“Please,” she murmured as she’d done before, not knowing precisely what she wanted or needed, but knowing that he—only he—could give it to her.
He shook his head against her, down by her knee, giving her a quick slip of tongue in the curve there.
“More,” she whispered.
“No.” His breath and lips were hot against her. “Don’t be a fool.” He slipped his tongue down around in the heat of her and she gave a little squeak of pleasure, a shot of fire rippling through her. “You can’t,” he said. “Yes…please. I want…all of it.”
And when, suddenly, he pulled away, his face hot and eyes burning, she almost wailed in distress. She throbbed, ready again for more. For the rest of it.
But then he was tearing at the buttons on the fall of his trousers, and she was helping him, and he gave a short, sharp shake of his head as he muttered, “Always interfering, Miss Woodmore,” and then he was there, against her again, this time his bare chest warm, printing on her skin.
She didn’t see him, that hard bulge she’d felt earlier, and for a moment, she was bereft, feeling lost…but then his fingers moved between them, and found the very hard, tight core of her being, and before she knew it, they’d slipped and slid around so that she was even more full and hot and throbbing, and then he paused.
“Maia,” he breathed, withdrawing his hand. She knew it was a question. “This is—”
“No,” she said, shifting against him, in distress. “Please.”
He made a soft, strangled sound, and the next thing she knew, he shifted and fitted himself to her. Maia sighed: this was it. Yes.
Then he moved and she felt a snap of pain deep inside. Maia froze for a moment, her eyes opening, the pleasure filtering away…but before she could think, he began to move. And her mouth gaped, her body heated, and everything in her world became focused on the sleek slide, in and out. It was long and beautiful, this feeling of right, the tingle of desire centering there between them.
He muttered something deep and low near her ear, but she couldn’t understand. She didn’t care. There was the heat and the rhythm and the growing blossoming, and she cried out when he sank his teeth into her shoulder, her body seeming to explode deep inside.
Pleasure undulated through her in little echoing ripples as he groaned into her skin, his body hot and damp against her. And then he moved one last time, hard and deep, with a soft cry of exertion. He pulled his face away, burying his forehead into her neck, the scent of blood in her nose as he shuddered against her.
16
Of Apologies And Recompense And Inflated Dowries
No sooner did the blaze of pleasure and fulfillment begin to fade than a cold, hard stone settled in Dimitri’s middle.
By Fate, what have I done?
A chill washed over him and he drew in a deep breath, his mind shooting off in many different directions.
He halted it with cold control. No. There’d be time for recriminations and regrets later. Now he must keep his thoughts clear and extricate himself—literally and figuratively—from…this.
This…moment of quiet fulfillment, of delight, of something that had shaken him deep in his core. Something that made his insides move, like a heated flower opening and sending its warmth through him. But that quickly turned bleak.
He forced himself to open his eyes, pulling up gently from her shoulder. He’d already retracted his fangs, but the essence of blood still lingered on his tongue, filtering into his nostrils. Beautiful. Her eyes were closed, her face slack with satiation. He’d never seen anything that made his heart ache like this. Though he must, he couldn’t look away.
Her lips, full and moist, rosy and inviting, were half-parted. The damp braid that had confined all of the strands of blond, bronze, copper, auburn and walnut was a distant memory, and her long, thick hair clung in places to her skin, and his, as well. Bare throat and shoulders, with an uncovered breast that couldn’t have been more perfect. The mere sight of it, the memory of its smooth, sweet texture, the hard, sensitive nipple beneath his tongue and lips, made his body begin to tighten all over again.
What have I done to you? To me?
Even as he pulled away, Dimitri struggled with how to undo what could not be undone. He pulled down the cold wall behind which he could be safe, and watched as Maia— Miss Woodmore, she must be Miss Woodmore again—opened her eyes with a flutter.
So wrong.
He wanted to poke at her, to cut with his words and send her reeling away. If he did that, then she could continue to loathe the Earl of Corvindale. She could wed Bradington with perhaps a twinge of conscience, but at least she would still wed him.
Instead of demanding that Dimitri come up to snuff. Tempting him.
That would…could…never happen.
“Corvindale.”
Even the way she said his name, still used his title in all formality, sounded husky and intimate.
He’d sat up and was putting himself to rights, rebuttoning his trousers and then locating his shirt in a crumpled wad on the floor. Your shirt, Corvindale. Make it go away.
You won’t hurt me.
Please.
He closed his eyes. Lucifer’s bloody hell.
She was sitting up now, and he dared not look at her and see those wide, questioning eyes. Hurt. Or perhaps they would be filled with anger and recrimination—as they rightly should be.
“Corvindale,” she said again, more firmly. “Look at me.”
He hesitated, then did as she asked. Thank the Fates she’d pulled up her bodice and righted the rest of her clothing. The only sign of their activities was the new bite on her shoulder. He slid his gaze up to her face. What he saw there was not question nor confusion, neither was it anger or recrimination. There was a hint of softness, the heavy-liddedness of pleasure, and something else. Acceptance?
“I suppose this wasn’t what Chas had in mind when he named you guardian,” she said, pulling all of that thick bundle of hair forward over one shoulder. She began to plait it in a fat braid.
He swallowed a derisive sound. “You do realize, Miss Woodmore, that, while I cannot begin to make things right in regards to this, nothing will change.”
She lifted an eyebrow, her green-brown eyes fastened on him with a bland expression. She was silent for a moment before replying, “What precisely do you mean that nothing will change?”
He noticed that her busy fingers were either very quick, or they were trembling a bit. Sorrow pitted his insides. “I mean that we need never speak of or acknowledge this…er…event to anyone. No one need ever know, and you will go on to wed Bradington without even a whiff of scandal.”
Maia—blast it, Miss Woodmore—continued to watch him steadily. She’d finished with the braid and now her fingers settled in her lap, within the folds of her gown so that he couldn’t tell if they were shaking.
“The way you put it, it’s really rather simple then, isn’t it, my lord? We both go on as if nothing has happened. But in fact, Corvindale, you clearly realize that a great deal has happened.” Her voice became more strident, rising a bit at the end. She wasn’t shouting, or even furious. But simply strong. Knowing.
“I realize that you can never—nor should you—forgive me for my behavior today. It was beyond inexcusable. I shall settle an additional dowry on you for a wedding gift as an apology and a clumsy attempt to comfort you. I’m quite certain, as well, that your brother will remove you from my guardianship immediately.”