A Passion for Him (Georgian 3)

Finally, she was left with only her chemise, a garment made of material so fine he could almost see clear through it. It was enough to drive him to madness, the far-too-vague hints of her body beneath.

“I want you to remove the rest,” he said, stepping back.

“Why?”

“Because it will please me.”

“It is not as easy as you intimate. I have never been naked before a man.”

“Do it, Amelia,” he ordered, near desperate to see all of her.

With no further hesitation, she reached down and removed her shoes. The hem of her chemise lifted as she reached for the ribbons that secured her stockings. His mouth watered at the sight, every movement she made erasing similar memories from his past. No other woman could compete with the innocent, unaffected fashion in which Amelia undressed. Her movements were not practiced or planned with an eye for seduction, but they aroused him unbearably, nevertheless.

Aching with lust for her, he freed the placket of his breeches and took his cock in hand. He was thick and hard, slick at the tip with wanting her. Stroking leisurely down the length, he groaned in need.

Amelia froze at the sound, unsure of what she had done to distress him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Montoya assured in a gruff voice that belied his words. “Everything is perfect.”

She listened carefully, regulating her breathing in order to take in every nuance of sound. “What are you doing? I hear you moving.”

“I am fondling my cock.”

Images filled her mind, incomplete due to her inexperience, but arousing regardless. The flesh between her legs throbbed in response, making her squeeze her thighs together in a vain effort to ease the ache. “Why?”

“Because it pains me, love. I am hard and ready for you. Harder and thicker than I have ever been.”

“Can I touch it?”

He made a choked noise, and the sounds of his movements became more pronounced. “Bare yourself first.”

Amelia finished undressing with haste, forcibly shoving aside thoughts of her imperfections. Unlike Maria, she was not lushly curved and built for a man’s pleasure. She was taller, thinner, and smaller-breasted. She was too active, enjoying riding and fencing more than card games and teas.

“Dear God,” he gasped when she dropped her chemise to the floor.

Her hands moved to cover herself, but he moved swiftly, catching her wrists. “Never hide from me.”

“I am nervous,” she retorted.

“My love . . .” He wrapped her against him, and she felt his erection between them. Smooth as silk, but hard as a rock and hot to the touch. Despite the shock of it, her body delighted in the feel and grew slicker.

“You are so beautiful, Amelia. Every inch of you. I dreamed of seeing you like this, naked and willing. How sorry those fantasies were compared to the reality.”

She pressed her forehead to his chest and said, “You are being kind.”

Montoya brought her hand to his cock and wrapped her fingers around it. “This is not how a man feels when he finds his lover inadequate.”

Amelia moved, squeezing and caressing, exploring. His breath hissed out between his teeth. “You will make me spend,” he gritted out.

“If it would please you to do so, go ahead,” she replied, wanting to give him pleasure. Wanting to satisfy him in a way that would brand him as hers.

“Minx.”

She stilled as a big, warm hand cupped her breast. Immediately, her nipple, already tight and hard from the chill of the open air, pebbled further.

“See how you fit so perfectly within my palm,” he murmured, his hips beginning to thrust into her movements. “You were built for me, Amelia.” She whimpered as his thumb and forefinger surrounded her nipple and tugged on it, sending pangs of intense pleasure straight to her womb. Everything tightened and coiled, making her move restlessly.

“And how quickly you respond to me.” He leaned back, and a moment later she cried out as hot, wet suction surrounded the tender peak of her breast. Her hands gripped his cock convulsively, and he growled against her skin, the vibration driving her wild.

His powerful arms banded her waist, supporting her as he pushed her backward and worshipped her breast, his tongue curling around her nipple as his cheeks hollowed with drawing pulls.

Just as he had said, every thought left her mind, leaving her a creature of lust and desire. The lack of reason bound her tighter to him. There was only one other man she had ever considered sharing herself with in this way. That Montoya was scarred and haunted had no bearing on the emotions he aroused in her.

“Tell me you love this,” he said, as he moved to her other breast. “Let it out, Amelia. Do not be silent.”

His teeth nipped the hard peak and she cried out. He began licking her, his tongue stroking with maddening leisure. It was not enough, not nearly. She began to writhe, whimpering, arching her back in an attempt to push deeper into his mouth.

“What do you need?” he asked in a dark whisper. “What do you want? Tell me, and I will give it to you.”

Desperate, she begged, “Suck it . . . please . . . I need—”

She gasped as he obliged, his lips closing around her. In her hands his cock throbbed, and a hot trickle of moisture tickled the backs of her fingers. She touched it, found its source at the tiny hole at the head. The pad of her thumb smoothed it around, and he shuddered and suckled her harder.

With her sight stolen from her, every other sense was heightened. As his skin heated, her nostrils filled with his unique scent, increasing her desire. Her sense of touch was painfully acute; even the slight rustle of the air prickled across her flesh.

“Please,” she cried, wanting more.

With one last lingering suck, Montoya straightened and pulled her up with him. Then he lifted her into his arms and moved toward the waiting bed.

Simon was in a foul mood by the time Maria’s coach pulled off the main road and into the courtyard of an inn just shy of Reading. Two of St. John’s outriders traveled on ahead, freed of the burden of the slow-moving carriages. If they were fortunate, they would return with a more solid direction or perhaps even a sighting.

The entire day had been a study in frustration. The hackney carrying Amelia had discharged her and her guard shortly after collecting them, unwilling to travel beyond the city. They had then secured another carriage and continued on. That progression of events was to be expected. What most concerned Simon were the reports of an inordinate number of French-speaking riders moving in the same direction ahead of them.

It could be nothing, or it could be Cartland.

Simon had longed to disclose the whole of the matter to Maria over dinner, but he felt a similar level of loyalty to Colin, who had risked his life for Simon on more than a few occasions. So he said nothing, holding his tongue when they parted ways to retire for the night.

In the meantime, neither he nor Lysette had any of the items required for comfortable travel. They had no change of clothes and no servants. They did not even have the proper equipage, which led him to having an aching arse and a sore back.

At least Colin had mentioned traveling to Bristol, which gave Simon an advantage. He subtly urged Maria in that general direction, while quietly sending a lone footman back to his lodgings to inform his valet of their change of plans. The servant would manage the settling of the accounts, the packing of their things, and the rounding up of Lysette’s maid and belongings.

Thinking of the Frenchwoman, his gaze moved to where she sat before the fire. By necessity, they shared a bedchamber, the size of their party enough to take up the last remaining rooms. Maria had complained mightily about the poor quality of the inn, arguing that St. John had various lackeys scattered around the area who would take them in and provide them comfortable lodging. Simon’s insistence that they remain near the road was unreasonable to her, and he appreciated the validity of the argument. However, he had no desire for Maria to r

ealize that he had lied about the planned holiday, a ruse that would be revealed if he donned the same garments.

A soft sigh drew his attention back to Lysette. She was curled up in a wing chair, stripped to her chemise with her legs tucked up close and a blanket across her lap. Pale blonde curls were loosened from a previously stylish arrangement and left to lie carelessly against pale, creamy skin. She was reading, as she often did, devouring historical volumes of text with a voracity he found intriguing. Why such interest in the past? They had merely intended to make discreet inquiries, and she had brought a book along with her anyway.

Frowning, Simon moved to the bed and stripped down to his smalls. Then he crawled between the sheets. With lowered lids, he studied her, admiring her delicate golden beauty while considering why it was that he found her so unappealing. It was, to his knowledge, the only time in his life that he had found external attractiveness incapable of distracting from the internal flaws. Considering that Lysette rivaled Maria in loveliness, it was a startling realization to come to.

The women were similar in many ways, and that only emphasized their differences. Maria had a solid core within her, a spine of steel that was created by her unwavering determination. Lysette seemed sometimes as if she was uncertain of her life’s path. He could not understand why she appeared to relish her role one moment, and then despise it the next.

His instincts were clamoring, and he had come to rely on them implicitly. Something told him that all was not right in Lysette’s world. She was a hired killer, and her icy disposition supported her chosen profession. Yet her apathy for others was sometimes belied by brief flashes of confusion and remorse. He suspected she was a bit touched, and it was difficult to feel both sympathy and dislike toward the same woman.

“How did you come to work for Talleyrand?” he asked.

She jumped and glared at him. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Obviously not.”

“I do not work for Talleyrand.”

“Who then?”

“That is none of your business,” she said smartly.

“Oh, I think it is,” he drawled.

Her gaze narrowed as she looked at him. “Whom do you work for?” she countered.

“I work for no one. I am a mercenary.”

“Hmm . . .”

“Are you?” he prodded, when she said no more than that.

Lysette shook her head, once again looking a bit lost. Her clothes were finely crafted and expensive, her manners and deportment faultless. She had begun life in far better circumstances than these. He knew why Maria had turned to a life of crime, but why had Lysette?

“Why don’t you find a rich husband and enjoy yourself draining his coffers?” he asked.

Her nose wrinkled. “How boring.”

“Well, that would depend on the husband, would it not?”