Christine Merrill - Regency Surrender - Wicked Deception - The Truth About Lady Felkirk / A Ring from a Marquess

She could tell her sudden boldness had surprised him. He was still at first. Then his hand settled into the small of her back, drawing her closer to him, pulling her body up on to his chest. Then, everything about him seemed to relax, his mouth falling open against hers, his tongue easing into her mouth to caress hers.

Such kisses had always seemed like an invasion. But this was very different. Will Felkirk’s touch was gentle, as though he were learning her from the inside out. She probed gently in response. It was different to respond. She did not feel desire so much as curiosity. What harm would it do to indulge that, as long as it kept him from asking any more questions?

He tasted different. The shape of his mouth was different as well. She could feel the playfulness of his smile, the fullness of his lips and the smoothness of his cheekbone as she stroked it. She moved her hands lower, to his bare chest, which was no longer as sunken and hollow as it had felt while he slept. With a little sunlight and solid food, the health was coming back to him. His heart beat fast and strong under her fingers. She could feel it beating even faster as she touched him. And there, on his arm, was the strange smooth skin of the burn scar.

While she might admit that the duke was the more handsome of the two brothers, he was a trifle too perfect to look at. This man, with the crease in his skull and the scars on his body, was so much more real and she knew him almost too well.

He sighed at her touch and his kisses became a sudden opening and closing of his lips as though he was taking a bite of fruit. Then he sighed again, in satisfaction as if he needed her to feel complete, as one might need air or food.

She stilled for a moment, not sure she liked it. She understood being desired. She understood what it was to be used. She had understood his need when he was too helpless to care for himself. But now the feeling was different. She wanted him to be stronger for her help, not more dependant.

Suppose, when she finally managed to escape from this place, she left him feeling less than whole. She had expected to lose some of herself by this joining. But suppose she grew to depend on him? She could not afford such feelings, if she was ever in her life to be free.

Perhaps it was simply that it had been so long since lying with a man that she had forgotten how to behave. The trick was to disengage one’s mind from the activity, so that it might be somewhere else, while the body acted. She tried it now and found it strangely ineffective. The feel of his skin under her hand, was too real to ignore. Instead of hiding from it, she wanted to lose more of herself to him, to be more deeply entwined. In a daring moment, she ran her hand down his chest, following the trail of hair on his belly until it slipped beneath the sheet to grip him.

He inhaled sharply at the touch, taking her tongue more deeply into his mouth.

This was interesting. She had never felt this sense of control before. She took advantage, running a fingertip lightly across the opening at the head of his member.

He pulled away, ‘I do not think...’ Though his member stirred at her touch, his body moved weakly under hers, a reminder that he was still not fully recovered.

She had but to release him, with an apology for her forwardness. She would be safe from intimacy for another night, or more. Perhaps he would even let her return to her room. Instead, she kissed his lips again and murmured, ‘Let me.’ Then she moved her hand on him.

As she watched, he settled back into the pillows, but did not relax. His eyes were shut tightly, his mouth shut so tightly that his lips went white. Did her touch hurt him? She thought not, for he made no move to stop her. His nostrils flared as he took a slow steady breath as though struggling to maintain control of his own body and prolong the climax.

Did she really affect him so? The idea that she could award or deny his happiness with a single touch was exhilarating. She gripped him tighter, stroking slowly from root to tip, and felt him growing under her fingers.

He was longer and thicker than she’d expected. Silky skin stretched tight over blood and muscle, growing slippery with the first drops of his seed. She wondered what it would be like when he entered her. Probably not as pleasant as she was imagining. In her experience, real life seldom lived up to imagination.

But the current moment was satisfying enough. As she moved her hand on him, his whole body seemed to tighten, tension building like a coiled spring. His eyes were open again, head had arched back so that he could stare at the ceiling and his lips worked, almost as though praying. In this moment, he was hers in a way that no man had ever been. It made her wish that she could keep him. Or, at least, that she could keep pretending for a lifetime.

She used his vulnerability to kiss his exposed throat, running teeth and tongue along the tendons until she heard the hitch in his breath. Then she released him, just for a second, to raise the hem of her nightdress, brushing him with the picot edging he had found so intriguing.

He shuddered at the contact. She changed her grip, wrapping him in the linen, and tightening her hand to finish him. Beneath her, his whole body jerked and his breath released in a moan. Then, as she had expected, he lost control and sagged helpless back on to the mattress.

She lay still against him, her palm flat against his chest, waiting until he had stopped trembling and his heartbeat began to slow again. Then she rubbed him gently with the linen, rolled away from him and stood to pull the soiled gown over her head and drop it on the floor beside her discarded nightcap.

She glanced at it with a frown. Should she summon a maid, or search in her own bureau for a replacement? She did not normally like sleeping bare. The vulnerability of it was so distressing that she could not rest easy. But tonight felt different. She stretched her arms above her head, noting the pull of muscle and skin, feeling stronger and more confident than before. She smoothed a hand over breast and belly, surprised at how warm they felt. Then she turned towards the connecting door between the rooms.

‘Stay.’

She looked back at Will, surprised. How could she have forgotten that he was there, just behind her, watching this shameless display of her body?

But she had nothing to fear. There was no avarice in his gaze. His look held more wonder than lust. He reached out a hand to her, as though to stop her departure. ‘Come back to bed. We need do nothing more. But sleep here tonight, at my side.’

‘Very well,’ she said. She came back to the bed and climbed beneath the covers, letting him gather her close. In less than a sigh, he was asleep.

She lay awake beside him, surprised at how relaxing it was to share a bed with William Felkirk. She dreaded those nights that Montague expected it of her, for it invariably meant that she would be wakened at some point and required to service him.

But judging by the slight snore that escaped his parted lips, the man at her side now was not likely to wake. His arm wrapped loosely around her, his thigh brushing her leg. But the limbs were as relaxed and heavy as they had been as he’d lain in a coma.

This feeling of skin against skin was a new thing as well. She ought to be frightened, lying hip to hip with a stranger. But this was more decadent than disturbing. She yawned. Perhaps this was what it was like to be a courtesan, taking and discarding lovers without a second thought.

Or perhaps it was how she’d have felt, had she been a wife.

The thought was gone as quickly as it had come, for she was slipping away, into a dark and peaceful sleep.

Chapter Ten

When Will awoke the next morning, she was gone from his bed. Perhaps last night’s release was what he had needed. It was the first real rest he’d had since waking from the coma. He’d slept so soundly that he had no idea whether she’d stayed as he asked.