Page 22 of My Lord Rogue
The card game, the flirtation. Teddy’s foot slipping between her legs beneath the table, the slow escalation as he brushed his instep against her stocking, then higher, until she could barely hold her cards steady. The way he had looked at her when she threatened, in a low whisper, to ruin him on the next hand. The way he had smiled, lazy and triumphant, knowing she would not—could not—follow through.
And later, in the hallway, the brief violence of his hand at her waist, when his breath found the tender space behind her ear, sending a tremor through her entire frame. The words he had not spoken, the words she would have permitted—wanted—if only she were brave enough.
She let her knees draw up tighter, felt the silk stretch across her hips, the throb at her temple now mirrored by a deeper pulse between her legs.
She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing.
But nothing had never been Theo’s specialty.
Instead, she catalogued every sensation: the brush of her own hair against her breast, the heat pooling low in her belly, the tingling ghost of Teddy’s foot beneath the table, his mouth at her neck, the grip of his hand on her hip, the reckless, hungry way he had looked at her—as if he would devour her, if only she gave the word.
Her body ached with memory, and with something more, a hunger that was not only physical, but existential. The sense that she had, at last, become real, and that the price of reality was desire, sharp and ceaseless as a thorn.
She rolled onto her back, stared up at the canopy, let her hand drift to where the locket normally lay, between her breasts. Its absence filled her with guilt, but somewhere in the back of her thoughts it became permission.
She exhaled, slow and deliberate, and let her body sink into the bed. She waited for sleep, eyes open in the dark, listening to her own pulse.
It was not long before her hand began to move again, almost of its own accord. In the shadow-world of her mind, the scene in the hallway played out differently.
This time, when Teddy closed the distance, he did not ask permission. His hands found her waist and pulled her to him, and his mouth—hungry, insistent—came down on hers. She tasted brandy and want, the velvet scrape of his tongue at the seam of her lips, and when she opened for him, the kiss was a claim, a devastation.
His hands slid upward, tracing the line of her ribs, and found the curve of her breast beneath the fine batiste of her gown. He cupped it, gently at first, then with the pressure of a man who knew the value of what he held. She felt the rasp of his palm, the heat of his skin even through the fabric, and a shiver shot through her that left her gasping.
In the bed, her own hand mirrored his imagined touch, drifting down from her throat to the rise of her breast. Her nipple, already taut beneath the silk, strained into the cup of her palm, and she pressed there, savoring the jolt of sensation. A low, involuntary noise escaped her lips, a whimper, barely more than a breath, but enough to shatter the pretense of self-control.
He had her pressed against the wall now, one knee wedged between her thighs, forcing her open. His mouth trailed from her lips to her jaw, her ear, the vulnerable hollow at the side of her neck. He bit there, softly, then soothed the mark with his tongue. She arched into him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, the ridges of bone beneath his shirt. She wanted—God, how she wanted—to feel his skin against hers, the feverish heat of him, the impossible, solid weight.
Her hand moved again, this time down her belly, fingers splaying across the tautness of flesh, the silk nightgown rucked up to her hips. The sheets were cool, but her skin burned. She parted her knees, just enough, and let her palm settle between her thighs.
The touch startled her, as if it were not her own. She traced the outline of herself, first tentative, then bolder, finding the slickness there, the proof of her desire. The motion was half-familiar, half-strange—she had done this before, of course, in the long loneliness after Charles, but never with this urgency, this sense of imminent dissolution.
She let her mind run wild.
In the fantasy, Teddy tore at her gown, the fabric giving way easily. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth scraping at her collarbone. He found her breast again, this time without the barrier of fabric, and took the nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to bruise. The sensation shot straight to the center of her, and her hips rocked forward, grinding against his thigh.
In the bed, she pinched her nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it until the pain crested and gave way to pleasure. Her other hand moved with a rhythm she had not intended, pressing and circling, chasing the pulse that thudded in time with her heart.
Her dream Teddy lifted her, braced her against the wall, his hands beneath her thighs, holding her open for him. He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue invading, possessing, promising things she had never dared to ask for. He pressed his hand between her legs, found the wetness there, and groaned—a sound of pure, animal satisfaction. He stroked her, slow at first, then harder, faster, his fingers relentless, his mouth at her ear whispering filth and praise in equal measure.
She matched the pace, her own fingers slick and sure, circling and pressing, building the tension until it was almost unbearable.
She wanted him inside her. She wanted to be filled, claimed, made new. The thought alone was enough to send her over.
When the release came, it was a silent, shuddering thing, more shock than sound, more surrender than victory. She bit down on the edge of her pillow, afraid she might cry out, afraid she might never stop. Her hips bucked, her thighs clamped tight around her hand, the sheets twisted and damp beneath her.
The pleasure crashed over her in waves, each one sharper, sweeter, more annihilating than the last. She rode them, eyes squeezed shut, the world reduced to the thundering of her heart and the afterglow of sensation rippling through every nerve.
When it was over, she lay still, panting, the nightgown rucked up, her body limp and spent.
She stared at the canopy above, not thinking, not feeling, only being. After a time, she drew the covers up and rolled to her side, curling into herself, letting the last shivers of pleasure fade into exhaustion.
CHAPTER TEN
The hour was well past two, according to the small clock on the nightstand. Theo lay in her unfamiliar guest bed, limbs hot and twitching under the stifling weight of the counterpane. She’d slept briefly, but awakened, and now her mind would not rest. Every time she closed her eyes, the corridors of her memory twisted open, and Teddy waited in each of them, smiling, beckoning, hand reaching for her with the certainty of possession.
The house slept around her, creaking and settling, its nocturnal silence thick and slow as syrup. The rest of the guests would be insensible, scattered in their bedrooms, dreaming in peace or drooling into their pillows. But for her, there was no oblivion.
When at last she gave up on sleep, she did so with a sudden, ferocious energy—kicking off the covers and sliding her bare feet into the waiting slippers, not bothering with a candle as she drew on her dressing gown. She drifted through the hall like a wraith, the hem of her wrapper whispering on the stone floor, her hands folded tight across her middle.