Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sara MacLean (19)

The had vowed not to fall victim to his pretty words and his alluring promises.

But when he had confessed his past, she had been won again. Even as she berated herself for believing him, she could not stop herself from wanting to trust him again—to believe in him. And then he had kissed her, and her mix of emotion was distilled into a single, powerful thought.

She wanted this man in her world.

The words, combined with the irresistible caress, unlocked something deep inside her, the place where her most secret desires had been ferreted away never to be seen—never to be shared. But now, here was this man who seemed able to tear down her carefully erected defenses with a single word. A single touch.

She sighed against his lips and he deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with a rough tenderness that sent a current of pleasure through her. His kisses came harder and deeper, each one headier than the last, punctuated by long, lush pauses during which he whispered her name like a benediction. She clutched his arms, strong and warm beneath his shirtsleeves, and held on to him—her rock in a storm of sensation.

His hands were everywhere, stroking across her shoulders, down her arms, finally lifting her until she had no choice but to wrap herself around him. He clasped her to him for a long moment, burying his face in her neck and making small, unbearable circles against the soft skin there with his tongue. Isabel cried out at the pleasure of the caress, and he lifted his head, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light.

He set his forehead to hers. “Isabel, you should tell me to leave.”

Her eyes widened at the words. “Why?”

“Because if you do not, I am going to stay.”

The words, low and graveled with emotion, sent pleasure pooling deep within her. When she replied, she did not recognize the woman who spoke. “And if I say I want you to stay?”

He did not reply for a long moment, and she was mortified to think that she might have said the wrong thing. He took a single long step, and set her on the table by the door. He cupped her face in his large, strong hands and set his lips to hers again, robbing her of thought and breath in one long, lovely kiss.

When he lifted his head, they were both breathing hard. “If you want me to stay, it would take an army to get me to leave.”

Isabel raised her hands then, plunging her fingers through his sable locks, drawing him down for another kiss. Before their lips touched, she said one word, more breath than sound. “Stay.”

He growled his response, plundering her mouth as he tugged her shirt free of her breeches and set his hands to the warm, soft skin beneath. Not breaking their kiss, he stroked upward, pulling the linen with him until, finally, she lifted her arms above her head and let him remove the garment from her.

Immediately shy, Isabel covered herself.

“No,” he whispered, dropping several soft, distracting kisses on her lips. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.” His hands traced down her arms, their fingers entwining as he lifted her hands away from her breasts. “Tonight, they are mine. To do with as I please.”

He set his lips to one of them, and all nervousness was gone—lost to pleasure. He closed his mouth around the tip of one breast, tugging, licking, teasing until she cried out and arched toward him, desperate for more of him. At the movement, he clasped her thighs in his hands and tugged, pulling her flush against him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted her up to gain better access and suckle harder.

She writhed at the movement, rubbing against him, his hardness sending a wave of feeling straight to the core of her. He growled his pleasure, and she pressed against him, rocking her hips once, twice, before he tore his mouth from her breast with a gasp. Meeting her gaze, he saw the feminine power there, and he took her lips in a bold, welcome kiss before trailing his mouth across her cheek and finally taking the lobe of one ear between his teeth and biting gently. “Minx.”

Isabel whispered his name, half plea, half protest, and the sound spurred him on. She felt the shift in him … the change from man to something more primitive—and when he lifted her again, she knew precisely where they were headed.

He followed her down onto the bed, capturing her mouth once more in a desperate, rugged kiss—a lavish caress that left only passion in its wake.

His hands were free to roam her body, and he stroked down her torso, smoothing the heated flesh there until he reached the edge of her breeches, the palm of one hand flatting against the curve of her stomach. He stayed his movement then, and all feeling—all heat and touch and trembling pleasure—pooled there.

He lifted his head, waiting for her eyes to open and meet his, and when they did, she found him watching her intently, a wicked gleam in his gaze. “I have never had the pleasure of removing breeches from a lover.”

Lover. The word echoed between them, a dark promise, and Isabel was struck with the intimate knowledge that, after tonight, that was what she would be. His lover.

His hand hovered, waiting for her permission.

“I think it is time,” she whispered, timid and bold all at once, and it was all the freedom that he needed. Within seconds, she was naked beneath him, eyes closed against the truth of the moment, embarrassed, nervous, self-conscious.

“Isabel, open your eyes.”

She shook her head. “I cannot.”

“You can, darling. Look at me.”

She took a deep, shaking breath and peeked up at him, aware of her position, bare to his sight, to his touch. She moved one hand, covering the thatch of curls between her legs, unable to remain entirely bare for him. His blue eyes flamed at the movement. “No, love, don’t hide from me.”

“I—I must.”

He gave her a half smile. “You are so beautiful … and you don’t even know it.”

The words warmed her cheeks. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are.” He set one finger to her lips. “Here”—he trailed it down her neck to the tip of one breast—“and here”—down over the curve of her belly—“and here”—to the back of the hand that protected the very heart of her. “And here, Isabel … here you make me ache.”

The words sent pleasure humming through her. No one had ever called her beautiful. And now, here, in the quiet cocoon of this place where she had slept for her entire life, this man was showing her precisely how beautiful she was. “I should like to see you,” she said, softly. “I think you might be very beautiful yourself.”

His smile widened. “I do not think that is quite the word, love. But if you would like to see … far be it from me to deny you your whim.” She giggled at the words and he kissed her swiftly. “I like to hear you laugh. I do not hear it enough.” He rolled to his back then, stacking his hands beneath his head. “All right, beauty. I am yours for the taking.”

Her eyes widened in shock at the words, as she considered him next to her, unmoving, a gleam in his eyes, waiting for her. “I … I couldn’t.”

He laughed, and the low rumble shook the bed beneath her. “I assure you, Isabel. You can.”

She rolled onto one side, lifting one hand to touch him, but stopping just before she did. “I—I don’t know where.”

The laugh turned to a groan. “Anywhere, love. Anywhere is better than the torture of nowhere.”

She settled her hand to his chest, the broad, firm mass of him overwhelming her. He seemed to sense it, and he moved one hand to capture hers and guide it, stroking over his chest and down the flat planes of his stomach to the place where his shirt tucked into his breeches. She eyed his waistband, wondering what she should do.

“We shall only do what feels good, Isabel. What feels right.” Something in his words calmed her, made her want to press on. “What do you want? ”

She met his eyes, blue and serious. “You always ask me that.”

“I want to know,” he said simply. “I want only to give you that which you desire.”

I want you. She held the words back.

“I want to see you without a shirt.”

Without words, he sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, and sent it sailing across the room.

Isabel swallowed.

He was perfect. He was like one of her statues.

She sat up, too, then, nervous again. “I—I don’t think …”

He reached out, pulling her to straddle his lap. “Perhaps you should not think, beauty.” And then he kissed her again, and they went tumbling back onto the bed, and he let her have control. This time, it was she who took, her tongue and teeth and lips that led the way as they explored each other. When she pulled back to catch her breath, he moved her to sit up above him and said, his words more begging than demanding, “Take down your hair.”

She lifted her hands to do as he bid her, and he groaned, his hands and eyes raking over her. “You are a siren.”

She smiled, enjoying the way he seemed to be transfixed by her. “Am I?”

He met her gaze. “I am creating a monster.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, lowering herself until they were curtained by her auburn curls. She kissed him then, long and slow, letting her tongue stroke along his full bottom lip before she trailed her kisses down his neck and over the sloping planes of his chest. When she reached one flat nipple, she paused, lifting her eyes to his. He was watching her through heavy lids, and she could feel that he was holding his breath. “Does it feel as good for you as it does for me?”

He did not move. “Why don’t we find out?”

She set her lips to the spot, licking delicately before she closed her lips around him and repeated his earlier actions, scraping her teeth lightly across him before she sucked him into her mouth. He gasped, plunging his fingers into her hair and whispering her name. After long moments, he could no longer bear it and he lifted her from him. She looked to him and said, “Did you not enjoy it? ”

He laughed, breathless. “I enjoyed it too much, love.” He took her mouth again, and their tongues tangled in a long kiss before she placed both hands on his chest and leveraged herself above him. “I should like for you to remove your pants now.”

They were gone in seconds, and she gasped as he rolled her on the bed, settling himself between her long, slender legs and taking control once more. He kissed down her neck, stopping to scrape his teeth along her collarbone before he laved the spot with his tongue and sent her writhing against him. “Nick …” she whispered, “no …”

He stopped at the word, lifting his head to find her gaze. “What is it, beauty?”

“I want to touch you.”

He went utterly still, and for a moment, she thought he would deny the request.

“Please …” she added.

He laid his head down on her breast for a long moment, as if shoring up strength, and he rolled back over, allowing Isabel full access to his naked body. She traced her fingers down the planes of his torso, discovering him—the lean muscle, the warm skin, the place where a long raised scar wrapped around his right side. She paused there, stroking the spot, grateful that he had survived the attack that had left such a mark.

When her hands moved again, their aim was true. She tentatively stroked the long, firm length of him; he sucked in a deep breath and she paused, uncertain. “Is this …”

He groaned at the words, punctuated with a tentative squeeze of her hand. “Yes, Isabel.”

Feminine power coursed through her. “Show me.”

His eyes flashed, and he set one hand to hers and did as she asked. Watching their joint movement, he guided her, showing her just how to touch, just how to stroke, until both of them were breathing heavily. Finally, he stopped the motion, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “No more, beauty.”

“But I want …”

He gave a harsh laugh. “As do I, love. But there is nothing that will keep me from you tonight. And if I let you continue your sweet torture, this night will end all too soon.” He rolled over her again, settling between her legs, moving down her body, pressing soft, moist kisses across her torso before he paused at the opening to her and, with one finger, pressed deep inside her. “Ah,” he said, his voice dark and languid, “you are so wet here. Can you feel it?”

She bit her lip at the sensation of his fingers delicately stroking, caressing. He added a second finger to the first and, with his thumb, began to circle the spot at the very center of her, where all her pleasure had pooled. Isabel writhed on the bed, clutching the coverlet and biting her lip to keep from crying out. He did not stop the torture as he asked, “Is this what you want, beauty?”

“Yes …” The word came on a low moan.

“Here?” His thumb circled faster, pressed harder.

“Yes, please …”

"So polite. So passionate. My Voluptas.” He slowed the caress to an unbearable rhythm. “But that’s not everything you want, is it? ”

She opened her eyes, meeting the emotion in his. “I—”

“Tell me, Isabel. What is it that you really want? ”

“I want … I want you.”

“What part of me? ”

She blushed, pressing against him, urging him to go faster. “No, Nick …”

He grinned, wicked and wolfish. “Oh, yes, Isabel … what part of me.”

He stopped entirely then, his fingers high inside her, but unmoving, his thumb gone from the place where everything seemed to begin and end. She spread her legs, uncaring of what it might look like, of how it might seem. “Nick …” she cried, his name a plea and a protest.

“You have only to ask for it, Isabel.”

He blew a stream of cool air against the heat of her then, and she thought she might go mad from the torture. “Your mouth,” she whispered. “I want your mouth.”

“Good girl.” He was on her, his lips and tongue perfectly against her, caressing and licking in a lash of pleasure that robbed her of thought. Her fingers clenched in his hair as he worked her with fingers and tongue, and he growled his satisfaction against her. The rumbling sound brought with it the crest of feeling, a rolling wave of pleasure. She cried his name and he flickered across the peak of her sex, his mouth adoring her until she was gone, pressing against him, lifting her hips to meet his wicked, wonderful mouth, the pleasure rolling over her until she could do nothing but hold him to her, afraid to lose the one thing that was at the center of her world.

After she had returned to earth, he lifted his mouth from her and kissed his way up her body, stroking her breasts, playing with the tips of them until she sighed, then taking her mouth in another long, lush kiss. “You must never be afraid to ask for what you want, darling. Not with me.”

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I want the rest.”

The blue of his eyes darkened immediately at the words. “Are you sure? ”

She nodded. “Entirely. And you said all I had to do was ask.”

He shifted against her, and she could feel the hard, heavy length of him against her. She lifted against him, eager for the next part of this marvelous dance. He caught his breath, and she could tell he was trying to remain still. “Isabel—has anyone ever … spoken to you about … this? ”

She shook her head. “I have seen animals.”

He smiled, half grimace. “It is not quite the same …”

She pressed against him again. “Nick … please. I don’t care.” His scar had gone stark white, and she lifted one hand to smooth a finger along the mark, hoping to soothe the demons he was fighting. “I want it. I want you.”

“It will hurt, beauty. Just the first time. But I shall make it up to you.”

Her heart clenched at the words. He was worried about her.

And she knew, in that moment, that this man—so full of concern even in this moment when she could barely think of anything but the feel of him against her—had never meant her harm.

She smiled, running her fingers into his hair and pulling him down to kiss her. When they came apart, she whispered, “I trust you.”

And the words seemed to make everything right.

He lifted himself then, pushing just barely inside her, allowing her time to stretch, to accommodate him. She tilted her head, considering the sensation. “It is strange.”

He gave a hiss of laughter at the words. “It only gets stranger, darling. But we shall try for something more.”

He rocked against her, traveling slightly deeper each time, until she was sighing her pleasure with the movements. “That does not feel strange. That feels nice.”

“Just nice? ”

“Quite lovely.”

“Good.” He thrust deep, and she gasped, her eyes opening wide as he seated himself to the hilt. He stilled, holding himself above her, “Isabel? Are you …”

"Strange again,” she said, her voice tight, pained.

He loved this woman. The thought came clear and fast at the entirely wrong time for him to address it. But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was true. He brushed his lips across hers in a soft, reverent kiss.

“I shall make it better, beauty.”

He moved, pulling slowly out of her, and she grasped his arms at the movement. “Oh. Oh, that feels …”

He reversed his movement, returning to her. “Yes? “ “Nick,” she sighed.

“I love the way my name sounds on your lips.” He leaned down and suckled one nipple until she was panting with pleasure. He moved in earnest then, deep, smooth strokes that chased away her pain and left pure pleasure in their wake. When she lifted to meet his thrusts, he knew he had her. He read her movements, following where her body led, eager to help her find her pleasure.

“Say it again.” He began to thrust deeper, faster, and the tension that had been mounting became unbearable.

“Nick,” she whispered.

Finally, he reached down between them, placing his thumb against the rigid core of her; he stroked there once, twice. “Again.”

“Nick!” she cried out.

“I am here, love,” he said, capturing her gaze. “Look at me, Isabel.”

“I can’t … It is too much,” she panted. “Please! I don’t know …”

He lowered his mouth to her ear, speaking softly there. “I know. Take it. I shall catch you when you fall.”

And she did as he told her, falling over the edge, convulsing around him, milking him with a heady, nearly unbearable rhythm. She cried out his name again, and he did catch her, finding his own pleasure only once she had fully experienced her own. He unraveled above her, thrusting a final time before he collapsed to her chest, their harsh breathing the only sound in the still, dark room.

He lay there for a long moment, trying to focus, to regain the power of thought before he stirred, lifting his weight from her even as she tempted him to stay with the little protest that she offered at the loss of him. Propping himself on one elbow next to her, he ran his hands over her flushed skin. She shivered and curled into his warmth.

He felt her lips curve against his chest in a smile and he pulled back to meet her gaze. “What is it?”

“It was not strange in the end.”

He grinned. “No?”

“No.”

“What was it, then?”

She tilted her head, considering the question. “I think it was rather remarkable.”

He kissed her, quick and deep. When he lifted his head, he said, “It was that.”

She drifted to sleep in the long moments that followed, and he watched as she slumbered, considering this woman who was so strong and soft and beautiful. Here was a woman who lived. She was filled with passion and pride, and she would take nothing but what she believed was right and fair. He reflected on the events of the day—the way she had so vehemently agreed to marry him…

The way she had so violently recoiled when he had proven to be different than what she had first thought.

She curled against him, sighing in her sleep, and the sound punctuated his shame. She had come to believe in him, to have faith in him and the life that he was promising her, and he had robbed her of her sense of certainty. And, while her body clearly trusted him, it would take time to win back her mind.

He would not stop until he had done just that.

He loved her.

It was in that moment, with the second admission of his feelings, that he realized the full force of the words. And the terror that came with them.

“Isabel! Isabel, wake up!”

Isabel shot straight up in bed at the pounding on the door to her bedchamber. The sound was disorienting, and for a fleeting moment, she had no knowledge of where she was or what was happening.

When the events of the prior evening came flooding back, she gasped, one hand flying to her lips to hold back the sound, and she searched the room for any sign of Nick.

He was gone, along with all evidence that he had ever been there. She noted that he had even moved her clothes, which had been discarded without thought, and draped them over a chair by the fireplace. The care with which he had covered his tracks made Isabel at once grateful and disappointed—grateful that he would take such steps to protect her reputation with the other residents of Townsend Park, and disappointed that he would so easily slip from her room without a backward glance.

As though he had done it many times before.

She scoffed at the thought. She did not care if he had done it a hundred times before. His habits were not her concern.

One hundred did seem a few too many times, however.

The knocking began again then, distracting her—thankfully—from her thoughts.

“Isabel!“

“Enter!”

Lara came bursting through the door at the command, breathless and disheveled. “You must dress!”

With a sigh, Isabel threw back the covers and got out of bed, heading for the wardrobe to fetch clothing. “I know that I have overslept, but it cannot be that late. What time is it?”

Lara had frozen in midstride across the room, her eyes wide as she watched Isabel.

Isabel turned back at the silence. “What is it?”

“Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

Isabel looked down at herself, immediately covering the pertinent parts as she willed herself not to blush … unsuccessfully. “I didn’t … that is … I …” She paused, irritated at her stammering search for a quick and reasonable answer. “I was hot,” she ended simply, grasping the closest gown and hurrying behind her dressing screen to avoid further embarrassment.

She could hear the disbelief in her cousin’s voice when she replied, “You were hot.”

“Precisely. It is nearly July, Lara.”

“In Yorkshire. At night.”

“Nevertheless,” Isabel said, willing Lara to accept the excuse. She peeked around the edge of the screen to find her cousin slowly looking around the room. She must distract her. “Lara.” The word gained the other woman’s attention. “Was there something you wanted to discuss? A reason you were hammering on my door, demanding that I wake and dress, perhaps?”

Lara’s eyes widened. “Yes!”

Isabel stepped out from behind the screen, tying a long belt on the midnight-blue mourning dress. “What is it?”

Lara pursed her lips. “You shan’t like it.”

Isabel stilled. Was it possible that Nick had left? He had said he was leaving last night … but that was before … well, before things had changed. “What is it?” she repeated, tentatively.

“We have a visitor.”

A feeling of dread settled deep within.

Everything was about to change.

“Who is it?”

Lara clasped her hands together tightly in front of her, hedging.

Densmore. The guardian was here. The house, the girls, James—their fate was in his hands now.

And Nick would leave. There was nothing to keep him here any longer. He was no longer needed for the marbles, or for anything else.

Except, all of a sudden, she seemed to need him quite desperately.

An ache started in her chest.

She would be alone once more.

“It’s Densmore,” she announced to the room, her voice emotionless.

“No.” Lara shook her head. “It’s the Duke of Leighton. He has come to fetch his sister.”