He moved his hand, spreading the wetness around her sex, and she caught her breath. He touched her again, harder, longer, with wicked, wicked knowledge of a woman's body, and she cried out as the cruel delight washed over her again, and again.
Finally he moved his hand away, reaching up to cup her chin, pulling her face back so that his mouth could meet hers, and he kissed her as he'd touched her, long, hard and deep. She started to turn toward him when his hand slid down her stomach once more, and she broke the kiss.
“Please," she begged, desperate. "I can't take any more. Please. "
''You can," he said, h
is voice dark and dangerous. "You can take anything I give you. " And when he touched her this time she was shot into a darkness so deep that there was no escape. At the apex of her release she screamed, unable to stop herself.
He turned her in his arms then, and she was sobbing against his chest as he held her, his hands stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, her trembling mouth. When the last shaky sob died away her kissed her with such tenderness that she wanted to start crying anew.
He was whispering to her, soft, gentle words that made no sense, words of praise, love, pleasure. "Sleep now, angel," he said. "You need your rest. "
She could feel him now. Somehow he'd gotten hard again, but he seemed in no hurry to do anything about it. "Sleep," he said, his lips against her brow, brushing her soft skin.
And so she slept.
Adrian looked down at the woman in his arms, sleeping so soundly, so trustingly. He'd been a bastard to do this to her—he could face that in the few brief moments of post-coital regret, when his own defenses were at low ebb. He should have left her strictly alone.
He'd already known how dangerous she was to his self-indulgent peace of mind. He'd been fascinated by her furtive glances, her well-hidden longing. He'd wanted her for a long time now, he realized, wanted her badly, and he'd been too proud and too vain to admit it. Adrian, Viscount Rohan could have anyone, all the great beauties of London and Paris. Why was he wasting his time with an overtall gawky virgin no one else wanted? Older than he was, though only by a trifle, with ivory skin and freckles and long, luscious legs and he must be mad to be so obsessed with her.
He should have escorted her straight back to the house, accompanied by a stern lecture on the dangers of such reckless curiosity. Or even better, found a servant to take her back. She'd been an idiot to come out here in the first place. If he were a better man he could have rescued her from the mess she'd walked into.
But of course, he wasn't made to be the noble hero. And there would have been no one he could hand her off to—in fact he was less dangerous than most of his compatriots in sin. He shuddered to think what Cousin Etienne would have done to her.
Author: Anne Stuart
A shaky sigh escaped her as she slept, and he told himself what a bastard he was. At least he'd pulled out at the last minute. In time, he hoped. Just to be certain, he'd make sure Lina shared the herbal infusion ladies of the ton swore by to avoid unwanted pregnancies. He could just imagine his father's reaction. The hypocritical bastard would flay him alive.
His mother, though, would be thrilled.
He rose from the bed, crossing the room to a stand that held a ewer of fresh water and a bowl. He washed, then poured clean water and towels and soaked them. He glanced back at the bed. She was sound asleep, and he shouldn't wake her, but she'd probably be feeling sore and sticky and generally uncomfortable. In truth he'd never had a virgin before, though certain members of the Heavenly Host preferred them, but he could imagine she might be feeling slightly abused. And he wanted her again.
He wasn't that fastidious—he would happily take her already covered with his seed, but he imagined she might balk. He slid back into the bed beside her, tucking her against his body, and began to wash her, slowly, lingeringly.
She opened her eyes drowsily. "Hush, love," he murmured, putting the warm damp cloth between her legs. "You'd probably prefer to soak in a bath, and I'll have my servant arrange it when he comes, but in the meantime this might help. Are you hurting?"
She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. "When your servant comes you'll let me go?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "You won't want to. "
"I want to now," she said with sleepy defiance.
He leaned over and brushed his mouth against hers, and he moved the wet cloth carefully, the heel of his hand pressing down on her clitoris while he slowly stroked her.
She made a muffled sound against his mouth, one of pleasure, and she lifted her hips towards his hand, his gentle stroking. He moved his lips lo her ear, biting the plump lobe for a moment before whisper-He could find other ways to give her pleasure, to take his own, but for some reason he wanted to be inside her again. Maybe he wasn't a total bastard, because he would give her time to. . .
Tb what? He certainly wasn't going to wait until she healed. He was hard, and he wanted her now, and there was no reason why he shouldn't take her.
He pulled the damp cloth away and dropped it on the floor, then reached for her. She was already half asleep again, and she moved toward him willingly, tucking her head against his shoulder, her hand on his arm, sighing deeply as her body relaxed against his. Trustingly.
He froze, and an ugly sneer twisted his mouth. He'd really managed lo shag her brains out, he thought. She should be fighting him, remembering he was the worst thing in the world for her. Instead she was sleeping in his arms like a trusting orphan.
Then again, she was the worst thing in the world for him. Because she was turning him into a dead
bore, when he'd much rather be his wicked, selfish self. There was nothing he could do about it. He simply ignored his aching cock, put his arms around her and let himself sleep.
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