Chapter Ten

When Markham entered his bedchamber, he’d been a gambler with a questionable hand—every choice depended entirely on Clarissa’s tells.

He’d “gambled” before, of course, but a part of him had always remained detached.

He wasn’t detached now.

Her tells had become a symphony; the crescendo engulfed his resistance.

Clarissa, gently biting her bottom lip—growing desire and a sharpened awareness of sensitive places.

Clarissa, voice lowered—a mask for vulnerability, a need for control.

Clarissa, eyes wide but gaze direct—consummate trust. Trust so deep, she was willing to lead without any assurance he’d follow.

His entire world had just turned on that trust.

Her deep-toned command permeated him like a wave filtering through sand—bubbling, fizzing, shifting everything inside. Her pupils, large with want, transformed her blue eyes into black pools of desire.

The rest of the world fell away. Only she remained. A dull, sweet ache pulsed in his cock.

What could he do but bow down?

This was new. All of this. Her voice. Her dominion. Any woman’s dominion.

Oh, he’d always been attentive. Leaving his lovers satisfied had fulfilled him even more so than release. But he suspected Clarissa was about to take things one step further than he’d ever gone.

I intend to bed you, not the other way around.

He could not have predicted her imperious transformation, nor his response. Never. In his wildest imaginings. But the effect was potent—like a mist infusing every inhale. Very well then. He would consent to being seduced. For tonight, she would become his queen.

But she’d find her subject far from passive.

Limits must be set.

He would pleasure her and hold himself in check. He could do that. He absolutely could. He could do anything for that look in her eyes.

“I will not take your maidenhood. However,”—he dipped his head—“I am otherwise at your service, my lady.”

Her imperious expression did not change. She nodded once. “Proceed.”

He began with her pinky—a sad, oft-overlooked little finger.

He caressed the underside as he tugged on the soft kid leather. The glove moved an inch. From there, he balanced his attention, urging off the gloves one gentle tug at a time. Each time he tugged, he paid careful attention to the skin revealed.

She wanted talent? He turned a simple de-gloving into something almost obscene. When her fingers were bare, lightly trembling, he lifted her hand to his lips. The fine hair on her arms raised. Tiny bumps scattered over her skin.

Gooseflesh.

Another subtle tell.

Her glance fluttered to his. “What is the most interesting part of a woman’s body?”

“Whatever part I am studying.” Like the taste of the tips of her fingers. He met her gaze. “And the part that makes her writhe.”

Her breath hitched. “Writhe?”

“Tremble involuntarily…inside and out.”

Fascinating connections formed within her eyes.

“You mean the part of me you imagined stroking with your cock?”

“That part, yes.” He circled around to her back and reached beneath her lifted arms to undo the clasp that fastened her overdress just beneath her breasts. “But that one is obvious. And the obvious is never the most interesting.”

He brushed her nipples as he removed her sleeves, making sure to slide the silk slowly along her bare arms. Turning away, he laid the fabric across his chair. Then he set to work on the ties holding together the delicate mull.

“Only an amateur”—his breath moved the curls that had escaped her coiffure—”would begin with the obvious.”

“And Hearts,” she murmured, “is decidedly not an amateur.”

“Right,” he said against her ear. “Lucky you.”

She shivered again. “I asked you to tell me your favorite part.”

He released the first tie. The upper bodice fell to each side.

“I regret I cannot answer.” He danced his fingers down her spine and undid the second tie. “Yet.”

“You mean it’s different for every woman?”

“Yes.”

He shimmied the fabric up each side and then tenderly lifted the wispy mull over her head. He arranged that part of her dress next to the first and then turned back to a shimmering gold goddess.

This woman—this stunning lady—who had so liberally shared her warmth with everyone but him, had commanded him to remove her clothes. Yet, as he removed each layer, he was the one growing bare. If he stopped to think, he might balk. So he set aside thought and submerged in feeling.

He undid the remaining hooks, stroking the sides of her breasts as he parted the fabric. Her petticoat dropped, pooling at her feet. He circled back so they faced each other.

Half stays. Half shift. Full stockings. Utterly ravishing—a feast for a man at the very edge of starvation.

“Find the part of me that makes me writhe,” she commanded.

“For that, I’ll need to touch you…” He lowered himself to one knee. “…everywhere.”

Her gaze unfocused. “You have permission.”

Did he, now?

He lifted her calf, splaying his fingers as he helped her step out of the pile of fabric, one small, arched foot at a time. He folded it and set it aside, still kneeling.

No, he couldn’t have guessed they would come to this. He was not truly surprised, however. He did love women who knew what they wanted, women who were neither shy nor reticent about their desires.

What was a surprise was the abrupt stillness inside. At her feet, his confusion quieted. The burden of decision lifted. He needn’t wonder how or if he could please, he simply needed to perceive and to respond.

The sweet ache in his cock wasn’t dull any longer. It was a long, piercing note played against a vibrating string.

She gazed downward, eyes equally serious. Focused. Intent. She caressed his cheek. Her small fingers cooled his shave-toughened skin.

“Mon chaud lapin.” Her hot rabbit.

He’d heard Frenchmen use the description—denoting masculine carnal need. He was in desperate need.

Spellbound. Hot.

But was he hers?

He wanted to be.

“Well done,” she said.

Her praise actually moved his member.

“Rise.” So regal. “And kiss me.”

He came to his feet and took her into his arms—muscle to softness, sun-ripened skin against pale. He could easily have lifted her from the ground. Instead, he cupped the back of her neck and traced a shape onto the sensitive skin—one long, continuous line that dipped and curved and then dipped and curved again.

Another heart.

His heart.

She hooked her hands beneath his arms and held on. He dipped her backward until she was dependent on him to stand, though still fully in command.

His firm lips met her pliant mouth. Such full lips. So red. So luscious. So warm. Gently, he probed until her impatient sigh sent sparks across his skin.

She didn’t want gentle.

She yanked him close, and her breasts crushed against his chest, spilling up and out from her stays in tantalizing fullness. He glanced down—mouthwatering—to where her cameo disappeared within the cleft.

“Half stays…tied at the shoulders and laced down the front.” He nipped her bottom lip, grazing the softness with his teeth. “My favorite kind.”

“You know a great deal about women’s underthings.” Deliberately, she forced him back, turning them both, so his back was to his bed. “I’m not sure I approve.”

The whiff of possession in her voice pierced his groin. “If women—and their underthings—did not fascinate me, you would not be here tonight.”

“Is that what you believe?” She forced him to sit on the mattress.

“You told me you came here for experience.”

“Yes. Experience with you.”

He closed his eyes as she worked her hands through his hair.

Him. He spread his legs, easing the pressure in his cock. Clarissa wanted him. His knowledge. His experience. His hands upon her body.

He grasped her behind her thighs and drew her between his.

She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” she replied.

He raked the back of her thighs; she shivered again.

“I’ve found one of those places, then.”

“Your favorite?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled. “There’s so much left to explore.”

She straddled his lap, resting one knee on either side. The heat of her bare cleft penetrated through his clothes.

Yes, sweet, magnificent Venus. Yes.

He kneaded the back of her neck as he undid the ties of her stays. She moaned as he pressed hot lips to the valley of her throat.

Her shoulder straps fell down. “I’m hot…”

Noted. He loosened the laces.

“Restless…”

Also noted. He pulled them off.

She stretched her spine, giving him ample reason to salivate.

Two ample reasons, in fact.

He dropped his hand to the outer curve of her waist.

“And I can’t stop shivering.”

“Good,” he said.

“Good?” She lifted a brow.

She grasped his hand, threaded her fingers through his, and then forced him to roughly knead her breast. She pinched her own nipple between his fingers, closed her eyes, and smiled.

He lost a little seed.

“I’m warmer now. You may remove my shift.”

Another dare.

As if he would stop now. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not unless she became unwilling.

He lifted her shift over her head and cast it aside.

He reached for words to describe seeing her naked—save her necklace and stockings—but all words slipped from his mind. He forgot everything but her firm breasts, slightly rounded belly, and the soft, dark curls that concealed her mound.

Delectable. The first word returned. Like raspberries. He ran his thumb over a pebbled tip of her nipple.

She bit her lip. “Just like you imagined?”

“Better.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” She cupped her breast.

He ran his hands nimbly over the surface, learning her shape. Both dusty-rose buds were already fully peaked. He touched one with his tongue. She moaned. So decadent. He grazed her lightly with his teeth. Her moan turned into a soft squeal. So wanton.

She shoved him down into the mattress. “Do everything you imagined.”

“I’ve been hard for hours.” Days, it seemed like. “If I stroke you with my cock, I’ll spend.”

She frowned. “Spend?”

“Spill seed.”

She leaned back and glanced down at the obvious bulge beneath his trousers. God help him, she wet her lips.

“What’s seed like?”

He flushed, full-bodied.

“Markham,”—she made his name almost a coo—“are you embarrassed?”

Yes. But if she was not too ashamed to ask, he refused to be too ashamed to answer. “It’s wet. And it comes out in pulses when…”

“When?” she asked.

He closed his eyes “When a man goes off. The little death.”

“Does ‘the little death’ feel good?”

“Yes, dash it.”

“How?”

“Like the sky is shattering.”

“Can you shatter my sky?”

He opened his eyes. “Yes.”

“What did I ask you to do?” she whispered.

The air was thick with want and possibility, so think it tangled like a ball of yarn in his throat. “Everything I imagined.”

She nodded. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He grasped her by her shoulders and pulled her down against his chest. He kissed her deeply as he removed and set aside the pins holding up her hair. Black curls caressed his skin. He braced himself then rolled her beneath him, never breaking their kiss. As they shifted positions and she took his weight, she let out a deep-throated moan—the most sensual thing he’d ever heard.

A sound he was bound to hear over and over in his dreams.

He poured kisses like droplets of water down her neck to her breasts. Then, almost reluctantly, he stood. She was every bit as hunger-inducing as she’d been in his imagination.

Only then did he realize he was almost fully clothed. He’d concentrated every thought on her, and now he hadn’t time to disrobe.

He didn’t even want to.

He undid his trousers and the falls beneath and sighed in acute relief as he lifted out his cock. What he was about to do would probably ruin his clothing.

He didn’t care.

He’d scrub the stains himself.

Hell, he’d pay for new trousers no matter what the cost.

He widened her already parted thighs with his knee. Her scent—blight trying to maintain control—her scent. He pinched his cock between his thumb and finger and smeared away a small bead of wet from the tip.

He spread her red and swollen cleft.

He’d heard a lady’s secret parts called the Shrine of Venus, with the clitoris the crown. He dipped just the tip of his shaft inside her slick warmth.

They locked gazes. Her lips parted.

Whatever its name, Markham called it bliss.

…

Clarissa’s cheeks burned. And her breasts. And her belly. As for that swollen spot between her legs? That was about to implode.

Markham guided his cock up and down in a precise, deliberate tease, contradictorily both easing and intensifying her need.

She’d never seen a man’s aroused cock. A horse’s, yes. A man’s, no.

She hadn’t been entirely ignorant, not even as ignorant as she’d implied. But her questions had made Markham flush and squirm. And he was so attractive when he flushed. When he blushed, she soared. When his lip quivered, desire stormed through her veins.

He was muscled enough to crush her. Strong enough to carry her back down the stairs—and he just might have to if she couldn’t stop this shaking.

He possessed greater knowledge, but right now, his power became hers. She wrapped her weaknesses into his strength and then demanded the reins.

Wrong? Possibly. But the pleasure felt so right.

He remained fully clothed, but for the cravat she’d loosened and his fully aroused… She paused. She rather preferred the word cock to manhood. Whenever she said cock, Markham went utterly still.

Markham wasn’t still now. His eyes were closed. His expression blended pain with pleasure, restraint with indulgence.

She lifted herself onto her elbows for a better view as he guided the tip over her folds. She had never been particularly interested in seeing a cock, but Markham’s cock?

Markham’s cock was something she could study.

It was red. Veined. Angled upward, hard, and rather alarmingly engorged.

He wrapped one of his hands lightly around the shaft, the other cupped the base. Next time, she’d hold him just that way.

Next time?

Again, he pushed just his tip inside. She gasped. He opened his eyes. They locked gazes and he slid forward just enough to stretch, to burn.

A wet sensation rushed downward. Her inner muscles clenched.

He lifted the side of his lip. Cocky. Quite literally.

“Not shattered,” she said.

He positioned so her folds nestled around his shaft.

“Pert little wanton.” He spoke directly into her ear, thrusting upward with his hips—a pantomime of the real thing.

She shivered again, but the pleasure wasn’t shattering, only pleasing.

“Wanton, yes.” She lifted a hand to her nipple and flicked the hardened tip with her nail. Her thighs jerked, her muscles clenched. She arched straight up to his chest. “But not just pert. Saucy…bold.”

Markham caught her waist, anchoring her in his arms. He picked up where she’d left off, taking her nipple into his mouth while the long, hard heat of him burned between her legs.

Her thighs quaked. Her breath stopped. Now she understood what he’d meant by writhe.

Was this the little death that he’d spoken of?

She felt as if she were dying—being torn apart. She dug her nails into his back. The buttons of his waistcoat chafed against her breasts. The room grew shadowed in concentric, pulsing circles. And then, from the very center of the darkness, a million stars burst forth.

She threw back her head and cried out his name, holding on as if his body were the only thing that could keep her secure.

And then the stars fell around her, returning light to the room.

He released her back onto the bed, each rough exhale looking as if it might be his last. A languid pleasantness infused her blood, but he was still in pain. Still in want.

Still her chaud lapin.

Not a small, sweet rabbit, but a wild, untamed buck in a fever of need.

“Be still,” she commanded.

He froze, his hand still cupping his cock.

“Can you make yourself shatter?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

He lifted the bottle from the bedside table and removed the cork with his teeth. Staying locked inside her gaze, he drizzled himself with spice-scented oil.

“Wait.” She lifted herself from the bed, and, with tender fingers she cupped his balled skin beneath his shaft. She wanted to experience every moment—make sure he knew when he came apart just who had driven him to this edge. “Now, lapin, make yourself spend.”

He yanked off his untied cravat and covered the tip. He pumped his shaft through his hand; she watched in heated fascination. His balls tightened. He lurched forward against her shoulder with a deep-throated growl.

“Fuck,” he bellowed.

The outrageous vulgarity vibrated within her body. She smiled—warming, full, deep.

And then, he broke, and the word spill suddenly made sense as well. His cravat caught the worst, and his knees collapsed against the bed. She used his momentum to lift him back onto the mattress.

He turned his face in to her neck, curled his body around hers, and sighed, “Clarissa.”

She didn’t care about the wet mess. She didn’t care about his language. All she cared to do was hold him tight and murmur words of comfort and approval unlocked from a place inside she barely understood as he trembled to stillness inside her embrace.

“Shh.” She stroked his hair and pressed her lips against his brow. “Don’t speak.”

Together, they rested in a scented cloud of bergamot, sweat, and carnal indulgence. Safe. Protected. Free from rules and judgments and explanations.

Tonight, she’d been a queen. Even now, she knew he would slay dragons if she asked. He would even make this fake betrothal real.

But is that what she wanted?

To lose the self she’d only just discovered?

She’d come into his chamber knowing exactly which cards she wished to gamble. Only she hadn’t understood the danger of playing Hearts.

Her throat closed. His weight no longer felt so light.

“I must go,” she said.

“Let me clean you first.”

Yes. Clean me. Dress me. Don’t let me go.

Markham rose from the bed and strode over to the cupboard. When he returned, he’d fastened his falls.

She met his gaze. His slipped quickly away.

Taking the greatest care—but also avoiding her eyes—he wiped her clean. He pulled her to her feet and worked as he had earlier, but in reverse, dressing her more efficiently and tenderly than any lady’s maid she’d ever had.

She wore the same clothes, but she descended his stairs an entirely different woman. But too weary—too overwhelmed—to decipher exactly how she’d changed.

They walked in silence until they reached the garden gate.

“Which window is yours?” he asked.

She pointed to the fourth floor up in the middle.

He nodded. “I’ll wait for a signal.”

Of course, he would want to know she was safely home. He was a man from a different time. Fierce and strong on the outside, devotedly gallant beneath.

She rested her hand against his heart.

“Please.” She didn’t know what she was pleading for. Did her confidence falter because of the darkness? Did vulnerability return because of the cold?

“Anything,” he answered roughly.

“Do you regret tonight?”

He cupped both her cheeks. “Do you?”

Did she? They’d broken—not a rule, but something far more dangerous…a mirror that reflected back the world she thought she knew and understood. The very landscape around her had changed. She knew nothing. Understood nothing.

But did she regret?

“No.”

He wrapped her up in muscled arms and kissed her temple.

“I still want,” he whispered.

“Chaud lapin,” she whispered back. She left off the mon. Because he wasn’t hers. Not really. She rose to her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night.”