Page 66 of An Affair with a Notorious Heiress
She jerked her gaze up to his, her eyes wide. He hadn’t meant to sound so commanding. But the thought of her going to anyone else after being with him turned his stomach, caused his skin to crawl, made him want to hit something.
“I expect the same consideration from you,” she said tautly, equally as commanding.
“Why would I want anyone else while I have you?”
“I could prove a disappointment.”
Tillie despised the silence stretching between them, taut and frayed, as though he were mulling over the real possibility that when all was said and done he wouldn’t find her to his liking. That sometimes it was better to possess the dream than to hold the reality. She wished it were afternoon, that they were wreathed by bright sunlight, so she could look more deeply into his eyes, could discern what he might be thinking. Finally, he shook his head, cupped her cheek with one large strong hand.
“Not bloody likely.”
Then his mouth was on hers and it was like there had been no end to the kiss he’d given her before they’d lowered themselves to the blanket, as though no time had passed since his lips had last glided so provocatively over hers. But time had passed between one kiss and the next. She tasted the wine more strongly on his tongue, could feel the coolness of the night air on the nape of his neck as she clasped her hand around it. Could feel the tension radiating through his body as though he’d found no respite in the delay, in the conversation, as though he’d been torturing himself striving to give her a bit of civility when he was naught but barbarism and savagery, yearning for her with an intensity that she was rather certain had never been directed her way.
She gloried in it. In the way he eased her down to the ground, the way he nibbled on her throat and bared shoulders before returning his mouth to hers with a feral growl that spoke of untamed passions. He called to the wildness in her, the unruly longings that she’d banked because her husband had declared any sort of enthusiasm or excitement as unseemly in a wife, more suited to a harlot.
But tonight she didn’t care if she behaved as a doxie, if Rexton found her vulgar. Tonight was for her fantasies, needs, and wants to be fulfilled. And if he claimed her lacking, to hell with him. They could do away with their nightly trysts, but he would have to help with Gina or turn over Fair Vixen. She knew he would never give up his mare.
So Gina’s future was safe, secure, no matter how tonight went, no matter how much Tillie writhed as Rexton’s hands skimmed over her, no matter how she whimpered wanting more from him, no matter how firmly she brazenly pressed her body against his and urged him to take her: here, now, on the blanket with the moon looking on—and any number of neighbors with a spyglass.
“To hell with the seduction,” he rasped. “You seduced me the moment you strolled into the parlor and offered me whisky.”
She’d offered it to him because she’d needed it for herself. When she’d seen him standing there, in his golden glory, so beautiful, so devastatingly masculine, she’d wanted to turn tail and run. The shock of her immediate attraction to him had caused her to tremble. The whisky had been for her, to calm her pounding heart, to silence the vixen residing within her skin who had begun whispering “Want!”
He shoved himself away from her, leaving her forlorn and miserable, pushed himself to standing, reached down, pulled her to her feet, and lifted her into his arms. His strides were long, quick, purposeful as he headed for the house. She rested her head on his shoulder and began toying with the buttons on his shirt.
“Why do men wear so much clothing?”
He laughed. She truly loved his sound of merriment, of joy. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall ever hearing Downie laugh. But then she’d never been carried in his arms or rushed to a bedchamber as though he might expire if he didn’t get her there quickly, as though without her he would cease to exist.
What a silly girl she was to read so much into his actions when he might only be seeking release for his swollen and aching cock. Perhaps any woman would do. Perhaps she wasn’t so special. But it didn’t matter because at that moment she was the one in his arms.
“Women wear so much more—and it’s much more cumbersome to remove,” he lamented.
“You can rip it off,” she said dreamily.
“Then how will I get you home?”
She had the insane thought she never wanted to go home, never wanted to return to the mausoleum in which she lived, the residence she had claimed out of revenge, mistakenly thinking that it would bring her satisfaction.
Into the manor they went, up the stairs. By the time he charged into a bedchamber—his, she assumed—she’d unknotted his neck cloth and mussed his hair until he looked rakish and uncivilized. The door had barely closed with asnickbefore her feet were hitting the floor and his mouth was claiming hers with a hunger that equaled her own. Unlike the kiss last night, this time she was inches lower so he had to dip his head. She liked the way he curled his arm around her, brought her in closer to his body. She loved the way he was undoing lacing and ties without ever removing his lips from hers or his tongue retreating from its enthusiastic engagement with hers.
This, she thought wildly, this was how kisses should be—full, bold, fervent. They should steal the breath, weaken the knees while at the same time reawakening, inspiring, rekindling passion until one felt incredibly alive, ignited, aware of every small touch, every nuanced stroke.
When his mouth left hers, the fire in his eyes caused heat to rampage through her. With quick sure hands, he worked to remove the clothing he’d unfastened so expertly. She refused to consider how much practice he might have had elsewhere to achieve what he did with such proficiency. She was not a virgin, untouched, without experience.
She recalled how awkward and clumsy she’d been the first time, how shy and afraid. She was grateful not to be his first, grateful to be the beneficiary of all he’d learned. Her clothing became a discarded pool on the floor, and she fought not to cover herself from his excruciatingly slow perusal. The heat in his eyes burned hotter, the corners of his mouth curved upward.
“My God, but you’re beautiful.”
He began tearing at his own clothes, and she could do little more than watch as his glorious chest was revealed. Oh, yes, marble sculpted much as she’d imagined it. His boots, stockings went. Then his trousers.
Her breath caught, suspended, rushed out. With trembling fingers, she touched his sternum before pressing her palm flat, splaying those fingers out. “You’re equally beautiful.”
“You’re wrong but I’m not going to ruin things by arguing with you.” He pulled her close. Skin to skin from shoulder to toes. Warmth and silk. Coarse springy hair. Heat. A throbbing as his cock pressed against her belly. A rumbling of chest against her breasts as he growled low and deep.
He began marching her backward, never taking his mouth from hers, his hands never ceasing their stroking of her back, her shoulders, her hips as though with her legs moving various parts of her felt different. Perhaps they did.
He felt different. His buttocks bunched and tightened as he walked. She loved squeezing them, stroking them. Gliding her hands up his back, sliding them down. She imagined she could feel the individual muscles doing their work as he guided her toward the bed.
