Chapter Twenty-Two

John pulsed with desire already. The shot of pure need that coursed through him when his wife lifted amber eyes in silent acquiescence struck him like a blow. He wanted very badly to make love to his wife. More importantly, he wanted very badly for her desire to match his own.

There were places for duty and obligation. This wasn’t one of them. He didn’t want that here. Emma had yielded to his requests for Charlotte because she was sensible. He wanted her to yield to him now because she was on fire, and he set about causing that very condition. He captured her mouth with his, tantalizing first, then plundering, claiming her lips the way he longed to claim her body. It was a dangerous thought—possession. He shouldn’t want her this much. He shouldn’t need to possess her.

She released a throaty moan and lust charged through him again, scattering any thoughts of what he shouldn’t feel. He felt. He needed. And, God, it was good. It was very, very good. She kissed him back. She was willing—enthusiastic even—but it was not enough. He would not succumb to his flaring passion until he knew she was insensate with her own. He tore his lips from hers, steeling himself against his reaction to her disappointed sigh. He placed his lips more softly, this time at the gentle curve at the base of her neck, and pressed slow kisses along the length of her throat, punctuating each with a light flick of his tongue. Laying one hand on her breast, he gently squeezed the soft orb, massaging until he felt her press herself farther into his touch. Then he drew his thumb across the sensitive tip, feeling it harden in response beneath the layers of fabric that imprisoned it.

He watched her golden eyes cloud with passion and flutter closed, dark lashes falling onto flushed cheeks. Her lips parted, tantalizing him like a ripe fruit. Using his unoccupied hand to brush aside the tendrils of hair that veiled one tiny, perfect ear, he lowered his mouth and brushed his lips across it. “You are so beautiful like this,” he whispered. “From this night on, I will see you just like this.” His tongue raked her dainty earlobe and he felt the shiver course through her. “When you come to breakfast in your tidy dress, with your hair in a prim knot, I will look through that and see you as you are now, shivering with passion in my arms, with lips swollen from my kisses and hair falling from pins we’ll never find.” He teased her earlobe with his tongue again, letting his warm breath blow across her ear. He caught the soft lobe in his teeth then dragged them lightly across it.

She whimpered and he drew back. She stood, fully clothed, eyes closed, gripping the post behind her, as he caressed her breast with his hand. She was a picture of caged passion—alive with it, squirming with it, not yet broken free.

Damn.

He’d fired his own lust as much as hers. It ached. His mouth took hers again, without strategy or intent other than to feed his own hunger. As he ravaged her mouth, he felt her shift. Her hands no longer clutched the bedpost, but were on him, frantically running over his chest and arms and back. Then beautiful feminine hands were boldly tugging at the laces of his breeches. He groaned into her mouth as he kissed her.

As she tugged at his clothes, he pulled at hers. He did not bother with buttons or laces; he yanked up on yards of skirt and petticoat and tore off underthings. He found her warm and wet and waiting for him. She called his name when he touched her and the knowledge that the slick heat between her legs was for him left him mad with wanting. He wanted to make her mad with wanting. She wasn’t there yet, but he was determined she would be. He tickled and teased her until she squirmed and begged his name again.

Then he turned his attention to the fall of his breeches. He spent only a moment to finish the work she’d started on his laces and lower his breeches to the tops of his boots. Thus freed he took her hand in his own and moved it to him. Damn, but he wanted her to touch him.

As her fingers closed around his flesh, her eyes flew to his. The sweet, hot pain must surely have been his limit, but then her lips quirked into a wicked smile as she held him, and the surge in his heated desire nearly incinerated them both.

Christ.

He may have only thought it. He may have said it aloud. He had no idea. He pulled her hips forward and leaned back, one hand clutching the post. He thrust into her and watched with primal satisfaction as her head fell back and her lips parted again. He gripped the post above her shoulder and slid his other hand around to cup her bottom—supporting her, pulling her to him to meet his thrusts.

And he kissed her. God, he kissed her good, their mouths echoing the mating of their bodies. His urgency climbed with every moan of pure seduction she released into his mouth.

She whimpered his name first, then called it out. She clutched herself to him as he drove into her. She shuddered and moaned, and he felt her body clench around him as it reached its peak. Her release unbound the last of his restraint. He thrust into to her. Once. Twice. He groaned with his own release and held her tightly to him as he came inside her.

God and the devil.

Slowly he withdrew and helped her to finish undressing. He led her limp form to lay across the bed. He lay with her, recovering his breath as she did. Recovering his sanity.

They’d made love half-dressed and frantic, like illicit lovers in darkened corners or secret gardens. It was a heady drug, indeed. Intoxication by that particular drug could only lead to damage. That uncontrolled need was where the danger lurked. His father had succumbed to it, and his obsession for his wife had ruined his family. John would not succumb. He would be stronger than it.

He sighed. She was asleep. He gently rolled her to her side and rose, his languorous body objecting with every inch of movement. He located his cast-aside breeches and pulled them on. He gathered his boots and shirt. It was time for him to retreat to his own chamber, as gentlemen did once they had bedded their wives.

Yet he didn’t. Not yet.

He stood over her instead and watched her in repose. She was not a picture of peaceful slumber. Instead, she looked wild in the aftermath of their lovemaking—cheeks still flushed, lips swollen, limbs flung, and hair splayed around her. Persistent tugs in unknown places deep inside urged him to collapse back into the soft mattress and pull her warm, love-weary body up against his.

Tempted though he was, he didn’t. He couldn’t. How shortsighted he’d been to think attraction to his wife would make this marriage of convenience easier to manage. He hadn’t managed his lust at all, nor was he managing this insistent tugging at his soul that urged him to spend the aftermath of their passion with her cradled in his arms. The very strength of his longing built his resolve to go. Lovesick foolishness turned too quickly to obsession and became a path to destruction. He’d witnessed it. He was still unraveling it. He would not become it.