Nineteen
If there’d been any doubt in Yvette’s mind that Jeremy wanted her in his bed, it was laid to rest. His eyes smoldered with an unholy heat that made her yearn and burn and want things she’d never dreamed she could have.
She’d expected to feel shy in front of him, even embarrassed. But what woman in her right mind could feel ashamed when the man whose touch she craved was looking at her like that?
And sporting such a large bulge in his trousers. She’d heard it was considered good for a man to be . . . prominent there. Though she didn’t understand why, she was certainly willing to find out.
“I had it wrong,” he said in a low growl, his gaze eating her alive. “You’re not Juno—you’re Circe, the witch who turns men into beasts.”
Circe, the seductress. Yvette rather liked that.
Trying out her seduction skills, she cast him what she hoped was an alluring smile. “Are you turning into a beast?”
“See for yourself.” Pushing away from the door, he unbuttoned his shirt and dragged it off. As he went to work on his trouser buttons, she let her eyes feast on the glory of his bare chest.
As with every other aspect of his appearance, it would put a Greek god’s to shame. It was chiseled and broad, with a dusting of dark blond hair that tempted her gaze lower to where his lean stomach looked firm enough to sustain a pile of bricks, and his hips . . .
Well. No woman in her right mind would complain about that man’s hips.
Then he slid off his trousers and drawers in one fluid motion, and her every sense went on high alert.
Oh my word.
The rod of flesh rising from a bed of bronze curls was monstrous. No wonder the slang dictionaries jocularly called it a “yard”; it was massive. She couldn’t imagine taking it inside her, no matter how long it actually measured.
Fighting for calm, she said, “I assume that sculptors are terrible students of anatomy.”
“What?” he asked, clearly startled.
“On statues, the men’s privates are . . . well . . . small and demure.”
“Demure.” He uttered a choked laugh. “That’s because the men aren’t aroused, sweetheart. An aroused man looks very different from a man with his prick at rest.”
Prick. Such a vulgar word. Even Grose’s entry for it spelled it with dashes.
“Your . . . er . . .”
“Prick,” he supplied in a coarse voice. “Surely that shows up in your cant dictionaries. You can’t even say the word, can you?”
He was daring her, and she never backed away from a dare. “Of course I can say it.” She tore her gaze from its impressive size to look him in the eye. “Your prick is clearly not at rest.”
Somehow, just speaking the naughty word aloud excited her, made her want to be wicked and wanton and all the things a lady should never be.
As if he could tell, his face grew shadowed, and he said, with a hitch in his voice, “Come here, Circe. I’m eager to feel your hands on my prick.”
She moved closer. “I can see how eager you are.”
Both of his eyebrows shot high. “Clearly you spent entirely too much time at the brothel the other night.”
“I didn’t spend enough, or I’d know where exactly to put my hands.”
Fire leapt in his features. “Anywhere you damned well please. Because I intend to do the same.”
But when he reached for her, she stepped back. “Not yet. You’ve had several chances to caress me already, and I’ve had none, so I need a few moments to explore before—”
“I start mauling you?” he finished, his guttural tone thrumming her senses.
“You start turning me into mush. You owe me that.”
Some unreadable emotion gleamed in the gaze that bore into hers. “I suppose I do.” He let his arms fall to his sides. “Go ahead then, if you feel you have to . . . have to . . .”
He stuttered to a halt as she put her hands on his chest, eager to touch, stroke . . . enjoy. He was so firm, so supple. So deliciously hers. She thumbed the flat nipples, echoes of her own, and was delighted by his sharp, indrawn breath. It encouraged her to investigate further, to sweep her fingers over his flexing muscles, to slide her hands over his abdomen.
“Yes,” he hissed, “lower. Touch my prick, damn it.”
The harsh command made something carnal uncurl in her belly. Any other man telling her what to do would have sparked her ire, but this was Jeremy. Everything he said or did seemed to arouse her.
She closed her hand about his jutting flesh.
“Oh, God,” he breathed, then barked, “Grip it tight. Stroke it up and down.” When she did as he bade, he growled, “Like that, yes.” Then he caught her about the waist. “I’ve waited long enough for my turn.”
That was all the warning she got before he slid a hand between her thighs. She let out a squeak of surprise, then a moan as his fingers delved through her damp curls to find the tight kernel of flesh that was so eager for his caress. And when he began to rub it, deftly, roughly, she shuddered with the thrill of it.
Oh my Lord. He did that quite well. It was so sensual, so . . . oh, heavenly day!
“God, you feel like silk,” he said, as if the words were torn from him. “I can never show in a painting how something feels. I’d give anything to capture the slick velvet of your skin. Nothing is as soft as you are here.”
Breathing heavily now, she gave his prick a long, sensuous pull. “And nothing is as hard as you are here.”
Heat flared in his face. “Not for long, if you keep doing that.”
Before she could wonder what he meant he was pulling her toward the bed, where he tumbled her down upon it with little ceremony. As she rolled onto her back, he stretched out beside her and threw one leg over hers as if to trap her.
He braced himself up on one elbow, his eyes raking her body shamelessly. “You would drive a man into Bedlam.” He cupped a breast, then pinched the nipple erect. “These lovelies of yours make me insane.”
The compliment made her arch them up toward him, which had him sliding down to take them in his mouth in turn. As he sucked and teased, she drank up every sensation his lashing tongue sent through her body. Who was being driven to Bedlam now?
He smoothed his hand down her abdomen, past her navel, and then settled it between her thighs. Craving a firmer touch, she squirmed against it. But when he thrust a finger deep inside her it startled her, and instinctively she jerked her legs together.
He withdrew his finger at once and lifted his head from her breasts. “Having second thoughts, are you?”
Triumph sounded in his voice. But why? Then it dawned on her. The devil was deliberately trying to demonstrate how “selfish” he was.
She wouldn’t let him get away with that. “No second thoughts.” Forcing herself to relax, she let her legs fall open. “Just taken by surprise.”
He stared at her. “You really are a wanton, aren’t you?”
If he’d intended to wound her with the words, he shouldn’t have said them in such a husky voice. Determined to make her point, she seized his rampant prick. “And you really are a scoundrel. What of it?”
With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, though he didn’t pull his prick from her hand. “Damn it, Yvette, you know this is wrong.”
She took that for an admission of what he’d been trying to do. “It doesn’t feel wrong to me.” She drew his hand back to the spot between her legs that ached for him. “It feels marvelous, actually.”
His eyes shot open, hot and hungry. “I give up.” This time when he slid his finger inside her, it was slow and smooth and utterly delicious. “You win.”
“Oh?” She shimmied beneath the clever stroking of his finger. “What do I . . . win?”
“Probably a lifetime of misery.” He nipped her earlobe. “But I don’t care anymore. I need to be inside you . . . I need . . . I need . . .”
“I know.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. “So do I.”
He uttered a choked laugh. And that’s when the seduction truly began. His hands were all over her; her mouth was all over him. She wanted to taste him, smell him, absorb him into her skin. She’d never imagined it could be like this with a man, so profound, so exhilarating.
She no longer even cared if he married her. She just wanted to experience him in all his glory. Just once.
Then, with a shock, she realized that his . . . prick . . . was pressing inside her. Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he drew back with a hooded expression. “I can stop if you want. Even now.”
She stared into his eyes and saw beneath the carefully manufactured exterior to the suffering man. The one who didn’t believe he had anything to offer. She knew better.
Brushing her lips over his, she whispered, “Don’t stop. Never stop.”
And with a groan of pure relief, he buried himself inside her.
She tensed. There was a burning sensation and a feeling of fullness that wasn’t exactly pleasant. He hesitated, breathing hard, his eyes dark and fathomless in the dim light of the dying fire as he waited. For what, she wasn’t sure.
Until he murmured, “Relax. It will be all right if you relax.”
That remained to be seen. “Have you ever deflowered a virgin?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Wonderful,” she grumbled. “My innocence is being taken by a novice.”
With a fractured laugh, he nuzzled her forehead. “A bit better than a novice, I should hope. And regardless of your state of innocence, relaxing always improves matters.”
No harm in trying. She forced herself to loosen her muscles and allow him to seat himself more fully inside her.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little.” A very little. The pressure was uncomfortable and the position awkward. But at least it hadn’t hurt as much as she’d been told to expect.
“I’ll make it better. I swear it, my Juno.”
“I thought I was Circe now.”
One corner of his mouth curved up. “You’re both.” His gaze bored into her. “And both are mine.”
She might have protested the sheer possessiveness of that statement if he hadn’t begun to move, in and out, with stealthy strokes that made her squirm beneath him, wanting to find some more comfortable position.
This was so very . . . personal. His skin rubbed hers everywhere. His harsh breaths surrounded her. His mouth played with her ear. “My sweet . . . tight . . . Circe . . .” he whispered as he slid into her like a bold Odysseus. “You are . . . you are my . . .”
“Ladybird?” she prodded, to take her mind off the intrusion of his flesh into a place it should never have gone.
“My muse.” Sweat beaded up on his forehead. “My muse and thus my soul.”
The words, so close to a declaration of love, melted her, making her cling to him and press a kiss into his shoulder. Then he tugged her knees up about those masterful hips of his, and the shift in position made him thrum the part of her that had only somewhat been engaged up till now, and she forgot what he’d said.
She forgot her name, her place, her rank. All she knew was the thundering glory of Jeremy driving in and out of her in the most intimate act she could have imagined. The burning became a lovely warmth, and the pressure became wonderful, and her heart began to pound in time to his thrusts.
His body took command of hers like a general stealing a march on Napoleon, and she was truly conquered. He made her feel like a woman. His woman.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he choked out, “my fantasies of you . . . fell short of the . . . mark. You feel like . . . This feels like . . .”
“A dream,” she whispered.
“Yes. A dream.”
One where he was hers forever. Where they could do this forever. Where he could love her forever.
Love her? She feared that would never be. If he’d balked at marrying her unless he was forced into it, then . . .
No, she wouldn’t dwell on that. For the moment, she would live in this dream of having him over her, around her, with her. Besides, he’d called her his “soul.” That meant something, didn’t it?
Now the pleasure humming down low had started to keen, then wail inside her, echoing through the hall of her body, which had felt silent and lonely for so . . . very . . . long. A decadent music now filled her, spurred her, made her reach for something just . . . beyond . . .
Yes! There!
An ecstatic cry tore from her, provoking him into a lunge so deep, she fancied she could feel it in her soul. And as he gave a throttled groan and spilled himself inside her, she held him fiercely close and prayed to never wake up.
Because once the dream ended, she feared what might happen to her heart.