He leisurely strolled over to ring the bell. “Make haste, Emma. You’re down to two and a half minutes now.”
Emma swallowed hard.
Then she turned and ran.
Emma didn’t bother to retrieve her slippers. She dashed on stocking feet for the staircase, gathering her skirts in both hands to lift them out of the way.
When she reached her suite, she chased away the maid and went directly to the bedchamber. As she rushed, she tugged at the buttons of her frock with one hand and went about snuffing candles with the licked fingertips of her other, leaving only the dim firelight. She still didn’t see any reason for darkness, but she didn’t wish to waste time arguing.
Not tonight.
She’d barely succeeded in loosening her bodice when he opened the door.
No knock. No greeting. He was true to his word.
He strode to her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.
Her breath left her. When the capability returned to her hands, she fumbled to find her buttons and continue disrobing.
“Don’t bother,” he said, in a gruff, commanding voice.
Very well, then.
She never would have guessed she’d find this curt, brutish treatment arousing . . . but she did. Oh, she did. He was capable of patience and tenderness. He’d demonstrated as much downstairs with the cat. The knowledge made her feel safe, even if he overwhelmed her now. Besides, she knew from experience, he’d stop the moment she expressed the slightest discomfort.
She didn’t want him to stop.
He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette, wrestling with the closures of his falls, then shucking his trousers.
She was panting with arousal by the time he joined her on the bed.
He straddled her hips and pulled at her bodice, tugging it down. She heard a seam rip. No matter; she could mend it tomorrow. Before she’d finished deciding if she had the right color of thread, he had her breasts bared and his hands fitted over them, kneading and stroking. Desire shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, and he found them with his thumbs. As he rolled and pressed the sensitive peaks, she writhed under his expert teasing.
“You like this.” Half smug statement, half question.
She nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “Yes.”
“And this?”
He pinched her nipple, and she had to chase after her thoughts before she was able to reply. “Yes.”
“Just making certain. Before I do this.”
“Do what?”
He cupped one of her breasts and lifted it. She felt a cool swipe across her nipple.
He’d licked her.
She jolted with the keenness of the sensation. “I thought you had a rule,” she gasped. “No kissing.”
“This isn’t kissing. It’s licking.” Another gliding caress—warm this time—swirling in terrible, wonderful circles. “And sucking.” He pulled her nipple into his mouth, drawing on her with no mercy.
She cried out and bucked. She reached instinctively to grip his shoulders, remembering too late he didn’t wish to be touched.
He sat up, caught her hands, and pushed them back against the mattress on either side of her head. “We discussed this.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I forgot. I can’t think when you touch me that way. Or when you touch me this way, for that matter.”
The commanding way in which he gripped her arms only pitched her excitement higher. The pulses of her wrists thumped wildly beneath his palms, and her heartbeat was a clamor in her ears.
“Don’t forget it again,” he said in a low, thrilling voice. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”
At the suggestion, her intimate muscles fluttered. “Is that meant to be a threat? Because I . . . I don’t seem to find the idea entirely objectionable.”
“You don’t?”
She licked her bottom lip. “Well, you’re very good at this, apparently. And what with the dark . . . It’s all very shadowy and sensual. Like one of those feverish dreams one has on a hot summer’s night.”
“This is something you’d dream about. Being pawed by a hulking stranger in the dark.”
Emma squeaked out her tentative reply. “Maybe?”
Unbearable moments passed in silence.
“You are incredible.”
Whether he meant that as a compliment or censure, she didn’t know. She didn’t have a chance to ask. He released her wrists and moved between her legs, shoving her skirt and petticoat to her waist.
Rubbing his fingers up and down her sex, he made a sound of approval. “Wet for me already.”
The heel of his hand pressed against her mound. Emma tried her best to remain still. It wasn’t easy. But if he stopped now, she would expire of frustration. His fingers penetrated her, stroking deep. Oh, God. Perhaps she would expire not of frustration, but of bliss.
Instead of shifting his weight to move atop her, he lowered himself onto one elbow. She felt his tongue again. Not on her nipple this time.
There.
She couldn’t help it now. Her body convulsed with pleasure, arching and twisting beneath his mouth. He licked her over and over, spinning her into new landscapes of arousal with languid strokes of his tongue. All the while, he kept up rhythmic thrusts with his fingers, hitting a place deep inside her that made her clutch the bed linens in her fists.
Emma didn’t know how much more she could take. But even if she wished to beg him for mercy, what would she cry out? Duke? Ashbury? No. She refused. Intimate moments called for intimate address, and she feared his wrath if she tried “dear” or “darling” or “precious angel muffin” instead.
No, there would be no begging for mercy. She surrendered to the pleasure, letting him nudge her closer and closer to the brink of madness with each flick of his tongue.
She whispered, “Don’t stop.”
Don’t stop.
As if she needed to tell him so.
Ash would not have stopped for anything. Never mind a feral cat. The royal menagerie could crash down
