A Regency Courtesan's Pride: More Than a Mistress / The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

Mischief gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘If so, be prepared for repayment in kind.’

Her skin tingled as his hot gaze seared every inch of her body. In a moment of weakness, a slight edge of fear that this dark angel would steal more than she was prepared to give, she covered herself, her breasts, her groin.

His brows lowered. ‘Unlike you to be shy, sweet Merry.’

What could she say? She hid behind rough words, yet none came to her tongue. She felt weak with yearning.

‘Will you stand there all night looking, then?’ Perhaps not completely undone. She brought her arms up, stretched like a cat, feeling the peaks of her breasts against the soft muslin of her nightgown.

He grinned. ‘Ah, sweet tormenting witch.’ Leaning over her, a hand each side of her head, he brought one knee up on to the bed, a tall man, with no need for the step. He nudged his knee between hers, a gentle insistent pressure of warm skin and hard bone.

No going back. She opened her thighs. Gave him room. Gave him leave. Her breath left her in a rush of anticipation.

Half-on, half-off the bed, he hung over her, his dark eyes searching hers, seeking assurance? Permission? She raised her hands, cupped his cheeks, felt the roughness of beard and drew him down.

Blissful kisses rained from his lips, a touch on her mouth, her chin, her cheekbone, her eyelids, between her brows. Each kiss fired heat low between her legs, her body ached to feel him within her, her breasts longed for his touch and all the while featherlight kisses seared her face.

‘Lovely, Merry,’ he murmured in a low growl at her ear. His tongue traced the swirls. Her skin thrilled and her insides shivered. Never had kisses felt so sweet, yet the brush of his lips promised so much more.

Panting, she tugged at his shoulders, wanting him closer, hard against her, his bulk weighing her down. She ached.

The strength in his shoulders resisted her feeble attempts to drag him on top of her. She raised herself up to press against him, feeling the prod of his erection against the softness of her belly, the press of his chest against her breasts. ‘Charlie,’ she moaned.

‘Yes, love?’

The amusement in his voice flared her temper. She struck at him with her fist and fell back against the pillows. She glared up at him. The muscles in his upper arms bulged with the effort of holding his weight. She shoved at his arm. ‘Don’t tease.’

Dark lashes swept down and rose again, revealing wicked laughter in their depths. His mouth curved in a smile so sensual her insides tightened beyond bearing. ‘What, Merry? Is this to be naught but a hurried encounter, a quick nibble, when I would savour the banquet before me?’

‘Sometimes,’ she whispered in sultry tones, ‘the table is cleared before you can taste.’

‘A threat, Merry? Are you playing the tease?’

The edge to his tone gave her pause. This was not a man she could manipulate. He liked to be the one in charge as much as she did. Mayhap more.

If she wanted him, she would have to take what he offered.

She clawed her fingers through the rough hair on his chest and tugged. His jaw flickered. Curving her lips in what she hoped was a smile as seductive as his own, she peeped up at him from beneath lowered lids. ‘This is a banquet for two, is it not?’ She lightly pinched his nipple between her fingernails.

His eyes glazed. His chest expanded on a quick breath. ‘It is.’ His voice sounded ragged.

‘Then I would taste, too.’ She let her hands wander over the smooth contour of his shoulders, felt the slight tremble deep in his bones as he held himself still, looking down at her face. Desire warmed his eyes, while restrained power tensed his jaw. Control.

A man with a will of iron.

Her fingers traced the contours of the arms bracketing her head against the pillows; her palms warmed to the heat of his blood beneath the satiny smoothness of his skin. A pulse beat in his strong neck, a hard beating throb that echoed in her own veins.

Once more she raised herself up, but not to take, to give. She licked along the artery. Blue blood for the son of a duke. She nuzzled against his neck, sweeping her tongue across the salty skin, sucking and nipping. His breathing roughened. Not so much in control as he would have her think.

She nibbled his earlobe and breathed into his ear.

He groaned and pressed closer, encouraging her tongue deep into the orifice. Controlling again. Demanding.

She pulled away.

‘Witch,’ he muttered. ‘Will you torment me?’

‘No more than you torment me,’ she whispered.

He took her mouth in a hungry plundering kiss.

Strength surrounded her, his body a wall she could see nothing beyond. It filled her vision, and her mind. He was powerful male. Beside him, she seemed feeble.

Vulnerable. Her heart picked up speed. Trickles of fear rose up from her belly. Her wanton yearnings had almost destroyed her once; she should not let it happen again. Even so, the kiss overwhelmed her senses, carried her upwards on currents of air, rising in twisting strands of pleasure and the pain of need.

A hand, large and firm, cupped her buttocks, caressed the curve. A finger dipped lightly into the crease. A titillating sensation through the fabric. She gasped into his mouth.

He squeezed and kneaded her bottom, while his erection pressed against her.

The teasing fingers travelled down her thigh to her knee. They bunched the gown, easing it upwards. Yes. Now they stroked the bare flesh above her knee, little circles travelling up her thigh, bringing her gown higher, while his kisses numbed her mind to all but his touch.

The fresh scent of his soap and the musk of male arousal dizzied her senses. The longing to submit to his greater will made her limbs languid and heavy. She was pliant in his arms, a shadow of herself. Overpowered by his skill.

His to mould and to shape. It felt lovely.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_c416e176-fbcd-5c49-9c54-bc1383d9996e)

Charlie longed to see her naked. The fine lawn of her shift, the satin of her robe, hid little, yet veiled enough to send his imagination wild. The torment of not possessing her left a growl low in his throat.

He slipped the robe off her shoulders and down her arms. Long, slender, white-skinned arms. He kissed the inside of her elbows, one at a time, smelled the scent she’d placed there earlier, lavender, inhaled it to the depths of his lungs, knowing he would never smell that scent again and not think of Merry.

Eyes half-closed, she lay with her black hair spread over the pillow. He lifted her hand, kissed each finger. The pulse in her throat beat hard and fast. Her breathing quickened.

So sensual. So feminine. So desirable.

He tugged the hem of her nightrail free and she raised her arms to help him lift it off. Her breasts, full and round and high, left him in awe. He filled his hands with their bounty, marvelled at the whiteness of her skin and the firmness of the beautiful flesh.

Beautiful. Rounded. Firm and proud. The peaks were dark, a soft shade of brown, puckered and tight from the exposure to cool air.

He puffed out a breath.

She wriggled.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I have been waiting to see these all night.’

He swirled his tongue around first one tightly budded nipple and then the other.

She moaned.