Author: Tessa Dare
But he couldn’t let her win this wager. Opening his home to a bevy of young chits who thought they could sing and play? Being forced to listen to them try? No, he had no desire to host a musicale, but he did want to feel Amelia’s hands on his bare skin. Very much wanted it, with an intensity that concerned him.
Amelia gathered her cards. Her pale eyebrows drew together as she studied them. Of course, carnal satisfaction wasn’t what she had in mind. She wanted to save her brother and lift Claudia’s spirits, and perhaps her own as well. Bloody hell, she just wanted to be helpful, and he was going to deny her that.
He picked up the cards he’d dealt himself. They included three aces and a royal quart. His victory was all but assured.
Before he could think better of it, Spencer flung the ace of hearts away. There. He would still play to win, but now she at least had a sporting chance.
As the round progressed, her play was distracted and rash. She made foolish mistakes. Even if Spencer had been trying to lose, he would have had a deuced difficult time of it. In the end, he won handily.
She clasped her hands in her lap and gave him a reproachful look, as if to say, Well, you blackguard, I hope you’re satisfied.
But he wasn’t. Suddenly the whole game left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d manipulated her last night at the inn, to be sure. But if she hadn’t become a most eager participant in his arms, he never would have let matters go so far. If he’d wanted a fearful, timid lover, he would have taken her on their wedding night.
“Amelia,” he said slowly, knowing he would soon regret it, “it’s late, and we’re both tired. We can forget the wager.”
“Oh, no.” She rose from her seat and skirted the table. “Let it never be said that a member of the d’Orsay family does not honor her debts.” She held out her hand. “I believe you’ll have to stand, if I’m to remove your coat.”
He stood. He was a man, not a saint.
Beginning at his navel, she ran her hands up his chest, cleaving the sides of his coat from the waistcoat beneath. That brisk, sensible touch, even muffled as it was by several layers of fabric, nearly undid him. Her hands worked over his shoulders, loosening his sleeves. He made his arms straight and pushed them slightly back, and the coat slid off easily. She shook the garment out and carefully laid it aside, so it wouldn’t be wrinkled. He stood waiting impatiently. She could have trampled the thing, and he wouldn’t have cared.
She attacked his cravat next, pulling the starched linen loose from his neck with sharp tugs. Nimble flicks of her fingertips freed his waistcoat buttons, and soon the carefully folded silk joined his coat.
Spencer’s breath was ragged. He was painfully hard. There was nothing coy or seductive about the way she was undressing him, but it was undeniably feminine, and powerfully arousing. Hers wasn’t the touch of a lover; it was the possessive, efficient touch of a wife.
His wife.
As she freed his shirt from his trousers with a swift yank, she bobbled a bit on her feet. His hands took her waist. Then they slid over her hips and down, cupping the twin curves of her firm, rounded bottom. He hadn’t bid them to do so, they just did of their own accord.
With a chiding arch of her brow, she took his hands in hers and removed them forcibly. “Not part of the wager.” Laying her hands flat against his chest, she pressed lightly and added, “Be seated.”
He obeyed, gladly.
Hiking the filmy gauze of her skirts, she straddled his lap, just as she had last night. The same as last night, except that much less fabric separated them. He could already feel the heat of her skin burning through that meager excuse for a petticoat.
His erection throbbed against his trouser fall. Surely she could not fail to notice his aroused state, and virgin or no, she seemed too clever a woman not to understand what it meant. Instead of bringing her pelvis flush with his, however, she sat back toward his knees, denying his aching groin any direct contact. Her hands went to his waist and she gathered the fine lawn of his shirt in trembling fingers, drawing it slowly up.
As she exposed his bare torso, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Lift your arms.” Her words were a husky whisper.
He obeyed in silence, and she stretched up on her haunches, pulling the shirt over his head. She didn’t fold it this time, but tossed it carelessly aside.
His flesh blazed as she surveyed his bare chest. Her breathing was shallow, her throat and bosom prettily flushed. However she’d felt about paying this forfeit a few minutes ago, she was a more than willing participant now. Her obvious desire only multiplied his own.
Still she sat there, hesitating.
“Whatever you wish,” he scraped out. “Do whatever you wish.”
Her hands went to cover his. She traced each finger individually and smiled, evidently amused by the way he was clutching the chair’s upholstered armrests. Good. Let her know what she did to him. Yes, Amelia. I’m clinging to restraint by an ever-fraying thread. And if I don’t bed you soon, I may lose my grip on sanity forever.
Her touch feathered over his wrists and up his forearms, tracing the prominent cords of muscle and sinew. She progressed to his upper arms, pressing her palms flat against the solid swells of his biceps. Just to tease her, he flexed. A little gasp was his reward. Women usually enjoyed exploring the contours of his arms and chest—unlike most gentlemen of his station, he was strong and toned from working the horses.
She paused, hands balanced on his shoulders. A fresh wave of blood rushed to his groin. As if that part of him needed any further reinforcement.
Her fingertips swept to the back of his neck. A hot thrill shot to the base of his spine and simmered there. She was repaying him for last night, mimicking his attentions caress for caress—just as he’d hoped she would. It was torture to sit passively and take it, but his inaction was exactly what the situation required. He had to be patient, so patient … even if it killed him.
Her gaze dropped to his chest.
Yes. Yes. Touch me there. God, kiss me there.
He fought the urge to grasp her fingers and direct them, the desire to tangle a hand in her upswept hair and drag her open-mouthed kiss everywhere he craved it. His lips, his neck, his chest, his—
She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “You said last night, you’d been wanting to … to lick me. To bite me.”
“Yes.” Those carnal words, from her innocent lips … the image of her neat, delicate teeth closing over his earlobe, her tongue stroking over his skin … Oh, God. His hips bowed upward, seeking friction to soothe his rampant arousal. His erection brushed ever-so-slightly against her belly—but it wasn’t nearly enough. The light, teasing contact only increased his desperation.
“Well.” Warm, rhythmic breaths caressed his neck. “I’ve been wanting something, too.”
Sweet heaven. Was it too much to hope that what she’d been wanting required full nudity and a firm mattress? Because he was absolutely ready to oblige. When she hesitated, he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “What?” he asked into her hair. “What is it you want?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t. I swear it.”
“I have your word?”
“Yes, of course.” Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort to keep still. His mind churned with depraved fantasies. What carnal act spun from a virgin’s imagination could possibly make her so abashed? Whatever it was, it was bound to be good. Very, very good.
“This,” she whispered finally. “Just this.”
Her hands slid over his shoulders and linked behind his neck. She bent her head, and her soft breasts flattened against his chest. Excitement rushed over his skin. Every inch of him anticipated the imminent, exquisite sensation of her kiss.
But she didn’t kiss him. Instead, she rested her cheek against his collarbone, tucking her face into the curve of his neck. And then she released a deep, full-body sigh and went still.
Spencer was confused. Had she changed her mind? Perhaps embarrassment had conquered her desire. Damn.
“Won’t you hold me?” she murmured, nuzzling further into his neck. “Please? I’m homesick and tired, and it’s been a wretched day.”
Oh.
Oh, sweet holy infant. What a lust-addled fool he was. She hadn’t shied away from some lascivious fantasy. This was what she wanted. A chaste, comforting embrace. A hug.
“It’s not so very difficult,” she said. “Just put your arms about me. Husbands do it all the time.”
Damned if he knew how to refuse.
His arms went around her waist, gathering her close. She was so soft, and so warm, and she all but melted against his bare chest. As some consolation to his frustrated lust, the embrace brought them closer, until her thigh wedged snug against the hard ridge of his arousal. She didn’t startle or squirm away. For his part, Spencer resisted the urge to grind his hips. And so there they sat, hugging. Him in the chair, her on his lap, and the world’s most insistent erection between them. If he’d wanted sweet torture—by the devil, he had it. In trumps.
The longer he held her, however, the more he became aware of sensations that didn’t originate in his lap. The soft contours of her breasts soothed his pounding heart. Her eyelashes fluttered sweetly against his neck. And she smelled so good. Her enticing perfume blended her usual lavender scent with hints of vanilla and some kind of spice … was it clove? Perhaps she’d visited the kitchens today.
He stroked her back, once. Purring, she nestled closer in his lap. An unfamiliar tenderness swelled in his heart. Encouraged, he repeated the touch, skimming his fingers up the delicate ridge of her spine. Up, then down. Slipping the pads of his fingers over each vertebra, as if counting pearls on a string. The slow, steady tempo calmed them both. Their lungs seemed to arrive at some instinctive agreement, and their chests ceased struggling against one another. Instead, they breathed in a rhythm, trading the air back and forth between them. Warm. Fragrant. Intimate.
More deeply arousing than anything he’d ever known.
“Your parents,” she murmured. “Did they love each other?”
“I … I’m not certain.”
What a question. He couldn’t recall his mother much, but he remembered his father had wept when she died. They’d wept together, the confused young boy and the hardened soldier. And then they’d never spoken of it again. When he’d learned of his father’s death years later, Spencer hadn’t shed a tear. He’d lashed out with fists instead, because he’d found it too devastating to contemplate weeping alone.
She said, “Mine did. They were devoted to one another. I always thought myself fortunate to have grown up with their example.” She shivered in his arms. “Now I’m not sure. Perhaps it only prepared me for disappointment.”
He brought her closer, until the heat of her skin seared his chest. That breath they kept trading back and forth—it came more quickly now, and hot. Places inside him were softening, thawing. He recalled her words to him in the corridor: You have no idea what more I could offer you. Oh, he did. He most definitely did. He’d watch his innards removed through his navel before admitting it, but on some fundamental level, he knew why he hadn’t been able to let her go that night. Why he’d bodily removed her from that ballroom; why he’d proposed to her scant hours after that. Because this woman displayed such loyalty to a no-account wastrel of a brother, and he just one of five. Surely somewhere in that boundless reserve, she could find a spare bit of devotion for him. He didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it just the same.
“Amelia, look at me.”
Keeping her hands clasped behind his neck, she lifted her head. She went perfectly, absolutely still in his arms. She seemed to have ceased to breathe.
He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn’t have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.
