She’d settled back again, her bum rubbing against his cock, and he stifled his groan of pleasure. Please God she didn’t suddenly move the wrong way and cripple him for life, he thought absently, but even that thought couldn’t make his raging erection subside. He knew how to pleasure women—and he rubbed that spot just below the curls with deft, delicate pressure. She climaxed immediately, a short burst of release, and he smiled against her flesh. It hadn’t simply been his kisses today that had brought her to her peak so quickly. She had to have been thinking of him, remembering, to be this easily satisfied.
But he had no intention of stopping there. He held his hand still, against the lovely plump folds of her sex, and then he slid one finger inside her.
She squeaked, moving again, and he wondered what would happen if he came in his trousers, against the skirt of her dress. She was still so tight, reminding him that she’d been a virgin until he’d taken her. Guilt was long gone, only triumph that she was his, would be only his, and he moved his finger gently, rubbing inside the slick channel, preparing her, as his thumb touched her spot once more.
She started to climax, and he pulled back. She was clutching his shoulders, her fingers digging in, but at this she bucked, making a sound of distress at his withdrawal. He slid two fingers inside her this time, the wetness easing the way, and he felt her clamp around him, felt her shake.
He rubbed again, just enough for another small climax to hit her, and he pulled back. She made a soft cry of need, and a fierce possessiveness washed over him, one he didn’t want to consider or question. Mine roared through his blood, and he pumped his fingers into her, feeling the start of another climax. He wanted more from her, he wanted to make her cry and scream with pleasure, he wanted to give her such pleasure she could never forget it no matter how far she tried to run. He pressed his thumb up against her, rubbing the dampness around her, rubbing that bundle of nerves, and he felt it through his own body: the sudden rigidity of the soft armful, the gasp of shock, the explosion that rushed through her, and he covered her mouth with his to drink in her cry of completion.
He made it last. He knew how; just as one peak subsided he touched her again and another washed over her, and he did it again and again, until she was trembling in his arms, her face buried against his neck, and she was sobbing, demanding, overwhelmed.
He brought her down gently, and she collapsed against him, a sodden little heap of femininity in his arms. He was still hard—there hadn’t been any unexpected accidents, which frankly astonished him. He could have come just from watching her face. He withdrew his hand slowly, caressing her as he did so, smoothing the soft cloth of her knickers, trailing down her leg and pulling her skirts down. He caught her foot once more, slowly rubbing it, and he felt the last of the tension leave her body. He took her other foot, giving it the same sort of attention, and smiled at her response. She purred like a kitten against his neck. He could feel the dampness of her tears, which probably infuriated her. She struck him as a girl who didn’t like to cry. No, not a girl, not any longer. A woman.
He held her, simply held her, as the well-sprung carriage made its way toward London. He could wait that long. Once inside the town house he could carry her directly up to bed and finish what he’d started. Surely he could manage to hold out that long. At least there would be no one there but the small, discreet staff he always kept on. He would feed her in bed, he would eat her in bed, he would indulge them both in an unending orgy of pleasure that would never stop.
And then, tomorrow, he would marry her, whether she liked it or not.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SOPHIE OPENED HER EYES. They felt sticky, odd, and she reached up to touch them. It almost felt as if she’d been crying. Slowly, but far too surely, memory came back to her. She was curled up on the carriage seat next to Alexander, his arm around her, her head tucked against his shoulder, and she remembe
red what he’d done to her.
She shoved at him, hard, only succeeding in falling off the seat. He caught her in time, pulling her back up into his arms, and a weak, wicked part of her wanted to sink against him. She was stronger than that.
This time when she scrambled away he let her go, watching her as she ended on the seat opposite him, in the farthest corner away from him.
“You lying bastard,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s hardly the response I usually get for such unselfish behavior on my part. Gratitude would be far more appropriate. And I didn’t lie. I told you I would only touch you, and that’s what I did. And you certainly didn’t do anything to discourage me. In fact, I vaguely remember hearing a please somewhere in there.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He laughed. “And you’re a prude.”
She glared at him. She was the furthest thing from a prude that she could imagine, but he made her feel like a nun. Why had she let him do that to her? How could she have been so willing, so wanton?
It was his kisses, she decided. She gave him a disgruntled look, calming down a bit. “Do you put some kind of poison on your lips?”
He raised both eyebrows this time. “I beg your pardon?”
“Every time you kiss me, my wits desert me.”
She expected mockery, but after a startled moment he simply smiled. “Well, that’s a start.”
Talking about it wasn’t a good idea, she thought. It led to dangerous waters. “How far are we from London?”
“About two hours out, I expect.”
“And are you going to return my shoes, or will you be carting me up the front steps like a character in a French novel?”
He made a face. “More like a gothic novel, where I carry you off and imprison you in my lair.”
“You’ve already told me that’s what you’re doing,” she said.
“Well, I was going to put you in a nice, airy bedroom to yourself for the time being, but if you prefer a lair . . .”
“Do you have one?”