Page 19

“My body tells you what I want, sidan, ” he murmured beneath her ear. “But you, my Anne, are more mysterious. You have to tell me what feels good.”

“That.” She gave a tiny moan and leaned into the hand stroking her breast.

“And what else might feel good?”

She scrunched up her brows; he could feel the feathering of the tiny hairs as she pressed her forehead against his chest. He wondered if she could hear how hard his heart was pounding.

“You said … kissing.”

Ye gods, yes. He pushed her onto her back and pounced.

Her skin smelled of violets and tasted of cream as he kissed down her neck, along her collarbones, all the places his fingers had brushed.

Her breath grew fast as he moved downward.

He grappled a bit with the neckline of her shift—in the dark it took a moment to find the string—but then her breasts were free, both of them, and as delicious as he imagined.

He bit back a moan as he bent his mouth to her, instead enjoying her sharp intake of breath.

“Hewitt,” she squeaked.

He smiled. “Good?”

“Oh.” She threaded her fingers into his hair, pressing into his scalp. “ Oh. ”

He was so hard and ready for her he felt himself leaking from his tip.

Very likely he’d spend just from kissing her; it had been that long.

All to the good, as he meant for this to be about her.

Her ruination would be thorough and complete.

He lapped, nibbled, nuzzled her breasts as her breath turned to short pants, and then he pulled a nipple into his mouth.

She cried out.

He let go. “I hurt you?”

“No.” She shook her head, or he thought she did.

The lightning was sporadic, giving him brief flashes of illumination, enough to see her hair spread over his pillow in golden waves, her eyes wide and dazed.

Her breasts bare to his gaze, to his mouth.

He was quite sure she arched her back, lifting them toward him.

“It feels good,” he said smugly.

“Mmm.” Her fingers plucked at his neck, his shoulders, slightly tugging.

He dragged his tongue through the valley between her breasts. “Tell me what you want, sidan .”

She moaned. “M-more.”

“More what?” he teased, feeling wicked.

With a little mewl of determination she clamped her hands around his head and dragged his mouth back to her nipple. He laughed and dove in, tonguing the hard little nub, sucking on the peak, tugging it between his lips. Her hips lifted as she thrashed, moaning. So sensitive, his little Anne.

He brushed a hand down her thigh, and she clamped her legs together.

But she kept her hands anchored to his head as he adored one breast, then the other.

He brushed his palm up and down her thighs, then drifted his fingers above her apex, feeling the tuft of curls over her mound.

She pushed her breasts into his mouth, her back arching off the bed, her breath short pants.

He traced a finger along the crease between her thighs and she parted slightly, tentatively.

He was so hard and aching for her, but he wedged his cock between her hip and the bed, welcoming the friction.

She wasn’t ready for more. She loved him suckling her nipples, that was clear, and so he feasted.

All the while he stroked her thighs, letting his fingers come closer, closer to her core.

Then he slid his hand beneath her shift and stroked her bare skin.

Smooth skin, soft as a bolt of silk. His cock bucked, demanding.

“Do you like this, sidan ?” he whispered against her skin. Her nipple was puckered and hard as a pebble. “Do you want me to touch you here?” He touched the pad of his finger to her outside fold, the hair as smooth as her skin.

She bit her lip and nodded. “Y-yes.”

He wanted to roar again. Blood pounded through him. “Yes, what, cyw ?”

“Touch me,” she nearly sobbed. “P-please.”

He slid his finger against the tender skin, exploring, and she sucked in a breath, her fingers locking his head to her breast. He suckled with vigor, loving how she responded.

Her entrance was slick and wet, and he gritted his teeth against the need to plunge inside her.

Instead, he found her hood and the tiny nub of flesh beneath.

She clamped her thighs around his hand, but this time not in resistance. To hold him there.

There was a feisty, greedy girl inside that porcelain doll.

Hew grinned to himself and set to his task in earnest, tonguing her nipple while he swirled his finger against that tender place.

Soon her breath turned to short moans and her thighs tensed, quivering.

So responsive, his Anne, like plucking the strings of a harp and producing beautiful music.

She rose toward him and a soft mewl escaped her as her pleasure broke.

Her head fell back on the pillow and he felt the throb beneath his fingers as her climax pulsed through her.

She dug her hands into the feather tick, riding out the storm, and Hew wanted to howl again at the sight of the woman he’d satisfied.

Instead he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, to her neck, as she swam the current, then eventually drifted back to shore.

She opened her eyes, turning toward his face in the darkness.

“So that’s why,” she whispered.

He laughed. He’d never laughed in bed before with a woman.

“Am I ruined now?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he said. Because with any luck, after tasting real pleasure, she would want it again. With him.

She touched a finger to his chest, trailing it downward, over his shirt.

“But you didn’t—” The lightning flashed again, still raking the sky with an occasional glare, though the thunder had drawn off and the rain turned to a gentle patter.

Her gaze landed on his cock, straining from beneath his shirt, engorged and more than ready.

“What shall I do?” she whispered.

Ah, that thread of boldness. He liked that about her, too. She reached toward him, hesitant, and he caught her hand. If she touched him, he would lose control, and he couldn’t have that. Not now. Not here.

“Touch yourself,” he said gruffly.

“Wh-what?”

“Put your hand where mine was. Feel where I touched you.”

Eyes wide, she did, sliding her hand down her shift and between her legs. Her lips parted. He sat back, taking himself in hand.

“You can do that,” he said, his voice scratching, “whenever you want. For yourself.”

“I can?”

“Of course, you are welcome to come ask me to do it. Any time.”

She let her eyes flutter closed again, concentrating as she explored herself, and Hew stroked himself, hard and fast, watching her. This wouldn’t take long. Merely the sight of her was enough to send him over, but he wanted more of her.

“Put your finger in my mouth.”

“My—what?”

“I want to taste you,” he said with gritted teeth.

Still hesitant, eyes wide, she lifted her hand and slipped her finger into his mouth.

He tasted the faintest trace of her essence, violets and clove, and that was all he needed.

A groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into the cloth from his washstand, what felt like geysers spewing from him, molten silver.

He shuddered as his release went on and on, trying not to bite her finger.

She drew her hand back, watching as he mopped himself quickly, then threw the cloth onto the washstand. Then she frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“You said you were going to—” She swallowed hard, but raised her gaze to his. In the flash from the window, she looked puzzled. And vulnerable.

She pushed out the words. “You said you were going to … be inside me.”

His cock bobbed at the thought, spent but not finished. He chuckled and lay down on the bed, pulling her against him. “And some day, I will. But I think we’ve done enough for your first time.”

She sat up stiffly, scrambling her legs to the side as she tugged at the coverlet. “I need to be ruined.”

He drew the covers over both of them, bending his arm beneath his head. “Stay here, and you will be.”

“I—here?” She pulled the soft quilt up to her chin. She was so warm, nestled against him, and he loved that scent of hers, sweet as cake. “Doing what?”

“Sleeping,” he murmured. “’S’been weeks of hard travel, and I’m home now, and this bed is very soft.”

“I can’t marry Calvin,” she whispered into the dark.

He tucked his arm around her firmly, fighting a flash of jealous rage. “You won’t.”

She couldn’t. She was Hew’s. She’d come to him willingly, and while it wasn’t what he’d planned—and God knew what he would do with her—he meant to keep her. Whatever hellfire rained down because of it.

Hew woke with the dawn, as was his custom.

Outside his window, the sky was washed clean by the storm, a pearl-gray expanse skimming the unfurling green of the hills.

The sweet, piping trill of the thrush spilled from a nearby tree, with the countering chirp of a long-tailed tit in response.

Birds at his window. Green hills. The scent of the lime trees flowering in the garden.

How strange, after the months and years of foreign lands, including a year in the desert.

And how familiar, calling up a life he’d thought lost to him.

Anne Sutton lay tucked up beside him, her face turned toward him on her pillow, one hand slipped beneath her cheek.

Her soft, even breath was sweeter than any birdsong.

She was proof that last night had been real.

Touching her. Kissing her. Feeling her arch beneath his hand in the pinnacle of pleasure.

No, she would not be marrying Calvin.

A slight clang and rustle brought his gaze to the door.

A young girl entered, a child, really, struggling with a heavy pitcher of water.

She averted her eyes as she hurried to the washstand and poured her burden into the bowl.

Hew hoped she wouldn’t take up the cloth he’d tossed there; he didn’t want a child handling the crumpled linen he’d used to catch his seed.

The most potent release he could remember having in years, if ever.

Because he had this woman within reach. Hew leaned back on his pillow and curved an arm around Anne.

The little maid turned, her eyes landing on the bed, and gave a frightened squeak. She looked at Anne, at Hew, who put a finger to his lips.

She ran out of the room as fast as she could go.

Hew had time to slide from the bed and don his breeches, then slide back in beside Anne’s warmth before the silence of the house broke. He would not be having this discussion with bare knees. Anne stirred with a sleepy murmur, hammering the last nail on his certainty.

His gun was loaded, primed, and sighted. He was ready.

Footsteps first, pounding along the floorboards. That couldn’t be his mother, who had trained herself to glide like a lady. But that was his mother’s voice, raised in a querulous scold. She yanked open Hew’s door, barreled inside, saw the figures on the bed, and stopped as if yanked by a harness.

The look on her face was—well, Hew had seen expressions of horror before. Not often directed at him, but it had happened.

“She’s here ,” his mother shrieked.

Anne bolted upright, clutching the bedcovers to her chest and looking about wildly. She looked exactly like Snow White woken from her magic sleep, save a bit panicked.

“What—where—Hewitt,” she said faintly. “And, er, Lady Vaughn.”

“You didn’t.” His mother’s nostrils flared. Actually flared. She stared him down. “Hewitt. You couldn’t .”

“I did,” Hew confirmed. He tensed his arm around Anne, but he knew not to show any other sign of weakness.

Anne’s mouth moved, but speech escaped her. Her face was as pale as the linens on his bed. A huge rush of tenderness, of protectiveness, overtook him. She’d wanted to be ruined, but she hadn’t thought it through, not fully. She hadn’t imagined this part of it.

“Mother,” Hew said, “before this discussion goes any further, let me make one thing clear. Anne isn’t marrying Calvin.” He waited until his mother’s gaze swung to him, so he could be certain she comprehended.

“Anne is marrying me.”