Page 6 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 6

T he innocence peering up at him was achingly sweet, a contrast so carnal it made Alexander's chest clench. Penny's lips stretched around his cock, her tongue curling against the sensitive underside, teasing him with the very devil's temptation. Alexander stroked his fingers along her throat, his thumb caressing the spot where her pulse fluttered wildly. He felt each moan she swallowed, the vibrations traveling straight through him, turning his hunger into something near unbearable.

"Christ," he groaned, tipping his head back as pleasure licked through his spine, his balls tightening, hardening him further.

He thrust just a fraction deeper, edging toward the back of her throat, and Penny didn't retreat. Instead, her hazel eyes, darkened with desire, flickered up to his, filled with wicked delight.

Earlier, when she said she wanted to take him into her mouth again, Alexander hesitated. Then, a wicked challenge had entered his gaze, and he sensed the minx wanted to wrest the careful way he had been loving her. She wanted to pleasure him, to feel him lose control.

By God, she was stunning—a creature of sin and innocence, surrender and demand. They had been locked in the library for almost two hours, the revelry outside muted. He had already taken her twice—once on the thick carpeted floor and once on the chaise flushed against the wall.

He had never been this desperate with a lover before...or this careful as he minded her sensibilities. The dual needs were wrecking him. He wanted to rip down the wall and be free to drown himself in her softness, her taste, and the wild, desperate way she responded to him.

Penny released his cock with a wet sound, her breath coming in shallow pants. He tangled his fingers in her tousled black locks, tugging her up to him, slamming his mouth over hers in a kiss that was far rougher than before, his control fraying just a little bit more. She melted into him, her arms winding around his neck, pressing her soft body against his.

With a growl, he lifted her, hauling her into his arms, and stumbled toward the large oak desk by the window. Penny gasped as he sat her atop it, then dragged her onto his lap, impaling her halfway on his cock in one smooth thrust.

A sharp cry tore from her lips, swallowed by his kiss. She was wet, her inner folds swollen from her earlier orgasms and so damn tight that he almost climaxed instantly. He groaned into her mouth, gripping her hips, bracing his feet against the floor as he worked through her tightness until he was buried to the hilt.

"Alexander," she whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"I know, sweetheart," he rasped, brushing his lips against the curve of her jaw, down to her throat. "I know your sweet little pussy is sore, but it also feels good."

God, he should have restrained the filthy way he spoke, but it was as if the control he wanted to exercise melted once he touched her.

" Yes ," she moaned.

It was as if he could not get enough, as if some primal force inside him needed to claim her again and again. But he forced himself to slow, to temper his greed, because she was his now, and they would have a lifetime for him to slowly introduce her to every wicked, delightful pleasure he had ever imagined. And if he ever thought it was too much, he would deny himself the desire.

Because he would marry this woman.

His hands gripped her hips, guiding her to rock onto his cock, and she did, moving with that sensual, instinctive grace that had driven him mad since the first moment he'd laid eyes on her. She wrenched her mouth from his, her breath ragged as she buried her face in his neck. Her teeth scraped lightly over his skin, and he nearly lost himself right then.

Over and over, he drove into her, and Penny met him, her body arching, taking him deeper, her moans turning softer, more broken, more desperate. Alexander reached between them, found the tight knot of nerves between her thighs, and pressed his fingers against her clitoris, pinching lightly.

Penny shattered. She cried out, her entire body going taut, her inner muscles clenching around him as she came undone in his arms. Heat flooded his cock, bathing him in her pleasure. He groaned, tightening his grip on her hip, bracing his other hand on the desk as he thrust deeper, riding her through the aftershocks of her climax.

Her head fell back, her breath coming in gasping little sobs, her glorious black hair cascading over her shoulders. She was so fucking beautiful it stole his breath.

"You are..." He groaned, leaning forward, dragging his tongue over the delicate, sweat-dampened hollow of her throat. "So damn beautiful."

His gaze lifted—and collided with another.

The Marquess of Ambrose sat in the shadows of the library, watching. Possessiveness, dark and primal, curled through Alexander's gut. The thought of anyone seeing Penny like this—naked, panting, still trembling from her climax—filled him with a fury so sharp he stilled. He lifted her into his arms, still sheathed inside her, and carried her away from the desk. He found the chaise longue in the darker corner of the room and laid her down on the cushions.

"I should stop," he muttered against her lips.

But he didn't. Instead, he braced himself over her and thrust deep, chasing his own release. Penny clutched at his back, her nails raking his skin, her body arching to take him deeper.

"Alexander," she gasped, her voice breaking, her cries muffled against his shoulder.

The raw, clenching heat of her was too much. His entire body tightened, pleasure rolling through him in hot, violent waves as he buried himself inside her one last time, spilling his seed deep into her trembling body.

For a long moment, he held her, pressing his forehead against hers as he caught his breath. Her arms were still locked around his neck, her body soft and warm beneath him.

"Are you well?" he murmured.

She gave a weak, breathless laugh. "I cannot feel my legs."

Smirking, Alexander pressed a lingering kiss to her temple before reluctantly pulling from her body. Penny let out a small, protesting sound at the loss, and something inside him clenched at how much he wanted to keep her, to hold her like this every night.

Instead, he reached for his handkerchief and gently cleaned her, his touch careful. She watched him through dark-lashed eyes, and her lips parted, her expression still hazy from pleasure.

Then he helped her sit up and began gathering her discarded gown.

She blinked at him, still dazed. "You're rather skilled at dressing a woman."

He arched a brow, tugging the bodice up over her breasts. "I was once a libertine, sweetheart."

She laughed, soft and teasing, her cheeks pink. "Once?"

He met her gaze, something fierce and unguarded flashing in his storm-colored eyes. "Since you, I want no other."

Penny snorted but blushed, unable to hide the soft pleasure in her gaze.

Alexander smiled, slow and devastating, before cupping her cheek and pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.

"I will escort you home," Alexander murmured against her mouth.

"No." She reached up, touching her cheek, ensuring her mask was still in place. "I... I bribed the young coachman with my entire monthly allowance to bring me here. It would be too scandalous for you even to accompany me to the carriage door. Allow us to part here... please, Alexander."

"Go. I will see you tomorrow."

A peculiar look flickered in her eyes—wistful, almost resigned—and he frowned. She hesitated, her fingers curling into the lapel of his coat. Then she nodded, stepping back. Gathering her skirts, she moved toward the door, her slippered feet nearly silent against the carpet. At the threshold, she paused and turned, looking back at him for a heartbeat longer.

Then she vanished into the shadows.

Alexander exhaled harshly, running a hand through his tousled hair, dragging his palm over his jaw. He turned slowly, already sensing the presence in the room behind him.

Oliver, the Marquess of Ambrose, rose from the shadows with a half-full glass of whisky in hand, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well," he drawled lazily. "That was quite the performance. Very stirring. I admit, I almost applauded."

Alexander said nothing. He crossed the room with unhurried grace and began dressing, his back turned as he pulled on his shirt and shrugged into his coat. Modesty was a wasted effort between them; they had once shared a lover in Vienna and laughed about it afterward. Their friendship was forged in fire, scandal, and the kind of trust only born through reckless camaraderie.

Oliver sipped his drink. "You do realize her family intends to marry her to the Duke of Merrick?"

Alexander went still.

"They'll have to step over my dead body first," he said tightly, fastening his waistcoat with clipped efficiency.

"She's nineteen, Alex," Oliver reminded him quietly. "You know the law. A young lady cannot marry without her parents' permission until she is one and twenty."

Alexander's jaw clenched. He reached for his cravat, wound it around his throat with methodical precision, and then faced his friend.

"I will speak to her father. There must be a misunderstanding. It's been clear—even to the bloody gossip rags—that I've been courting her."

Oliver raised a brow, his expression somewhere between admiration and regret. "And yet they're willing to trade her to Merrick for security. He's older, wealthier, and titled. He has honor, a powerful voice in parliament and is respected among his peers. You're all those things... except wealthy."

Alexander accepted the glass his friend poured and knocked it back in one swallow. "Wealth can be made. But no amount of it would convince me to give her up."

"You're in deeper than I thought."

Alexander said nothing.

Oliver sighed. "She's soft and sweet. Gentle. I don't see how that kind of girl could endure being yours. Not entirely."

Alexander set the empty glass aside. "Then you do not know her as I do."

There was no anger in his voice, just quiet certainty. Oliver nodded slowly, reading between the lines. "And what if she refuses you? What if her family forbids it?"

"I believe in the emotions I see in her gaze when she looks at me."

He stepped away from the hearth, his expression deliberately veiled and unreadable.

"Where are you going?" Oliver asked behind him.

"To think."

The door shut behind him with a decisive click . Outside, the wind swept low through the streets of Mayfair, but Alexander felt nothing of it. He strode into the night like a man with a single aim, his cane tapping with a deliberate rhythm against the cobblestones.

He would speak with her father and make his offer. Alexander would not walk away from Penny when she might be carrying his child.

The library of Belmont House was a stately chamber of dark wood and fine leather, masculine in both design and mood. Alexander sat in one of the worn armchairs before the large mahogany desk, coolly composed, his gloved hands resting on his knee. The fire crackled behind the grate, its warmth not easing the tension coiling in his gut.

"I've come," he said evenly, "to formally request permission to court your daughter. My intentions are honorable. I wish to make Lady Penelope my countess."

The Marquess of Belmont exhaled, rising with deliberate care. "Have a drink, Lord Bainbridge."

He turned to a nearby cabinet, poured two fingers of fine Scotch into crystal tumblers, and returned to hand Alexander one. He accepted it with a slight head incline, though his focus never left the older man's face. The marquess settled into the chair behind his desk with the measured calm of a man about to deliver a killing blow. He opened a drawer and withdrew a parchment sealed with wax. With unhurried grace, he broke the seal and laid the sheet flat on the desk, turning it so that Alexander could read it.

Alexander's fingers tightened around the glass.

A betrothal agreement.

His eyes scanned the names at the top—Lady Penelope Eleanor Belmont and His Grace, the Duke of Merrick.

The breath locked in his chest.

"Does your daughter agree to this?" he asked quietly, the fury in his voice barely contained.

The marquess didn't blink. "I have decided for her. She is still two years from her majority. Still childish, willful, and impulsive."

"Lady Penny is a young woman with a heart and an inquisitive and brilliant mind."

"She is my daughter," the marquess snapped. "And the duke is a far better match. Do not presume to lecture me about my daughter."

Alexander rose slowly, the paper left untouched. "He is old enough to be her father. He will never know her. He will never cherish her. Not like I do."

The marquess said nothing at first, merely studied him. Then, with a dispassionate motion, he slid another sheet of paper across the desk.

Alexander didn't need to look—but he did. His stomach twisted into knots.

It was a financial report. A brutal one.

His debts. His assets. His unstable investments. The state of the Bainbridge holdings was laid bare.

"You see, Lord Bainbridge," the marquess said coolly, "you are not good enough for my daughter."

"I may not be rich," Alexander said, "but I will keep her clothed and sheltered as a countess should be. I'll damn well work the land myself if I must."

The marquess's smile was cold. "To marry my daughter, you will need to offer a sum of fifty thousand pounds. And you must show connections to secure loans, open credit, build investment. Without that... you are unworthy."

Alexander's hand curled into a fist, the whiskey in his other glass forgotten. "And if she carries my child?"

The marquess stilled.

His chair scraped loudly as he surged to his feet. "Then that child will belong to the Duke."

Something primal flared in Alexander's chest. He held the man's gaze a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with quiet, lethal grace, he downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass back on the desk. "Good day, my lord."

He turned, walked to the door and wrenched it open. Penny spilled forward.

She gasped softly, caught, her cheeks flushed with the unmistakable hue of shame.

"Penelope," her father said sharply. "Have you been eavesdropping?"

She didn't answer.

The marquess's eyes narrowed to slits. "Is there a possibility you might be with child for this bounder?"

Alexander's breath caught.

Penny flinched, and her eyes widened. And then, as if a mask dropped into place, her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and she looked at him with a chilling calm.

"My lord," she said coolly, "I have already informed you that I will not marry you. My regard lies with the Duke of Merrick."

Alexander stared at her. The words pierced deeper than any blade. "Penny—" he began.

She cut him off, her voice crystalline and cutting. "It is Lady Penelope, my lord. Kindly do not presume a familiarity or attachment that does not exist."

He froze. She turned to her father, curtsied with elegant grace, then glided from the room without a single tremor betraying her composure.

Only Alexander knew. Only he knew how she had clung to him with tears on her cheeks... how she had wept his name as she shattered around him. He thought of Penny's breathy moans, the way she clung to him, the trembling of her voice as she whispered his name, the feel of her heat closing around him as he took her virginity just hours ago.

Now she left him like a stranger.

And it gutted him.

He did not speak.

Did not look at the marquess.

Alexander followed Penny's path and left Belmont House behind, the fury in his chest like a storm threatening to break.