The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy - Page 56/94

The bed. It was all he could think, even though he knew it was a mistake. He had to get her to the bed. He had to feel her under him, to imprint himself upon her body.

She was his. She had to know that.

“Iris,” he groaned against her mouth. “My wife.”

He nudged her backward, and then he did it again, until she was edged up against the bed. She was so slender, such a wispy little thing, but she was kissing him back with a fire that threatened to consume them both.

No one else knew what lay beneath her placid surface. And no one else would, he vowed. She might give others her breathtaking smile, or even a taste of her sly, subtle wit, but this . . .

This was his.

He brought his hands behind her, and then under her, cupping the delightful curve of her bottom. “You are perfect,” he said against her skin. “Perfect in my arms.”

Her only response was a heated moan, and with a stunningly quick motion, he lifted her skirt and jerked her up so that her hips were level against his. “Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded.

She did. It was nearly his undoing.

“Do you feel this?” he rasped, pressing his arousal hard against her.

“Yes,” she said desperately.

“Do you? Do you really?”

He could feel her nodding against him, but he did not ease the pressure until she whispered once again, “Yes.”

“Do not ever accuse me of not wanting you.”

She pulled back. Not her hips; he was holding her far too tightly for that. But she pulled back her head, just far enough so that he was forced to look into her eyes.

Blue. So pale but so blue. And so full of confusion.

“You will find many things of which to accuse me,” he growled, “but this will never be one of them.”

He tumbled them both to the bed, reveling in the soft gasp that flew from her lips as he came down onto her.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, tasting the salty skin below her ear.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, running his tongue down the arched length of her throat.

His teeth found the scalloped edge of her bodice, and his hands made short work of it, yanking it down until he could see the surprisingly luscious shape of her breasts through the thin silk of her chemise. He cupped them, plumping her in his hands, and he shuddered with desire.

“You are mine,” he told her, and he bent down to take one bud in his mouth.

He kissed her through silk, and then when that wasn’t enough he kissed her skin, hot satisfaction rolling through him when he saw the cherry blush of her nipple.

“You’re not pale here,” he said, his tongue dancing a naughty circle around the tip.

She gasped his name, but he only chuckled. “You’re so pale,” he said huskily, trailing his hand up the length of her leg. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. Your hair . . .”

He took one thick lock and tickled it across her breastbone.

“Your eyes . . .”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple.

“Your skin . . .”

This last was said with a moan, because her skin, all milky white and smooth, was bared beneath him, in stark contrast to the luscious pink tip of her breast.

“What color are you here, I wonder?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up the length of her thigh. She quivered beneath him, let out a gasp of pleasure as he ran one digit along the intimate crease where her leg met her hip.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

He grinned wolfishly. “I’m making love to you.” Then, spurred by some devilish bit of humor, he leaned down until his lips were warm at her ear. “I should have thought it was obvious.”

She let out a surprised chuckle, and he could not help but grin at her expression. “I can’t believe I just laughed,” she said, one hand covering her mouth.

“And why not?” he drawled. “This is meant to be enjoyable.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“I’m enjoying myself.”

Iris let out another astonished giggle.

“Are you?” he murmured.

She nodded.

He pretended to consider this. “I’m not convinced.”

Her brows rose. “You’re not?”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re wearing far too many clothes to be truly enjoying yourself.”

Her chin tucked in as she glanced down at herself. Her gown had been pushed down and pulled up in all the best ways, and she looked thoroughly decadent.

He liked her this way, he realized. He did not want her on a pedestal. He wanted her rumpled and earthy, pinned beneath him and flushed with pleasure. He brought his lips back to her ear. “It gets better.”

Her dress had already been undone; it required little work to divest her of the garment completely. “This has to go, too,” he said, grasping the hem of her chemise.

“But you—”

“Are completely dressed, I know,” he said with a low chuckle. “We’ll have to do something about that, too.” He sat up, still straddling her, and stripped off his coat and cravat. His eyes never left her face. He saw her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and then he saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, as if she was nervous about something, or maybe just trying to reach a decision.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

Her eyes went from his torso to his face and then back again, and Richard sucked in his breath as her trembling fingers reached for the buttons on his waistcoat.

“I want to see you,” she whispered.

Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to rip off the last of his clothing, but he forced himself to remain still, unmoving except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was mesmerized by her small hands, shaking as they fumbled with his buttons. It was taking her so long; she could barely force the disc through the buttonhole.