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Page 18 of How to Court a Rake (Wed Within a Year #1)

T he first length of hair fell over her shoulder, a silken walnut skein shimmering in mauve twilight. Another length fell and his body answered with a primal bolt of arousal, searing him at his core even as his mind launched its best defence. He should say no. He knew better—he should not , under any circumstances, particularly these circumstances , induct Lady Mary Kimber into the exquisite art of lovemaking on a picnic blanket beside the lake.

There were a hundred reasons why, beginning with she was vulnerable and her world had only just been upended—she was reaching out for something, for someone—and ending with he did not seduce virgins, with ninety-eight other salient points in between. But not one of those arguments singularly or taken together were a match for Mary taking down her hair with slow, deft motions one would think she’d deliberately designed to tease a man into insanity. Her grey eyes held his, making promises his body was more than happy to help her keep. How had this happened? How had he come to want her with a single-minded ferocity that drove reason into oblivion, that had him brawling with dukes in drawing rooms and racing through the night?

‘Mary,’ he growled her name in warning of his desire and in witness to it, as he lay back and drew her over him, her legs straddling his hips, his hands unerringly sliding beneath her skirts and resting on the warm, satin skin of her calves. His gaze was riveted on her, his eyes attuned to every detail of her face: the dusky sweep of lashes, the cream of her skin, the delicate length of her nose, the sensual bow of her mouth…the elegant column of her neck. He could not recall a time when the individual parts of a woman had roused him so thoroughly, fixated him so completely to the exclusion of all else. He raised a hand to her hair, pushing it back behind her ear. ‘I am no gentleman, Mary.’

‘I know. I would be disappointed if you decided to play one now.’ She licked her lips and wriggled against his groin. His desire spiked in evident ways. ‘I don’t want the gentleman, Caine. I want the rake.’

He gave a groan between gritted teeth. She could not be ignorant of his desire now. ‘I will ruin you.’

‘I am already ruined. What you and I do here on this blanket will not be worse than what society is already doing to me in their gossip columns and behind their fans. In fact, I am certain what we’ll do will be a whole lot better.’ Then she leaned low, her hair skimming his chest, her mouth finding his as she whispered the words that lit his body on fire. ‘Shatter me.’

‘Your wish is my fervent desire.’ He gave a rough, raw laugh and rolled her beneath him. ‘What would you like first, my queen? My mouth, my hands?’ He watched her eyes go wide and dark at the prospect, her desire a palpable thing that pulsed between them, hot and strong and wild.

‘Both,’ she breathed. ‘I want what I had in the carriage, I want that…again.’

‘Then you shall have it and more.’

Caine had his mouth on her, trailing kisses up her leg, his mouth a deliciously warm, wicked and wonderful contrast to the gentle evening breeze blowing against her bare skin. She had thought nothing could match the pleasure of Caine’s hand on her, his fingers within her, but what did she know? It was clear now that she’d simply had no bar for comparison. This was sheer heaven, this peaceful interlude that presaged the storm of pleasure to come. Her body tightened in anticipation of it, desire winding itself up hard and pulsing in the place between her legs, attuned and waiting for his arrival.

He pressed a soft kiss to the curls there and her body went wild, her blood thrummed, a moan of welcome purled up her throat. And then his mouth, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, went to work, putting the prior efforts of his fingers to shame as she arched into him, every nerve of her, every inch of her alive. His tongue gave a wicked lick at her seam, tracing the track his fingers had once followed, and she trembled with the delight of it, pleasure echoing through her.

He looked up, his gaze travelling the intimate distance of her to meet her gaze, a slow, sinful smile spreading on his face, his own breath ragged as he coached, ‘Be a good girl, Mary, this is for you, all for you. Reach for it, get lost in it, take what you want and let it take you .’

To take what she wanted, to take what this man offered?

Yes, and yes again. How heady, how glorious to take instead of always giving, and this time she knew how to take, how to let go. Her body was hungry for him, it craved the release that waited for her, called for her with every press of his mouth, every stroke of his tongue. He’d found her secret place once more, this time with the tip of that wicked tongue, and she gave a gasp, turning her face upwards, eyes wide open to the purpling sky.

She clutched at him, her hands buried in the depths of his dark waves, either in search of anchorage, or in the hopes of control, that somehow she could prolong the pleasure, hold it, hold this moment where she hovered on the precipice between pleasure denied and pleasure achieved for ever.

His hands tightened at her hips, a groan escaping him. The sound of his own pleasure racking him pushed her beyond the careful brink she’d wrought. She wanted to hover no more, she wanted the release, wanted to shatter against him, wanted to soar to the skies and she was not beyond begging. ‘Caine, Caine, Caine.’ His name became a plea, a prayer on her lips that she sent up into the firmaments and the gods of pleasure took pity on her. She fractured, the skies swallowing her cries while Caine collapsed against her, his head on her belly, her hands knotted in his hair.

It was worth it. This was the one thought that flitted through her mind as she spiralled back to consciousness, her soul falling slowly out of the purple sky as the moon rose in summer-gold splendour above her. Whatever happened next, this had been worth it. She would know the pleasure for ever—the feel of his touch at her most intimate places, the luxury of these floating, peaceful minutes that came afterwards. No one could take this from her. She had permitted this, given this to herself and she would dare a bit more before this was over.

‘Caine,’ she called his name softly.

He lifted his head from her belly, his dark eyes dreamy in the aftermath of desire. This was not a gaze Caine Parkhurst cultivated for public consumption. A warm heat stole through her at the thought that perhaps this look was for her alone. ‘What?’ Even that simple word was spoken as a seduction.

‘Can I give you something…ah…similar?’ For all of her newfound boldness she lacked a refined knowledge of what might be offered and how.

Caine crawled up her body and stole a kiss before rolling on to his side, head propped in his hand, wickedness returning to his eyes. ‘You can, if you like,’ he drawled, ‘but you are not required.’

‘I want to,’ she murmured. ‘I can use my teeth, my tongue, my hand?’

Caine growled. ‘Do you have any idea what those words do to a man?’

She laughed. ‘If they do anything close to what you just did to me, then, yes, I do.’ She lay down alongside him, her head in the pocket of his chest where shoulder met torso, revelling in the warmth of him, the security she felt lying in his arms. This was another revelation—how intimacy could be passion, hot and wild, while it could also be closeness and comfort in the stillness of a summer night. But Caine knew. Perhaps that was part of his charm: he knew seduction’s deep magic.

She sought him in the darkness, her hand reaching for him through his trousers and finding the length of him still aroused and hard against the fabric, against her hand. She let herself learn him, tracing him, marvelling at him. The hardness did not surprise her. She’d felt the press of him against her buttocks twice now, hard and hot and insistent. But the length, the size, that was a surprise. ‘You feel bigger than I thought.’

Caine gave a low chuckle. ‘I am not sure how to take that. I thought we’d discussed big men before.’

‘But that was about dancing, not about… this …’

‘Dancing is sex, didn’t you know? That’s why I like it so much,’ Caine teased in low, wicked tones.

‘You’re incorrigible.’ She laughed with him, wanting to be as bold as he. What freedom there was in boldness, to do and say what one wanted, when one wanted. To speak one’s mind instead of looking for delicate ways to say things. She continued her hand study of him, feeling the tip and then tracing his length back to the root, her fingers fascinated.

‘It’s more fascinating to see in person,’ he coaxed. ‘Undo my breeches. Take it out, give it a proper introduction.’

She bit her lip in anticipation as she worked his falls. This, too, was something she’d not anticipated—the playfulness, the togetherness of love games. This was not the formal, perfunctory activity her mother had alluded to on rare occasion, an activity to be endured, over and done in a few minutes. She had him free of his breeches, her eyes taking a moment to feast before her hand could not resist the urge to touch.

Caine’s hand closed about hers as they made a loose fist about his phallus, moving slowly up and down its length, then left her to find her own rhythm. She explored his tip, running her palm over it, finding the moisture there. She smiled as she spread it down his length.

‘Does it please you that I rouse to your touch so thoroughly?’ Caine lifted himself up on his elbows, his gaze following her hand.

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ she admittedly somewhat shyly. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘I do like it.’ He claimed a kiss, his voice a whisper against her mouth. ‘Do you know what else I like? I like the scent of you when you’re aroused, I like the sight of your hair falling down your back, the sight of your body claiming the pleasure I give you, the sounds you make when you shatter. I like the taste of you…’

A gasp of shock and new-born arousal escaped her. How could it be that she wanted more again, so soon? How much would be enough to satisfy her? ‘You are truly wicked. I don’t know anyone who talks like you do.’

Caine laid back down with a laugh. ‘You know no one who says exactly what they think?’

‘No one but you, apparently.’ That struck her as all too true. She trusted Caine, had told him things she’d not voiced to anyone. In turn, he’d opened up a whole new world for her. To think this had all started with a dance. That night they’d talked and danced for the first time, she’d wondered what would happen if she stepped off the path of propriety. Where would other, less proper, paths lead?

This path had led here, to this moment, to her hand on him beneath the stars, her body replete with the pleasure he’d given her and yet somehow ready for more. The path had led her to decadence, certainly, but it had led her to more than that. Caine made her feel things she did not want to name for fear of becoming attached to them, to him, any more than she already was and then losing them, him. She’d lost enough in the past twenty-four hours, except for the one thing she’d like to be quite rid of.

‘Mmm, that’s good.’ He sighed, his eyes half-lidded as he lost himself in her touch and she basked in the praise. ‘Do you want to finish me off, or shall I do it?’ He opened his eyes and she felt his gaze rest on her. He was waiting for her to set their direction. This was her moment, another chance to be seized if she dared.

‘Perhaps you might finish us both off, instead?’ Nervously, she wet her lips as she made her request. After all, it wasn’t every night one asked a man for sex.

Caine looked startled. She flushed for a moment. ‘I seem to recall you promised to ruin me.’ She gave a breathy laugh. He was going to refuse and she would feel entirely embarrassed. She sighed and closed her eyes, taking her hand from him. ‘Have I made a fool of myself?’ Caine would tell her the truth even if she didn’t wish to hear it.

He grabbed her hands, squeezing them hard. ‘No, never, Mary. I’m quite intoxicated with your boldness, with you , if you must know.’ His mouth was soft on hers, stealing a gentle kiss as he murmured, ‘Wouldn’t you rather do this in a bed?’

‘No.’ She smiled against his mouth. ‘I want to make love right here with the moon watching and the night birds singing.’ This would be her paradise, a place out of time where she had a lover who coveted her, cherished her, who saw a woman, not an earl’s daughter with bloodlines and a dowry. She rose. ‘But you’ll have to help me with my laces. I can’t get out of this dress alone.’

‘I am more than happy to oblige.’ Caine came to his feet and moved behind her, sweeping aside the length of her hair, his mouth whispering decadent words at her ear; how her skin was moonlight itself, her scent like a summer garden. His hands worked the laces at her back, warm and competent. His own desire pressed against her in promise of what was to come as her dress slipped to the ground. Oh, how her pulse sped with want and her thoughts raced with desire as her underthings joined her dress and he whispered, ‘I’ll make it good for you, I promise.’

She turned in his arms, pressing her naked body to him, arms wrapped around his neck. ‘Make it good for both of us. I trust you.’ She stepped away from him then.

‘You are beautiful.’ His voice was gravel and she rather enjoyed the power of having stolen his breath.

She sat down on the blanket and wrapped her arms about her knees. ‘Your turn now.’ He made short work of his shirt and his already open breeches and the moonlight did the rest, favouring the angles and planes of his body with its light and shadow. Although he didn’t need any favouring.

He looked like a god as he came to her, his broad shoulders and arms corded with muscle, his torso a carved marble atlas of muscle, his hips lean, his thighs long, the perfect setting for what nestled between them. No, nestled was too tame of word. His phallus was too large for nestling; it rose , it jutted . It did not nestle. He fell to all fours in front of her, his eyes, dark and dangerous, holding hers as he lowered himself over her. She lay back in invitation, her arms reaching up for him, urging him to come onwards, to cover her in full. His phallus brushed her leg and heat rose in her, the wet, damp heat of desire. She wanted this man. Wanted him inside her. To know the feel of him for ever.

His own breathing was ragged. She sensed he was holding himself in check, keeping his own desire leashed on her behalf. ‘You don’t need to be careful of me, I won’t break,’ she encouraged, want outstripping her own sense of caution.

He nuzzled her ear. ‘This moment is for savouring, not devouring.’ And she understood. This was not to be frantic like his mouth at her nub. There was to be nothing cheap and hurried in this. This was to be a slow taking, a deliberate taking. Perhaps even a bridegroom’s taking of his bride. Her heart swelled at the care, the courtesy he was showing her amid the surging passion when it would be easy for recklessness and individual need to hold sway, when it would be easy to devour, to sate, and she revelled in it, her body stretching languorously beneath him, hip to hip, leg to leg, as she tried to match his height with hers.

He held her arms over her head, gripped in a single hand. ‘All the better to see your breasts, to kiss them,’ he said and it was she who felt wicked as his mouth sucked at them, turning her insides to aspic, a slow heat building in her she could not contain, so that she was more than ready for him when he finally came into her, slow inch by slow inch, his eyes holding hers, both of them enrapt by the other’s response. He filled her, a sense of having been joined intimately with another, with him , swamped her.

‘Wait, there’s more,’ he murmured as he began to move within her. Joining turned to completion, and completion turned to climax, this time, a climax they both could share. They were headed to the great release together. The knowledge of that was heady.He’d be there with her when she shattered and she’d be there with him. That release was on them quickly, desire refusing to be held in abatement any longer. Her hips met his, she wrapped her legs about him, holding him close, her breath coming in gasps as he thrust once, twice more and then came the brilliant fracturing, of being at one with another while knowing that one’s self was splintering into a thousand shards of feeling.

Two thoughts swept her at the last. This was the pinnacle of intimacy, the purpose and secret of life, perhaps even what made life worth living. And how would she ever move on without the man who could achieve it?