Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

In the mirror, she could see his shoulders above hers; his chest was wider than her back, his arms a cage in which she willingly waited.

He murmured something in French—she didn’t catch the words but let her head rest back against his shoulder, watching, watching as he shifted, then the hand at her stomach slid lower, long fingers gliding over, then through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. He reached farther; the breath strangled in her throat, her lungs seized. The vise about her chest locked tight as he stroked, caressed, then deliberately probed.

Farther, then yet farther, until his hand was pressed between her thighs, until her body was awash with flame. Her hands fastened on the arm locked about her waist, fingers sinking into the hard muscle as she watched him watching her—watched his hand, so much darker than her skin, rhythmically lavish fiery delight upon her senses.

She gasped, felt her body tighten, arching, reaching for the beckoning peak. He didn’t stop but steadily pushed her on, on, on—until she fractured.

Her soft cry hung in the air; he wrapped her in his arms, in his strength, held her safe as she slowly drifted back from the crest.

She turned her head, glanced at him. He met her gaze, but briefly. His lips curving in what wasn’t quite a smile, he glanced down at her body, soft, pliant, still locked against the hard aroused length of his. Then he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the point where her neck met her shoulder.

“First course.”

His tone made it clear he intended to feast.

Reaching out, he moved the single candle, still burning bright, across and back on the dressing table, positioning it near the central pane of the mirror, at the very center. Reaching farther, he tugged first one side panel, then the other forward, angling them so they reflected the candlelight back at them. At her—it was her smooth, white skin the light illuminated; in contrast, his darker, tanned, and haired limbs seemed to disperse the light. Yet she could now see him clearly. The new position of the side panels let her see beyond her shoulders.

His hands returned to her body; they circled her breasts, gently kneaded, then slid down, tracing her sides, then he gripped her hips. Bent his head and murmured, his breath a heated promise, “Lean forward—hold on to the edge of the dressing table.”

She did, and felt his hand caress the globes of her bottom. He traced the backs of her thighs, then reached between. Touched, stroked.

On a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes; she had only an instant’s warning—an inkling of what he would do—before he shifted, pressed close, and entered her.

Instinctively she locked her thighs, braced her arms, held still as he sank in, gasped when, with a last thrust, he filled her completely. His hands gripped her hips, anchored her as he withdrew, returned, then settled to a slow, steady plundering.

Her senses shook; her wits had long gone. Her breathing sounded ragged in her ears. Beneath her skin, her pulse throbbed, her body aflame as she rode the increasingly powerful thrusts.

The tempo escalated, degree by degree, until she was barely clinging to sanity, wrapped in heat, driven by desire.

“Watch.”

The command reached through the flames fogging her mind. She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up. Looked.

And saw.

Him, behind her, his face etched with passion, set, his whole being focused completely on her, on the pleasure he found in her heated body. A body aglow with desire, softly sheened, his hands curved over her hips, his fingers locked on her skin.

She moved with him, not by thought but in instinctive concert, taking, giving, wanting more. Glancing to the side, into the side mirror, she watched their hips move, locked together in their sensual dance.

Her lungs seized; she glanced back at his face, saw the gleam of his eyes beneath his lashes as he watched her.

Then he shifted, thrust deeper, harder, higher. She gasped, let her lids fall; he was impossibly high inside her.

Faster, faster—and the flames roared. Took them, consumed them in an orgy of feeling, of sensations too sharp, too bright, too excruciatingly powerful to survive. And they were whirling, trapped in a whirlpool of delight, passion still driving, ecstasy beckoning… until it broke over them, drenched them, washed through them.

Leaving them shuddering, locked tight together, his arms wrapped around her, hers wrapped over them.

The tide faded, and left them.

The bed was close. He lifted her, staggered the few steps, then they collapsed amid the covers. It was a long time before either could summon the will or the strength to move.

FOURTEEN

THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE AMONG THE STRANGEST Alicia had known. And quite the fullest.

With the Season about to commence, the social pace approached the frenetic; not only were there three or more major balls every night, but the days, too, were crammed with activities—driving in the park, at-homes, teas, luncheons, picnics, and all manner of diversions. So established were they now among the ton that their absence at such events would have been remarked; people expected to see them—they needed to be there.

She’d schemed, hoped, worked for, plotted so that at the start of the Season she and Adriana would be accepted members, indeed fixtures on the social scene. Fate had granted her wish, and they were dancing every night.

Those who had only recently come to town cast covetous eyes at their now-combined circle, with Tony, Geoffrey, Sir Freddie, and a bevy of others regularly forming part of that select company. But most, certainly the major hostesses and the matrons on whose opinion tonnish acceptance hung, had grown used to them; they merely smiled, nodded graciously, and moved on through the crush.

Of course, given Adriana’s clear preference for Geoffrey’s company, and his for hers, such social prominence was no longer necessary, yet Alicia would have managed society’s demands easily enough—if it hadn’t been for the distraction of all else in her suddenly and unexpectedly full life.

Tony left her bed every morning before dawn; through the day, he traveled—to the coast, to various towns and hamlets, over the Downs, to Southampton and Dover— speaking with his mysterious “contacts,” constantly seeking information that might shed light on A. C.’s nefarious activities.

In the evening, he’d return, not to Waverton Street but his own house; later still, he’d join her at whichever ball or soirée, musicale or rout they had chosen to attend.

Each evening, she’d wait, chatting with those about her but with her thoughts elsewhere, wondering, circling… until he arrived. Every time he appeared to bow over her hand, then set it on his sleeve and take his place by her side, her heart leapt. Quelling it, she’d wait still further, impatient yet resigned, for the ballrooms were now too crowded to risk talking of his findings.

Only later when he’d escorted them home, then followed her to her bedchamber would they talk. He’d tell her all he’d done that day, all he’d learned. Snippets of information verified their suspicions that A. C. had somehow profiteered by ensuring certain ships had been taken by the enemy, yet nothing they’d discovered so far had shed enough light to show them how.

Later yet…they’d come together in her bed, and the day would fall away, and nothing else—nothing beyond the cocoon of the coverlets and the circle of each other’s arms—seemed real, of any consequence.

Later still, she’d lie wrapped in his arms, surrounded by his strength, listening to his steady heartbeat, and wonder…at herself, at where she was, where she was heading…but those moments were fleeting, too brief to reach any conclusion.