Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
New Year’s Eve promises many enticing amusements, among them the fireworks display at Vauxhall, Mr. and Mrs. Locksley’s entertainment, Lord Stratton’s annual ball, and His Majesty’s lavish dinner at Frogmore-lodge.
There will be something for every level of society, so the night is sure to be enjoyed all round.
Ian stood frozen with his wife’s mouth on his. Damn her, he couldn’t let this happen! Bedding her would make it impossible for him to bear a separation from her. Why hadn’t he considered his wife’s passionate temperament in all his earlier strategizing?
Because he hadn’t known she fancied herself in love with him.
That’s why she was trying this damned maneuver.
She thought that because they’d made love she was in love, which wasn’t the same thing.
The things he’d told her had made no difference, because they were only a fraction of the real horror.
Once she learned the truth about that, her feelings of love would dissipate rapidly enough.
So he ought to tell her everything. Then she would despise him, and the battle would be over.
He reached up to pry her arms from around his neck, but she held on tight, and with his fingers around her wrists, he could feel her wildly beating pulse.
But it was worse when she moved her lips on his.
Damn it, they were sweet. Literally. Sweet with burgundy, making him think of ripe, luscious fruit ...
as ripe and luscious as the breasts crushed against his chest by her tiptoed stance.
My God, those breasts. He itched to touch them. Ignoring her lips was manageable. Possibly. If he kept his mouth closed and didn’t breathe in her scent.
But ignoring her body, the full length of it so soft against him, was impossible.
Not when he’d mangled his sheets for a week trying not to think of having her again.
He wasn’t a bloody stone, for God’s sake.
He dug his fingers into her wrists, trying frantically to unlock the hands manacled about his neck.
She drew back and frowned up at him. “Have you forgotten how to kiss me, Ian?”
“No,” he said hoarsely, fire eating him up inside. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
A smile curled up her temptress’s lips. “Yes, you do. You’re just being stubborn, and I won’t have it. I want you to make love to me again.”
Erotic images danced in his vision—of throwing her back on that bed and having his way with her. “No. We should talk. I have more to tell you—”
“Later. I want to do this first.”
Do it, yes, yes! his body cried. Thankfully, his mind still functioned, and it said no, though the no grew feebler by the second.
Then she flattened her lower body against his already burgeoning erection, and he had to struggle to remember why he would say no at all.
“I want you, Ian. Now.” She released his neck suddenly, and he released her wrists even more quickly, but she only moved her hands to her hair, where she proceeded to remove the pins.
He scowled at her. “Don’t do that.”
“You give me no choice. If you won’t make love to me, you force me to resort to the same tactics I used on the morning after our wedding.”
Bloody hell, what fevered images those words sent running rampantly through his head! And every image was of her sliding out of a pair of silk drawers and lifting one leg—
He grabbed her hands and forced them to her sides. “I won’t let you do this.”
“You can’t stop me, and you know it.” She ground her pelvis against his loins again, and he went a little mad. “If you don’t let me undress, I’ll resort to your tactics that morning—tell you exactly what I want to do to every part of your body.”
A truly wicked look entered her eyes as she let her gaze trail slowly down his chin and neck. “You know that line of hair just there on your chest, the one that starts below your throat? I want to run my finger all the way down that line, very, very slowly.”
Her sultry gaze mirrored the actions she described, skimming down his chest to the sash. His shaft strained to escape his stockingette small clothes. If she didn’t shut up—
“I want to follow that intriguing line of hair to your belly and once around your navel. I might even plant a kiss or two there. Yes, I believe I’ll continue on with kisses. I’ll scatter a few warm, wet kisses down your belly until my mouth reaches your hard—”
He never let her finish. He crushed her mouth beneath his, devouring it, invading it with his tongue the second she parted her lips. Thoughts of a separation and salving his conscience vanished. His wife was in his arms, damn it, and he wanted her.
God, how he wanted her. Only Felicity could combine the most sensuous impulses of a courtesan and the wondering enjoyment of an innocent—a combination no man could resist. Certainly not him.
He still held her hands at her sides, but didn’t resist when she dragged them free, then slid them inside his dressing gown to skim his ribs.
When he felt her fumbling with the ties of his small clothes, he aided her in unfastening them, then shimmied out of them and his dressing gown with a speed that would astonish his valet.
Her eagerness to undress him gave him license to undress her next, tearing at buttons, ripping at tangled tapes and ties, shoving and peeling and discarding layers of lacy feminine fluff until she wore only her chemise and stockings.
Apparently, she wore no drawers, and that realization stiffened him to a rigidity unsurpassed in his lifetime.
Pulling back from her, he yanked at the ties of her chemise, knotting them so badly he swore under his breath. She made a little sound that prompted him to glance into her face. Her expression checked his haste at once. She looked alarmed.
Of course. For all her teasing, she was still nearly an innocent. She’d completed the act only twice, and his violent haste in undressing her had shocked her.
He forced himself to pause and take a breath instead of tossing her back on the bed behind them as he wanted to. She deserved better. She deserved none of this, but he couldn’t stop himself now, so he must make it good for her instead.
If he could keep from going insane in the meantime.
He needed a little distance. Releasing her chemise, he said hoarsely, “Take this off for me.” And then I won’t be tempted to rip it off and ravish you too quickly.
Her cheeks grew rosy, but she nodded. Stepping back from him, she bent her head and concentrated on unknotting the ties of her chemise, which gave him a second to breathe.
And to feast his eyes on the sight of her in her chemise.
He’d never seen this one on her before. It was something a wife would wear on her honeymoon—made of a silky gauze thin enough to reveal more than it should and less than he wanted.
It showed clearly the dark peach buds of her nipples where they pressed against the fabric, but the rest of her breasts remained cloaked.
The feminine swell of her belly was hidden, but the hair of the luscious vee between her legs showed darkly beneath the opaque cloth.
He had to will his hands to be still, will them not to rip the damned thing in half so he could feast on her naked body.
She reached for the hem as if to draw it up over her head.
“No,” he commanded. “Do it the way you did it the morning after our wedding. Lower it. Slowly.”
Her gaze met his. Her alarm was gone, replaced with a wide-eyed excitement.
She did as he asked, and as she revealed inch after inch of female flesh, his mouth went dry.
Candlelight shimmered on her smooth skin.
Her breasts were as lovely as he remembered, pert and firm and the shape he liked—not too large, for he’d never been fond of blowsy women.
Then came her belly with its fine dimple of a navel and then ...
“You can drop the chemise,” he rasped.
She did, and he groaned. Tendrils of hair curled sweetly about the spot he wanted to kiss and caress and lick.
She started to undo one garter, and he said, “Wait. Leave it on.” Leaning forward, he tugged her into his arms for a long, probing kiss. Then he lifted her bodily, and turned to set her down on her feet on the bed so that she stood a few feet above him.
“Ian, what are you—”
“Shh,” he murmured as he skimmed his hands over her hips and thighs. Had a woman ever been so perfectly made? Or was it that his need for her made him see perfection everywhere? “Hold on to the bedpost, querida.”
When she did as he bade, he took her other hand and placed it on his shoulder. Then he lifted the opposite leg and hooked it over his other shoulder, spreading her open for his gaze. And his mouth.
“Ian?” she said, her skin pinkening everywhere.
“Remember what I said I wanted to do to you that morning?” He planted a kiss to the band of thigh above her garter. “What I wanted to do with my tongue?”
She gave a little gasp of surprise when he did precisely what he’d threatened, running his tongue slowly up the inside of her thigh to the outer edges of her curly hair.
“Good Lord,” she whispered as his mouth found the place he craved kissing, “you can’t mean to ... It’s ... it’s ... Ohhhhh, Ian ...”
She didn’t protest after that. He kissed her there in earnest, enjoying the taste of her, relishing her approving murmurs as he laved the petals of her skin with his tongue.
She’d abandoned the bedpost, so both of her hands clutched his head to force it closer.
He liked that, liked the way his wanton little wife threw herself into the most intimate of marital acts.
Now if only he could keep from losing control. Her musky scent and eager undulations were building the tension in him, too, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without embarrassing himself.
“Yes, yes ... Ian,” she moaned, “yes ... like that ... oh, that’s even better ... my God ... my sweet God ...”