He wanted her without knowing who she was. He wanted her, not the power he had over her, not her inheritance, nothing but what she would willingly surrender. How strong and beautiful he made her feel. She told him with her kiss, her tongue mating with his as her fingers sifted through his soft curls and then traveled lower.
To the knot of his cravat. Removing their outer layers seemed both symbolic and necessary. She wanted all the barriers gone, longed for him as he had been the night he had spent in her bed, all bare, masculine flesh, sinew and muscle. The knot came undone, and blindly, she moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers gliding over silk, plucking each one from its moorings.
He shrugged it and his coat from his shoulders.
But when she moved to the short row of buttons at the neck of his shirt, he broke the kiss, stepping back. She knew a pang of disappointment along with a rush of embarrassment. Had she mistook his intentions?
“Have I displeased you?” she asked, searching his gaze, her lips still tingling from his passionate kisses.
“Never, lovely.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You please me far too much. I don’t trust myself to remove all. The rest of my articles must stay on.”
“But—”
He silenced her protest with a swift, maddening kiss.
By the time their lips parted, she forgot what her objection was. With the practiced ease of a lady’s maid, he stripped her of her undergarments. Tapes and knots could not deter him from what he wanted. From her. Until at last, she stood in only a shift and stockings. And then, one more sweet, slow kiss, and even the shift was gone. She stood before him in nothing but her stockings, the plain garters tied above her knees.
Naked as she had never been before another. The cool air of the chamber swirled around her, but she was warm. Warmer still when he stepped back to look at her. Beneath his admiring gaze, she felt lovely for the first time. She felt worthy of that admiration, and more than that, she reveled in it.
His hazel stare traveled over her with undisguised hunger. “You are so bleeding beautiful, Persephone. Christ. I could look
upon you all day.”
She pressed her thighs together to quell the ache, wishing he were as bereft of garments as she was. “Thank you.”
He held out his hand to her. “Come.”
She placed her palm in his, their fingers intertwining, with the wild, impulsive thought that she would follow him anywhere he wished flashing through her mind. He led her to the bed instead, which was much larger and more ornate than hers, befitting the guest chamber of such an impressive town house. Her heart sped. The bed was his. He had lain in it. She was going to lie there with him.
It will not be the first time, Persephone.
Yes, she had shared a bed with him before. But he had been snoring, and she had built a wall of pillows and coverlets to protect her. This was different. Quite different. She knew him now. She trusted him now.
They stopped just short of the mattress, and he drew her against him, kissing her lingeringly until the desire overtook her tension. She felt achy in strange new places, her nipples hardened, the flesh between her thighs throbbing. He dragged his lips down her throat to the place where her shoulder and neck met, then over her shoulder blade where he lightly bit.
Her knees went weak, but Rafe’s arm banded around her waist, catching her and keeping her from falling. Slowly, tenderly, he guided her to the bed, and then she was on her back, with his big, strong body atop hers.
The desire dissipated once more, chased by the unwanted remembrance of the night Lord Gregson had come to her room at Lord Landsdowne’s town house. The bedclothes had been twisted about her ankles, and he had used his upper body to pin her to the mattress, denying her the ability to escape.
This is not Gregson. This is Rafe. You are safe with Rafe.
But no matter how many times she repeated the reassurance to herself, the panic was rising within, swiftly and uncontrollably. Her body and mind were at war, wanting and yet fearful. She stiffened, going cold, the memories of that awful night chasing her passions and leaving her like the ashes in a grate after the fire had burned out.
Rafe’s face rose over hers, concern lining his handsome countenance. “What’s wrong, sweet?”
Her chest was suddenly heaving, tremors shaking through her. Her voice failed Persephone. It was as if she had no power to stop this sudden dread threatening to overwhelm her.
He rolled to his side, his weight lifting from her, and she could breathe again. Gradually, the alarm subsided, her heart slowing. She drew air into her lungs, staring at the plasterwork on the ceiling above them, trying to gather her wits.
Tenderly, he stroked her cheek. “Have I frightened you? Do you wish to stop? Talk to me, Persephone.”
He was so much more than she had supposed he was that fateful night of their first meeting. Such a complex and caring man, one who championed her and touched her with such gentle reverence, but yet could inflict vengeance and pain upon others with the same hands that caressed her. She had only to look into his eyes to calm, to understand she was in no harm. To return to her senses.
Words accompanied the lucidity.
“When I awoke that night, he was atop me,” she struggled to explain. “It… For a fleeting moment, all I could think about was Lord Gregson holding me in place, and I… I panicked. Forgive me, Rafe.”
Tears stung her eyes. Tears of frustration and humiliation. She wanted Rafe Sutton more than she had ever wanted anything, aside from her freedom. And yet, why could she not escape the damage Lord Gregson had done to her? She had ruined everything.