Charlotte Featherstone - Addicted

“Mmm,” Lindsay smiled, feeling languid and relaxed. He could fall asleep, right in Anais’s arms—and he would, tonight, as a matter of fact, right after he had thoroughly made love to her. Tonight he was going to take her home—to the divan that was filled with pillows. He would carry her, his odalisque, off to his harem. He was going to disrobe her, licking, devouring her for hours.

He had planned it all, right down to the valentine he had waiting for her and the way he was going to propose to her. He thought about holding her in his arms as she lay spent from her release. He imagined himself leaning down and kissing her softly as he asked her to marry him. But then the image of plunging into her open, waiting body took hold. He could see himself thrusting deep inside, claiming her and watching her lips part in pleasure. He would sink into her again and whisper his proposal. Yes, definitely that, he thought, feeling his cock thicken. He would propose as he was filling her with his body and as she shuddered in release. As he spent his seed inside her, she would agree on a husky pant that she would be his wife.

“My lords?” a soft and feminine voice demurred.

“No, no thank you,” Broughton grunted, stiffening beside him.

Lindsay opened one eye, peering down at a pair of ivory breasts that were spilling from the bodice of an exquisite beaded top—a houri’s bodice he thought, taking in the gold shimmer of the silk cording that edged her overflowing bodice.

“Try it, Raeburn, old boy. A Turkish delicacy,” Wallingford taunted from across the room as his evening’s entertainment slipped her hand down the front of Wallingford’s trousers.

Lindsay opened his other eye and saw that the houri held a silver tray before him. He looked up into her eyes and saw them gleaming. He had seen those eyes before, but where, he couldn’t quite remember.

“Come, Raeburn,” Wallingford jeered. “Have a taste. The Greeks have their grape leaves, the Turks their Passion Lips.”

With a shrug, he reached for the pale yellow circle that resembled a poppy seed cake.

“I think you would find the red more to your liking,” the houri purred seductively.

“Very well,” he said, taking a red cake from her tray. He popped it in his mouth and chewed the tough texture. “Bloody awful,” he mumbled to Broughton. “The Turks may keep their Passion Lips. I’d take a grape leaf any day.”

“That girl looks very familiar,” Broughton said thoughtfully as his gaze followed the houri’s progress through the room.

“Perhaps she will look even more familiar as the night progresses?” Lindsay asked with a grin.

Broughton shot him a disgruntled look. “May I remind you that I’ve been courting Miss Thomas?”

Lindsay shrugged and looked away. As far as he was concerned, Rebecca Thomas was no damned good for his friend. There was something about the girl he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but that unsavoury feeling was there nonetheless. He had never cared for Rebecca. She was manipulative and uncaring. Calculating coldness was always blatant in her eyes. Furthermore, he did not care for the way the conniving Rebecca had wormed her way into his gentle Anais’s friendship.

Anais, he thought, searching through the thickening smoke for the clock. “Well, then, I’m off,” he said when he saw it was nearing midnight.

“And where are you going?” Broughton asked as he stood, straightening his already immaculate waistcoat.

“I’m off to meet a charming young lady on the terrace.”

“Take care of her.” Broughton’s voice held a hint of warning that Lindsay did not particularly care for.

“I love her, Broughton.”

“I know, but sometimes…” Lindsay knew what his friend was going to say. Sometimes you’re not worthy of someone as good as Anais Darnby.

“My Cambridge days are behind me, Broughton. I am no longer the neck or nothing youngblood you knew in university. Then I was searching for what I wanted in life and I know I was reckless. I no longer need to do that. I know what, and who , I want.”

Broughton reached for his arm and stayed him. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one who cares for her. Anais has been my friend as long as she has been yours. I would not want her feelings trifled with.”

“What are you implying?” Lindsay asked with a glare.

“I think you know what I mean, Raeburn. If your intentions are not honorable toward her, then do not pursue her.”

Lindsay brushed Broughton’s hand off his arm. “I would never dishonor her.”

“I would hope not. I would hope that you would strive— always —to be the sort of man she needs and deserves.”

With a brisk tilt of his head and the clenching of his teeth, Lindsay turned and made his way to the door, slightly disoriented from the heavy vapor of smoke hanging in the air. Opening the door, he let himself out, waiting for the fresh air to clear the cobwebs that were suddenly taking root in his brain.

Anais, he thought, reaching to the wall to steady himself. I’m not like my father. I’m worthy of you. I can be the sort of man you need. I swear it .

“Good evening, Lindsay.”

He whirled around. The corridor narrowed sharply, making him experience a nauseating bout of syncope. The candle flames flickered madly, almost as if they were leaping from their wax stands and he reeled back as he watched the flames jump out at him, threatening to land on his clothes. The vision was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by a kaleidoscope of bright swirling colors that clouded his vision.

Blinking, Lindsay looked up from the black-and-white floor that seemed to ripple like a ribbon in a breeze beneath his feet. And then he saw her, Anais, standing at the end of the hall dressed in a wonderfully seductive purple-and-gold gown.

“Anais?” he asked in a disbelieving voice. He tried to step forward but couldn’t. He could barely see straight or focus his gaze on her.

Bloody hell, what was the matter with him? The Passion Lips, he suddenly remembered. What had the houri fed him? Certainly nothing he recalled ever dabbling in before. He had never imbibed anything quite so potent.

“Lindsay,” Anais cried, calling his name and running toward him.

He caught her in his arms and pressed her against the wall. He ran his hands along her curves, delighting in her soft skin, in the flare of her hip above the low-slung skirt. His fingers became tangled in the filmy purple chiffon and he growled appreciatively, suddenly as randy as he had ever been in his life.

“Kiss me,” she purred in a low, hypnotic voice that made his already hard cock rear in his trousers. “Kiss me, Lindsay,” she said, over and over again, as if she were chanting a Siren’s seductive call.

He searched for her mouth and kissed her, slow at first, then more carnally as she slipped her tongue between his lips. He groaned as she rubbed her mound against his throbbing arousal. He couldn’t make himself stop. His blood was humming. His body felt languorous, as if he had all the time in the world, as if they were already back in his bedchamber and not standing in a hall where anyone may happen upon them.

She moaned and reached for his bulging trousers, stroking him boldly. Bloody hell, where had she learned that? “Touch me, Lindsay. Take me into your mouth as you did in the stables.”

“Mmm, yes,” he said, feeling the floor shift again. He lowered her bodice and cupped her. Opening his eyes, he struggled to focus on the pale breasts in his hands. But instead of two full, round breasts, he held four blurred globes, with nipples that danced and swayed before him. He blinked, trying to still the image so he could fasten his lips onto her and suckle her, but the more he blinked, the more his vision seemed to swim.