He raised his palm to cradle the back of her head and brought his face nearer slowly so he could examine her as he approached. He only closed his eyes at the last minute. And then he was kissing her. His mouth was softer in the morning, more relaxed and lazy. He opened it over hers but made no attempt to engage her tongue. Instead he kissed her lushly, his lips moving slowly, erotically, on hers. She could feel his morning stubble, scraping her face in contrast to the softness of his lips. He seemed in no hurry, even though she could feel him, large and incredibly hard, within her.
He levered himself over her on his elbows, never breaking the kiss, his palms cradling her face, and he surrounded her, male and hard, protective and possessive. She’d never felt so cherished. Never felt so wanted. He’d widened her legs and settled his hips more fully on hers. She could feel the tickle of his chest hairs on her nipples. It was all so intimate. She wasn’t sure she could bear this, this too-close lovemaking. It exposed her, left her open to reveal things she’d rather keep hidden. But she was caught in the moment, seduced by her own yearning and by the man above her.
His hand traveled from her face to her throat, caressing over her shoulder and side. He paused at her hip, seemingly distracted by their kiss; he’d licked his way into her mouth and she was sucking him. Then his hand continued, reaching one knee and grasping it. He pulled that knee up and over his hip and left it draped there as he pressed his pelvis down into hers.
She gasped into his mouth. She was open and vulnerable in this position, and when he pressed, she could feel all of him against her mons. She wasn’t sure she liked it, this leisurely, thorough lovemaking. He was laying bare her soul, whether that was his intention or not. She didn’t even think he was aware of what he did to her. But when she would’ve pushed him away, she was beguiled all over again by the sure thrust of his hips. He broke their kiss, raising his head to watch her as he ground slowly down on her exposed flesh. She gasped at the sensation and then frowned at him. How rude to stare at her in this moment! Didn’t he know that this simply wasn’t done? That what they did was only a fleeting pleasure of the flesh, nothing more.
Nothing more...
When he shifted and pressed again, his body hard and insistent within hers, it didn’t feel like only a physical act. It was more. Much more. She panicked, the weight of him, the emotions suddenly overwhelming. She tried to turn her head, raising her arms to push him off, but he caught her quickly, effortlessly, and trapped her wrists on the pillow on either side of her head.
She sobbed, helpless and angry, and more angry that she let her innermost feelings show. “Stop.”
He shook his head slowly, pressing into her again, his hard body causing hers to flower open, vulnerable to all the sensations he was making her feel. His eyelids dropped for a second as if he, too, were overwhelmed by what he did. Then he raised them and looked into her eyes. “No.”
He bent his head to lick the sweat at her hairline. She felt the gentle abrasion of his tongue and at the same time, the pressure of his cock inside her as he hitched his hips higher, grinding with devastating accuracy onto the one spot that could not withstand his ravishment. He withdrew a fraction of his length, but she felt the friction as his cock pulled against her oversensitive flesh. Then he was bearing down again, grinding, grinding, grinding against her exposed clitoris, and she couldn’t stand it anymore.
She came apart, all the secrets, doubts, worries, and hopes that she had kept tightly bound to herself flying outward, free and unharnessed, exposed to the chill morning air and to him.
To him.
And she looked up in time to see him grit his teeth and tremble, undone as much as she, as he released his seed within her.
HER TEACUP SHOOK as Emeline raised it to her lips later that morning. She frowned at this outward manifestation of her inner turmoil and sternly made her fingers stop trembling. Around her, no one else in the breakfast room seemed to notice. Except for perhaps Melisande, sitting across from her at the little round table they shared and sending her a too-perceptive look. It really wasn’t something to be valued in a friendship, sensitivity to others. It only led to awkward questions and overly sympathetic glances.
Emeline pointedly looked away from her dearest friend in the world and tried to focus her mind on something other than the overwhelming lovemaking she’d experienced just that morning. And the night before. And the morning before that. She frowned at her teacup, now perfectly still. Perhaps an overabundance of sex was curdling her brain. That would certainly explain her inability to think of anything else. It couldn’t be healthy to be thinking, brooding, obsessing over a man and his long legs and wide chest and hard, hard, hard penis. Emeline coughed on her tea and looked guiltily at Melisande.
Who said, “I’ve translated the title of the first fairy tale in that book you gave me. It’s called Iron Heart.”
“Really?” For a moment, Emeline was diverted from her troubles. She remembered the fairy tale. Iron Heart. It had been about a man who was brave and strong and true. A man like Samuel, she suddenly realized. How strange.
Across from her, Melisande cleared her throat. “Lord Vale was asking about you last night.”
Emeline nearly spilled her tea. Hastily, she set down her teacup. Obviously she just wasn’t cut out for this type of subterfuge. Her nerves were overwrought. “What did you tell him?”
Melisande raised her mouse-brown eyebrows. “Nothing. He wouldn’t have noticed me, anyway.”
Emeline was distracted from her own worries by her friend’s cynical self-assessment. “Don’t be silly. Of course he’d notice you.”
“He doesn’t know my name.”
“What?”
Melisande nodded, no trace of self-pity in her steady brown eyes. “He hasn’t a clue who I am.”
Emeline looked over to where her fiancé sat among a bevy of young ladies. He was gesturing widely, evidently in the midst of some story, and his right hand nearly clipped the cap of the lady sitting nearest to him. She again wanted to snap at Melisande not to be silly, but the truth was, Jasper probably did indeed have no clue what Melisande’s name was. He’d always paid more attention to the most beautiful ladies in their circle. That was only to be expected, she supposed. Men were rather shallow that way, caring more for a lady’s looks than her feelings or mind. Most men, anyway. Samuel sat in the opposite corner, flanked by his sister and Mrs. Ives—a rather plain lady of advanced years. He had his head tilted to the lady as she said something, but his eyes caught hers just as she looked at him.
Emeline looked away, feeling heat invade her cheeks. Damn the man. It wasn’t enough that he’d used her body until it ached this morning in a terrible, pleasurable way; now he must invade her every waking thought.
“...do hope you used a preventative,” Melisande was saying across from her.
“What?” Emeline asked too sharply.
Her friend glanced at her as if she could tell that Emeline’s mind was elsewhere. “I said I hoped that you used a preventative last night.”
Emeline stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Something to prevent a baby—”
Emeline choked.
“Are you all right?” her bosom beau asked as if she hadn’t just shot a cannon into the conversation.
Emeline waved at her as she took a drink of tea. Briefly, she contemplated denying that she’d spent the night with Samuel, but the conversation seemed well past that point. Instead, she settled on the more pressing matter. “Quite. How...how—?”
Melisande stared at her sternly. “I can’t think how you can embark upon an affair without taking appropriate measures. There are sponges that fit in the female body—”
“How in the world do you know of such things?” Emeline asked in real wonder. Melisande was unmarried and presumably a maiden.
“There are books if one is interested.”
Emeline’s eyes widened. “Books about...?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord.”
“Pay attention,” Melisande said sternly. “Have you taken the appropriate measures?”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Emeline muttered.
Her hand crept to her laced belly before she caught herself and snatched it away. How could she not think about such a fundamental thing, even in the heat of passion? The possibility of a baby was a real concern, and one she could not afford. Jasper was very sophisticated, but no man wanted his heir to be someone else’s get. If she was with child, she’d have to marry Samuel. The mere thought turned her stomach. There would be nowhere to hide, living with such a man. She’d be constantly exposed, her feelings, her worst traits, open to him. He saw her, really saw her as no man had ever done before, and she didn’t like it. He would demand things of her, emotions she didn’t want to feel, and she wouldn’t be able to hide behind a fraudulent facade.
Her horror must’ve shown on her face, for Melisande leaned forward and placed her hand on hers. “Don’t panic. It’s too soon to know; there may be no cause for worry. Unless”—she frowned—“this affair has been going on longer than I’ve thought?”
“No,” Emeline moaned. “Oh, no. It’s just been...” But she couldn’t finish the thought. What must Melisande think of her? She’d been cavorting with a man she’d known only a little while at the same party that her fiancé attended.
Her friend patted her hand. “Then there’s no point in worrying. Enjoy the rest of the party and don’t go back to him without prevention.”
“Of course not.” Emeline drew a steadying breath. “I won’t even look at him again. I’m certainly not going to...” She waved away the rest of the sentence and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll just avoid him. There won’t be another time.”
“Hmm.” Melisande’s murmur was noncommittal, but her look was skeptical.
And Emeline really couldn’t blame her friend. She’d tried, but her voice sounded uncertain even to herself. Against her will, her gaze wandered back to the corner where Samuel sat. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed. To anyone else, his expression was casual, she was sure. But to her it was not. In his eyes she saw lust, possession, and certainty of his own strength. This man wouldn’t give her up without a fight.
Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Fourteen
Iron Heart woke on the next dawn—the day before he was to be released from his silence—to the scream of a woman. The wet nurse stood in the doorway to the plundered nursery, and she screamed and screamed. For every stick of furniture was broken, the walls were splashed with crimson blood, and worse, far, far worse, the baby was gone. Soon the nursery was crowded with the people of the palace—guards, servants, cooks, and maids. All stared at Iron Heart, covered in blood in the nursery where his son had once slept. But his heart did not ache until Princess Solace pushed to the front of the crowd and beheld her husband, and her eyes filled with sorrow....
—from Iron Heart
She was avoiding him. This much was obvious to Sam as he and Emeline moved through an odd, furtive dance that morning. He would enter a room and she would turn aside, giving him her shoulder. He would make his way slowly, casually toward her; she would voice an excuse and exit the room before he ever got close to her. Over and over again they played this game, and each time he grew more frustrated. He no longer cared if his attempts to catch her were observed by the other members of the party. His only focus was on cornering her. And each time she eluded him, he became more determined.
They were in the library now, the house party confined to the indoors again today since the rain continued relentlessly outside. He was biding his time, making no move toward her, simply watching for an opening. She sat in the corner with her friend, Miss Fleming. The other woman was plain beside Emeline’s dark beauty, but her eyes were sharp, and she was aware of his every move. Either Emeline had confided their involvement to her friend or the woman had guessed. Not that it mattered. Miss Fleming might be a fierce watchdog, but he wouldn’t let her stand between him and his prey.