Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

Seeing none, feeling her body ease beneath him, her scalding sheath clasping tightly about him, he bent his head.

She raised hers, offered her lips.

He took them, claimed them. Without further direction, let his body do as it wished, as it had to do, and claim her.

The tiny fragment of his mind that remained lucid fully expected a fast and furious engagement. Instead, he rode her slowly; even now, even freed from all restraint, his body remained attuned to hers, gauging without conscious direction, responding to each quickening clasp of her sheath, to each restless shifting of her thighs, ultimately to the tentative rocking of her hips as she learned to match him and meet him.

Their progression was slow, measured, deliberate— and all-consuming. As she took him in, and his body followed hers, it occurred to him to wonder who had claimed whom. Who was leading, who was in charge…

Not him, and it couldn’t be her.

Never had he been so totally absorbed, so totally submerged in the moment, so totally aware. Not just of the woman beneath him, but of his own body, his own pleasure. Hers heightened his; like a series of mirrors, reflecting back over and again, each tiny gasp, each soft moan, every sudden tensing of her fingers on his skin, washed over him and welled, swelled the exquisite tightness in his groin, fueled the tension driving him.

She’d tugged him down so his body met hers; her breasts were trapped beneath the heavy muscles of his chest, the rough hair abrading their sensitive skin, her nipples tight crests, their arousing pressure shifting with every deep thrust. Their skins were aflame, sheened, slick; her hands roamed his back, sweeping over the long planes, increasingly urgent. Their stomachs met, his hips locked in the cradle of hers, her thighs widespread, knees clasping his flanks, calves tangling with his.

Their mouths had fused, lips still greedily clinging, a connection that completed some circuit, that kept them immersed, locked in the compulsion that drove them, wholly given over to it.

Surrender came with a sudden quickening, first of her body, then of his. He was so deeply buried inside her, she took him with her; release swept them both in a long, glorious golden wave. Locked together, they rode it, let it take them and fling them high into the heavens, into the realms of pleasured bliss.

He emptied himself into her, felt her womb contract powerfully, holding him, accepting, taking.

The wave receded.

They drifted slowly to earth, their bodies eased, all tension gone, boneless in the aftermath. Their lips parted; breaths mingling, they clung, eyes still closed, savoring the closeness.

He felt her arms steal around him, then rest, lax. With the last of his strength, he slumped to the side, trying not to crush her as oblivion, deeper than he’d ever known it, caught him and drew him down.

THIRTEEN

REMARKABLE.

It had been that and more; an hour later, Tony still couldn’t rationalize how very different the interlude had been, that she, a rank novice, had been the one woman in all his years to shatter his control, capture him utterly, forcing him to rely wholly on instinct, thus taking him to…wherever they had been.

A plane on which the pleasure defied all description, in which the physical had been a golden echo of something else.

An unworldly, unearthly, otherworldly place.

In all his years, through all his experience, he’d never even imagined such an exchange could be, or that such a place existed.

On rousing, he’d disengaged and lifted from her. Lying on his back, he’d gathered her to him; unresisting, she’d let him settle her against him, within the circle of his arms, her head on his shoulder.

The covers lay warm about them. Night lay like a blanket over the house; the moonlight had strengthened. He glanced at her face; she still seemed sunk in pleasured oblivion. Lifting his hand, he tentatively touched her hair. When she didn’t stir, he set his palm to the silky tresses, smoothing them, drinking in the feel of their warm softness.

Lying back, he looked up at the canopy; slowly stroking, he tried to think.

The gentle, rhythmic comforting caress gradually drew Alicia back into the world. Warmth held her; pleasure still lay heavy in her veins. A sense of safety she’d never before known, so deep, so solid its existence was beyond question, wrapped her about, supporting, reassuring.

She sighed, and her wits returned.

And she remembered. Everything. All of it.

Every moment that had passed since he’d drawn her into his arms, every touch, every blissful second.

His arms remained around her, steel bands cradling her, gently enough, yet still overtly possessive.

The stroking slowed; his hand stilled. He knew she was awake.

Opening her eyes, she shifted her head and looked up. Met his gaze. Excruciatingly aware that she lay naked in his arms, that he was naked, too. Aware that their limbs were tangled, that they lay slumped together in a warm cocoon of rumpled sheets.

His black eyes held hers; it was impossible to read anything from them or his face. “When did you intend to tell me?” His tone was even, uninflected.

She searched his face, remembered…refocused on his eyes. “You knew.”

He’d known she was—had been—a virgin; he’d watched for every second as he’d taken her virginity, as she’d willingly yielded it to him.

He looked down, at her hand spread on his bare chest. He took it in his; his long fingers toyed with hers. “There wasn’t any trace of any Carrington anywhere near Chipping Norton. No entry in the parish records. No one of that name known at any of the stables or inns. Yet many knew the Misses Pevensey— both Misses Pevensey.”

He glanced up; his eyes were sharp as they found hers. “I would have stopped if you’d wanted me to.”

A statement, but there was a question buried in it. She held his gaze steadily. “I know.”

She let the two words stand alone, a simple acknowledgment of the decision she’d made. She’d gone to him willingly; she wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.

What was done was done; she was his mistress now.

She frowned. “How did you learn…?” The truth struck her, left her horrified. “Your friend?”

Incipient panic flared in her eyes; Tony closed his hand over hers. “There’s no need to worry.” He hesitated, then explained, “Jack Warnefleet—Lord Warnefleet—investigated Ruskin for me. He also asked after your supposed husband, Alfred Carrington. Another A. C.”

Understanding lit her eyes; he added, “We can rely on Jack’s absolute discretion.”

She studied his face, his eyes; a long moment passed, then she asked, “That was the urgent information he sent you the note about last night?”

He felt his jaw set. “He knew I’d want to know.”

She blinked, then her lashes veiled her eyes. “I couldn’t tell you.” A heartbeat passed, then she added, “I couldn’t risk it.”

There was no hint of excuse in her tone; she was stating a fact, at least as she’d seen it.

He drew in a breath, lifted his gaze to look, unseeing, across the room. Given all he now knew of her, of the plan she and, he assumed, Adriana had concocted, of her commitment to her sister and even more to her brothers, he couldn’t fault her; any hint that she wasn’t the widow the ton thought her would, even now, result in complete and unmitigated disaster. Any chance of Adriana making a good match would disappear. They’d be social pariahs, expelled from society, forced to retreat to their cottage in the country to scrape a precarious existence for themselves and their brothers.

Trusting him with the truth…

He suddenly realized she had. She just hadn’t told him in words.