Chapter Fifteen

Clarissa placed her hand on the bolt—the only thing keeping her from a disrobed Markham. He’d been right about one thing—embarrassment.

She’d undressed to stockings and shift, and that’s as far as she’d been able to go on her own. The awkwardness was real, especially when he wasn’t by her side, pulsing with latent masculine power she craved to subdue.

All she had to do now was slip the lock to the side and open the door and, for the night, all his power would be at her command.

Why then, did she feel as if she were the one about to enter a lion’s den?

As if she were the one about to be devoured?

Hearts. He’d had others. Several, in fact.

But he’d said what was between them was new. And he’d said he’d acquiesced to her demands simply because she’d asked. She rested her head against the door, breathing heavily.

I’d be just as happy to bend you over, stretch your arms above your head, and hold you still while I rut with you from behind.

She’d thought she wanted full control. And she did. But—she wet her lips—scorching heat had flooded between her legs when he’d said that.

I want…

What she wanted wasn’t simple. And he didn’t yet know his limits.

Desire was a vast ocean.

One could easily get lost…or drown.

Even if I panic, Markham won’t let me drown.

Oh no.

There wasn’t room in her heart for such trust.

If she opened the door, it would be because she wanted to explore the contradictions—not seek out promises even Markham couldn’t fulfill.

She’d open the door because she had loved making him hard and hot and panting, and she wanted with every fiber of her being to do so again.

If there were a hungry lion in this scenario, she was it.

She slid the lock to the side and then cracked open the door.

“Come in.”

His voice resonated all the way to her toes.

She stepped inside and then closed the door behind her.

He’d disrobed, as she demanded, but he’d covered up with a long, golden banyan. Though his banyan complemented his skin and eyes, she was disappointed. She dropped her gaze to the chest hair peeking out of the crisscrossed silk.

Then again, perhaps not so disappointed.

He looked like a present…one she could unwrap.

She hadn’t received many gifts in her life.

In fact, she could not recall one.

Which made her long to claim this one even more.

“Wine,” he said suddenly. “I brought up wine.”

He indicated a glass of ruby red liquid on the table by his bedside next to a bottle of scented oil, much like he had in London.

“Are you drinking wine?” she asked.

“No.” He glanced down into his glass. “This is cognac.”

“Then pour me the same.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Very well.”

He went to his drawer, retrieved a key, and unlocked a cabinet. With both hands, he lifted out a clear decanter and a small glass matching his own. He uncorked his bottle and carefully measured out a pour.

“Markham,” she said with a smile in her voice, “are you reluctant to part with your cognac?”

He blushed. “A full glass would have bankrupted me when I first became earl.” He handed her the tumbler full of brown-hued liquid. “It’s the real thing. Not watered. Not smuggled. It’s a liquor to be sipped, not devoured. A single cask has lasted for years.”

“Have you ever shared your cognac?”

“No.”

“But you are sharing with me?”

He lifted and dropped a shoulder—a twitch more than a shrug. “I find it difficult to deny you anything you ask.”

Something odd rippled through her chest. How could he look so boyishly hopeful, so eager to please, and yet manage to exude assurance and care?

Warming liquid spice burned down her throat as she swallowed. “Be careful, or you’ll give me all sorts of ideas.”

“I want you to have ideas,” he said with a note of dare.

She sighed. “I know how I’d like you to feel. But there is still a vast difference in our experience.”

“But not”—his lip quirked—“in our imaginations.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “Why don’t you tell me how you’d like me to feel and I’ll tell you how to make that happen?”

“You mean, if I want to know how to make you whimper like you did the other night, you’ll tell me?”

He raised his brows.

“Markham!” she scolded sharply.

“Yes,” he said.

He remembered. She set down her glass. He’d known immediately that she’d wanted him to answer aloud. That heady sense of power returned.

“What did you say you wanted to do with me when I bent over the billiards table?”

His lids veiled his gaze. “I said I wanted to bend you over and hold you still.”

Another tight, wet clench.

“That wasn’t all you said.”

“…while I rut with you from behind,” he finished with a blush.

His fluster filled her with all the satisfaction of a heartfelt sigh. “I may allow it, if you are very obedient.”

His lips parted. “Clarissa, wait. I can’t—I mean we can’t actually consummate.”

“Markham.” She closed the space between them. “You decide how much of yourself you will give. I decide how much I will give.” She pinched his cheeks. “We may both say no. We may both say yes.”

“Ah.” He shook his head no.

She purposely narrowed her eyes. “What I can or cannot do is not for you to decide. If you do not want me, that is one—”

“You know that isn’t the case.”

“Are you hard now?”

“I was…nearly.”

“Then explore the contradictions.” She used his words.

The wariness did not leave his eyes. “I told you I would not ask anything of you. But if there is a child, you will no longer have a choice. We’d have to marry, you know that. A gambler’s first rule—never risk what you are not willing to lose.”

What were the chances? It had taken months for Katherine to suspect she was with child, and from what she’d seen in the last few days, they consummated frequently.

On the other hand, could she face the loss of choice?

We’re only negotiating.

“I understand,” she replied. “And I accept that risk. May we proceed?”

He searched her gaze. “Yes.”

She looked him up and down. “There’s my lapin.”

His cheeks darkened. Delightfully.

“Does that embarrass you?” she asked.

“Yes—but I like the way you say it…as if you want me wild with want.”

“I do…but what should you call me?” Something strong. “You may call me my lady…for now.”

“Yes,”—his eyes sparkled with returning heat—“my lady.”

She arched a brow in the way he’d said he liked. She removed his unfinished cognac from his hand and set it down by the bed.

“You’ll get it back if you please me. And I’m not at all pleased. I told you to be naked.”

Holding her gaze, he undid the tie at his waist. His banyan parted, revealing several planes of muscled flesh. He lifted the robe off his shoulders. And dropped it on the floor.

A gift, indeed.

A beautifully muscled present…entirely at her mercy.

“Clasp your hands behind your back and remain perfectly still while I…” What do I wish to do? “…inspect.”

“Yes,” he said, slightly strangled. He stepped his legs apart, placed his hands behind his back, and glanced upward. Reddening slowly everywhere.

She warmed on the inside, too.

His cock wasn’t jutting upward, thoroughly hard, but it was thickening under her gaze.

So strange. So fascinating.

She circled him, running a single finger across the broadest part of his back, up over a muscled shoulder, and then straight down the middle of his chest to the center of his slim waist.

With his arms clasped behind his back, he was all latent power. Though she wanted him at her mercy, his words from the billiards room returned to mind.

He’d said rut—not consummate. Rut—like animals in mating season.

She rather fancied having a beast all her own, a beast she could manage at times and, at others, allow to roam free.

She sipped her drink. Markham’s gaze flicked to his glass, then back.

“What kind of things make you hard?”

His gaze dropped to her breasts. “You. Bare.”

“No,” she quipped. “Give me another option.”

“Kiss me.”

“Another.”

His voice dropped. “Touch me.”

“Where? You must be specific, lapin.”

“You want me to be specific?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Dip your finger in your cognac,”—he challenged her with his gaze—“run that finger down my shaft, and then lick it off.”

He did have quite an imagination. “Is that something that’s done?”

He grinned, wolfish. “Not often enough.”

“I see…”

Would it be so terrible? Just the description had thickened him more. She’d have to study and learn if she wanted to know exactly how to provoke those helpless little whimpers…

Possibilities for later. She set the idea aside.

For now—she dipped her finger into the cognac and she spread the liquid on his bottom lip—there were other parts of him she’d like to taste.

…

Yes. As her lips met his, he didn’t so much think the word as feel it quicken in his source. That still, unshakable center inside came alive in an entirely new way—basking in a world that belonged to the two of them alone.

He relished the traces of cognac. Burning, yet sweet. Both hot and coolly soothing at the same time.

His cock strained up, but she allowed only their mouths to touch. Behind his back, he threaded his fingers more tightly together, denying the urge to cup her face.

He would not lead but follow.

He’d promised.

I decide how much I will give.

Would he, if she insisted, bring this to the conclusion they both desired? Would he take her maidenhead, knowing only fate would decide if a child resulted?

He’d sworn never to wager again, and he couldn’t imagine a gamble with higher sakes.

She arched her body toward his so that her hardened nipples teased his chest through the soft cotton.

Thought ended abruptly.

He’d been hard. He got harder—light-headed. Dizzy.

She broke away.

“If I can lick you…does it work the other way?”

Gramercy! “Yes.”

Her lips formed an O. A nice, firm O. A perfect little puckered O that would feel so nice around his—he squinted as a sharp, tight pain invaded his pleasure.

“I cannot tell…do you like the idea or not.”

He snorted. “I’d be happy to lick you…my lady.”

“Perhaps later.” She smiled—tiny, vixenish. “I’m not finished inspecting.” She splayed both hands against his chest, her thumbs resting over his heart.

She could inspect all she wanted. All five of his senses heightened under her gaze.

“When you sucked my nipples…”

His breath stopped.

“The feeling was quite nice…”

Nice?

“Which makes me wonder…” She edged his nipples with her nails.

He groaned low and deep and entirely involuntary.

She hummed in approval. “There’s the sound I like.”

She wet one of his nipples with cognac and licked. He clenched against the sweet ache that lanced his gut.

“Sit down,” she commanded.

He sank into the mattress.

She gazed down her nose as if he were a meal she could savor, and, with the outline of her beautiful breasts still wrapped in cotton so tantalizingly close, he’d be more than willing to return the favor.

“I want to do to you what you did to me. I want you beneath me on the bed, helpless and quivering. I want to make you spill your seed.”

Mercy, please.

He was damn near close right now, internally spinning like a disk she was dangling on the end of a string.

“Give me three options,” she said.

He forced a swallow. “You can lick me.”

“You already suggested that.”

“Stroke me, then.”

“With my hands?

“Any part of your body will do.”

Her eyes widened. “Second option.”

“You can tell me to stroke myself.”

She considered. “How long will you last before you spill?”

“Not long, I’m afraid.”

She shook her head no. “I don’t want this to be over quickly.”

He grunted. “I don’t think a second go would be a problem.”

“You can do this more than once?”

“Yes.” He closed one eye as a telltale warmth spread through his body. “Though not right away.”

She placed her finger beneath his chin. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His blushes would be his death. He wet his lips. “If you bring me close and then stop, I will stay hard longer. It will be painful, but more satisfying…in the end.”

“You know, lapin.” She lifted her shift and then straddled him. “Your third idea is always your best.”

He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her soft belly against his cock—bitter and sweet, pain and anticipation.

“I don’t want to take off my shift.”

“Then don’t.”

“But I want you to do what you did before.”

“Suck on your nipple?”

She nodded.

He took her nipple—shift and all—into his mouth and rolled it through his mouth. She gasped and threaded her fingers through his hair. He repeated the swirling motion until her breath came in small pants and her wetness seeped onto his legs.

Roughly, she forced him back. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Fuck, yes.

“What do you feel like now?”

“I hurt with a hot, relentless pressure.”

“Show me what to do…how to touch you.”

“Yes,” he replied.

He reached over and retrieved the bergamot-scented oil. He opened her palm, poured a small measure, and then replaced the bottle. He leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows, and, taking both her hands into his, he spread the oil as he threaded their fingers together.

“The top is the most sensitive.” He showed her how to squeeze him—firm and yet soft. “But everywhere feels good.”

She learned quickly, his lady.

He’d never been with anyone so blatantly curious. She studied him as if she actually enjoyed the sight.

What man wouldn’t give all to see someone regard his male parts with such curious interest and evident admiration?

Their gazes met. Her fingers were heaven as he slid through her hand.

Her smile glowed—an inferno whose flame lit him from within.

He leaked onto the tip.

“Don’t you dare spend!”

Heat rushed through his body. He pinched his cock hard until the urge to come had passed and his breath returned to normal.

From the look on her face he’d regret revealing that trick.

She placed her hand on his chest and pushed him down into the bed. She ran her fingernails over his tightened balls.

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

She flushed scarlet—furious. “Do I amuse you?

“Nonononononono,” he slurred the repeated word into one. He tried to sit up. She pushed him back down.

“You aren’t laughing at me?”

“Of course not.”

“Why did you laugh, then?”

“I’m amazed, is all. And I can’t believe how much I want you.” He covered her hands with his. “My lady—Clarissa—my laugh is never more than the sound of pleasure.”

“Sometimes,” she said, frowning, “I laugh out of fear. Or embarrassment.”

Ah, dearest.

He resisted telling her he’d make sure she was never afraid. Instead he lifted and softly kissed each of her fingertips. “I know I said we’d be embarrassed, but that is only because this is new. You never need to be embarrassed with me. Ever.”

“Ever is a long time,” she replied.

Ever was a vow. “Trust me with everything—the good, the bad, the ugly, the odd.”

“I want you, Markham. I want to take you inside of me.”

Markham. Not Lapin. Not Percy.

They weren’t playing. Not anymore.

Could he?

He hadn’t lied when he said he found it difficult to deny her. Not only was he hard, slightly dazed, and thoroughly drunk with desire—he practically fizzed with the need to claim her in the most primitive way imaginable.

Or, as she’d put it, allow her to claim him.

He didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought him to this moment—the wise, the foolish, or the ill-considered. She was beautiful. His goddess. His queen—and if she meant to take him, there was no way he’d fail to give.

Hell yes, he could.

They were good together. Right.

She must see that as well.

“There may be pain.” He dipped his fingers into the place between her legs. She was so wet, so hot and so very, very tight. “Or not.”

“But how?” she asked breathlessly. “How is this supposed to work?”

The small quiver in her voice made him raw. “I’ll help you find the right position—then lower yourself slowly. If there’s pain, just remember, you control the pace.”

She nodded.

He moved fully onto the bed where she straddled his thighs again. As promised, he guided her until she was correctly positioned. And then, achingly slow, she slid down his shaft.

Bliss had gradations. Rungs on a ladder. Low down—a win at whist. Slightly higher, carnal satisfaction with a lover. Then, bergamot ices, then cognac.

Real French cognac.

And now he’d reached the highest rung of them all—being sheathed inside the woman you loved.

Loved.

Loved.

He didn’t know if he should laugh or cry or dig his hands into her hips.

He chose, instead, to simply savor the moment—softness and warmth, her wet heat adjusting to the size of his cock.

He opened his eyes. She was biting that lip again—and hard.

“Are you hurting?”

“No. Just…full. And—oh.” Pink blotches rouged her cheeks. “I—I don’t know…” Her eyes were wide and deep and slightly panicked. “Markham!”

She’d gotten lost. She needed help.

“Shh.” He bent his knees, so his thighs could give her some support. “You’re all right. We’re all right.”

She fixed her gaze to his as if he were the only thing she understood.

“Lean down, sweetheart.” The endearment came quite naturally.

She curled forward, crushing her breasts against his chest.

“That’s it,” he soothed. He tucked her feet beneath his sides and brushed back her hair with his fingers. “You’re lovely. Perfect.”

“I don’t know what to do…”

He grasped her bottom. “You’re safe.” He rocked upward; her eyes went heartbreakingly wide. “Just move in a way that feels good.”

Pulsing upward, he focused on her bottom lip, now released and trembling. He helped steady her while his other arm kept her locked against his waist. She swayed forward, inner muscles gripping him tight. She eased back and swayed forward again, never breaking their gaze as her confidence returned.

She grasped his wrists in her hands and twisted them above his head. She surrounded him—her knees pinched his sides, her flawless breasts swung back and forth—but all he cared to do was wrap himself up within her gaze as her nipples brushed against his chest hair.

She was taking him—a brute pillage, a deliberate ruination that could end only in unmitigated possession.

She lowered her head into his neck to muffle a cry.

His walls crumbled, his sentinels fell.

He absorbed her—her want, her quaking release, her weight.

Cry into me. Yes.

When she released his hands, he wrapped her in his arms and thrust upward until he met the same oblivion.

This time, the sky did not just shatter, it opened with a brilliant light that banished all emptiness…the only time he’d ever felt as one with another.

He held her close. Tight—her cheek against his shoulder, her breath in his ear.

“Clarissa. My beautiful, fearless lady.”

She’d destroyed him. His sense of other had vanished. She’d broken him to pieces.

He loved her with every single piece of his shattered soul.