, pretending indignance, but the pretense ended as he came over her, bracing his weight on his arms, making the mattress dip, as he leaned down and kissed her.
“More than a bit. Move over.”
She complied, turning to stretch out on the bed, settling back against the pillows as he followed, easing his body on top of hers.
“Come,” she said, and spread her legs apart. “Come inside me now.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said and entered her.
The feel of him inside her was glorious, but then he went still, his weight on his elbows, nuzzling her neck, and she stirred beneath him. Despite the powerful orgasms of a few moments ago, arousal was still pulsing through her, and his breathing, hard and labored, told her he felt the same, but he still didn’t move. “Simon, c’mon,” she urged, pushing her hips upward, desperate for completion. “Do it.”
He kissed her neck, her throat, her mouth. “Do what?” he asked.
“Simon, please.”
“Why, Delia,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip as his arms slid beneath her shoulder blades, “are you begging?”
“Yes, you impossible man,” she cried, unashamed, laughing. “Yes. Please. Do it now. Please, please.”
Her plea ended in a groan of relief and satisfaction as he began to move, and her arousal rose higher, her desperation growing more urgent, more frantic, with each powerful thrust of his hips.
She met him thrust for thrust, relished each groan she tore from his lips, until at last, she climaxed again, her muscles clenching hard around his cock. He followed her, and she gloried even more in his climax than her own.
He thrust into her one last time and went still, his body heavy on top of hers, his face buried against her neck. She turned her head and kissed him, overcome by a tenderness she’d never felt for a man before. She lay there beneath him, caressing his broad, strong back, smiling, replete, happy.
She felt as if she’d finally come completely out of the darkness and into the light, and she was glad she had managed to endure those dark days five years ago, glad to be in love, glad to be alive. So very glad.