Breathless (The House of Rohan 3)

The worst thing that could happen is that she’d respond to his touch, his kiss, assuming he was going to kiss her as part of the whole act. Christopher hadn’t, but then, he hadn’t liked kissing.

Miranda had discovered that she did. At least, unfortunately, she liked kissing Lucien, no matter what a snake in the grass he was. Whether she wanted to or not, her body reacted to his mouth and hands on her. Which might make the invasion and pain and humiliation of the sex act all the worse. Not that it would matter to him. He was too intent on getting what he wanted.

Author: Anne Stuart

He was moving toward her like the predator he was, and she lay very still, watching him approach. She could do this if she had to. And clearly she must.

“Do you mind blowing out the candles?” she asked politely. “I think I’d be more comfortable in the dark. ”

“I imagine you would be. Then you could pretend I’m someone else. ” He was leaning over her, and she felt very small and helpless. She didn’t like that feeling, not one bit. “Tell me, my precious, is there anyone who’s taken your fancy over the last few years? Some stalwart young man you could have taken to husband if you hadn’t had your fall from grace?”

She wondered what he’d do if he knew the truth. “Only you, my dove,” she said with facetious sweetness to hide her honesty. He would assume she was taunting him, and she was happy with that. Perhaps she could even convince him that her helpless response was all part of the game.

Because, in fact, he was the only man she’d ever thought about willingly bedding, about marrying. About loving.

He had a beautiful mouth. Some of the scarring reached down across the corner of it, and without thinking she reached up and touched it with the tips of her fingers, very softly, a caress that he wouldn’t recognize as such.

“What happened to you?” she asked softly.

His pale eyes turned cold. “Is that supposed to drive me away, my sweet? I’m afraid I’m made of sterner stuff than that. A woman with a whip did that to me. ”

She let her fingers touch the shallow furrows across his temple and brow, gentle, soothing. She wanted to keep touching him, to brush away the pain. “But why? Why would anyone want to hurt you like that?”

His mouth curved in a cynical smile. “Wouldn’t you?”

She brought up her other hand to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing against his lips. “No. ” She couldn’t help it. “At times I may want to kill you. But I’d never want to hurt you. ”

“You realize how ridiculous that sounds?” His voice was low, hypnotic, his mouth very near hers now.

“Yes,” she whispered. And she brought his face to hers, and kissed him.

She felt his body jerk in astonishment, and for a moment she was afraid she’d done it wrong, or that he didn’t like kissing. She tried to pull back, but he pulled her against him and kissed her back, full, hard and deep, kissing her so thoroughly she was breathless, trembling. This was the way he would have kissed her if he cared about her, if he loved her. She could always pretend, couldn’t she?

He rolled her back upon the pillows, his mouth still clinging to hers. She closed her eyes, absorbed in the touch, the flavor of his mouth, letting herself dance into the kiss, reach its center, let the pleasure pour out around her like rays of sunlight, and she wanted to sing with wordless delight.

He lifted his head, and his eyes were glittering in the candlelight as he looked down at her. His long hair fell about his face, hiding the scars, and she wanted to brush it away, but her hands were trapped beneath their bodies as he ran his mouth down the center of her neck, tasting, biting the soft skin, and she felt tiny shivers suffuse her. He kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, and she felt his tongue against her skin. She felt his mouth against the hammering pulse at the side of her neck, as he seemed to inhale the rapid beat, and then he moved to lie down beside her, one hand still capturing her shoulder, turning her to face him.

That was when she realized he’d finished undoing the buttons and the nightgown was halfway down her shoulders. Her breasts were exposed in the cool night air, and she reached up try to cover them, but he took care of that with one strong hand. “No need to be shy, my Miranda,” he whispered. “We always knew it would get to this sooner or later. ”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She could no more continue with her cheery good-nature than she could give in to the tears that seemed to be forming at the back of her throat for absolutely no reason. She hadn’t cried over Christopher St. John—there was absolutely no reason to cry over Lucien.

He was right. It was always coming to this, from the first moment she saw him. No, from the first moment she heard his voice and felt that incredible pull, she knew this man would be someone different in her life. He would take her, claim her, and then she supposed he’d abandon her as he’d threatened. It didn’t matter. She didn’t even like sex, but she wanted his body on top of hers, pushing inside her. She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him close while he sweated and strained and found his completion. She wanted to give everything she could to him, when she should have wanted to cut his throat.

It made no sense, but his hand had slid down her body to her small breasts, and he was cupping one gently, learning the textures of it, his fingers playing with the hardened nipple, and she could feel a strangle surge of response lower down, between her legs.

He leaned over and put his mouth on her breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth, and she arched off the bed, only her amazing self-control keeping her from crying out.

It was an astonishing feeling. The slow, steady tug of his mouth at her breast, while his hand toyed with her other nipple. She’d been determined not to say anything, but somehow a tiny squeak of reaction broke through.

He pulled his mouth away, licking her, and she needed him to move to her other breast, but he didn’t, he seemed happy enough, placed closemouthed kisses against her collarbone, and she made a small, whimpering sound, one that couldn’t be of need, could it?

He raised his head, and his expression was cool, controlling, though his pale eyes were filled with heat. “Ask me,” he said.

She closed her mouth tightly, biting down on her lip. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction—he couldn’t just make her give up that easily.

He moved his head down, and his nose brushed against the side of her breast. “Just say please, Miranda. That’s all you have to do. ” He used his tongue, gently lapping her skin, the valley between her breasts, moving no closer, and she bit down, hard, to keep from crying out.

His tongue just danced across the top of her nipple, a featherlight touch, and she couldn’t help it, she writhed, wanting more. “Just ask, Miranda,” he whispered in a light, singsong voice.