Lord of Wicked Intentions

She rolled her head from side to side, reached for him, remembered that she couldn’t touch him, and dug her fingers into the sheets instead. She wanted him. It was torment not to touch his firm flesh, not to feel his warmth while he worked so diligently to increase hers.

Her breaths began to come in pants. She heard little cries, coming from her, small sounds that she couldn’t hold in, couldn’t control. Madness, this was madness.

One hand tiptoed up her torso, covered her breast, squeezed, pinched, touched lightly. All the while his mouth worked feverishly. The pressure built, her body tensed—

“Oh, my word!”

Pleasure shot through her, out of her, as her body convulsed, her back arched. Crying out, she yanked on the sheets, needing to hold onto something to keep her anchored. Breathing harshly, she sank back down, unable to believe what she’d just experienced.

He moved swiftly, wedging himself between her thighs, hovering over her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, straight, the muscles bunched, his once icy eyes a fiery blue. “Forgive me,” he rasped, before thrusting forward.

The pain was sharp, intense, quick. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he stared down on her, his arms quaking now.

“I’m all right,” she assured him.

She thought he might have nodded, and then he was rocking against her, with long powerful strokes. Fast. Furious.

He emitted a deep-throated growl, threw his head back. His body jerked, stiffened, thrust once more. Then he stilled, breathing harshly, staring at her as though he didn’t quite know who she was.

She couldn’t stop herself from reaching up and gently combing the damp locks of hair from his brow. His breathing began to even out, his eyes never straying from hers.

“I was supposed to leave you,” he said, his voice hoarse as though he’d been screaming.

“Pardon?”

“I was supposed to spill my seed in my hand, not in you.”

“The next time then.”

He released what sounded like a weary burst of laughter. “You want a next time.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, I rather think I do.”

He bent his arms, and managed, without his body touching hers, to give her a quick kiss on the lips. Then he was easing off of her.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Not yet. Wait here.”

As though she had a choice, as though she weren’t lethargic and her limbs were naught but jelly. She studied him as he walked over to the basin stand. She liked the shape of his buttocks, the way the muscles flexed with his movements. She was a mistress now. She could probably enjoy the male form without feeling guilty about it. It was her job.

He washed up, then returned to her with washrag in hand. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he began to gently swipe at the inside of her thighs.

“There’s not as much blood as I thought there would be,” he said.

“Am I your first virgin?”

He lifted his gaze to her, and for the span of a heartbeat, he appeared younger than he usually did. He nodded, before returning to his task. “Did it hurt very badly?”

“It wasn’t too awful.”

“It won’t always hurt.”

“The pain was worth it for what came before.”

He gave her a small smile and she wanted to keep it there forever. “You liked that?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, I did rather. You’re more skilled than the hounds.”

He stared at her for moment, his brow furrowed, and then he laughed. A deep rich sound. It didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough for her to fall in love with it.

“I should bloody well hope so.”

She gnawed on her lower lip, trying to decide if she should say the words aloud. She mentally flipped a coin. It didn’t work as well as flipping a solid one, but she wanted him to know. “I’m glad it was you.”

He went totally still, studying her as though she’d spoken gibberish.

“My first.”

She watched his throat muscles work as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple slide up and down. Standing, he brought the sheets and covers over her, before skimming his thumb along her chin. “Sleep well.”

Sadness engulfed her. She wasn’t ready for him to leave. It seemed that there should be more. It was the holding, she realized. Afterward they should have held each other. She remembered once being frightened and going into her mother’s room when the earl was there. Her back had been against his chest and his arm had been around her. So close they had reminded her of two spoons in a drawer. But then they loved each other. Rafe didn’t love her. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about him.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, trying not to be hurt, to take offense.

“Yes. I probably should have told you earlier. One of my rules. I’ll never stay in the bed with you.”

“Why?”

He only shook his head, reached out, and lowered the flame in the lamp. “I won’t be here when you wake up in the morning.”

“Where are you going?”

“A mistress is not supposed to question everything. You accept what I say.”

She heard a hint of irritation in his voice. She didn’t want this night to end with them getting out of sorts with each other. “Will I see you tomorrow evening?”

“Yes. Wear the red.” Bending down, he picked up his clothes, riffled through the torn garments until he found the pocket of his waistcoat. He dug out a key, went to the door between their chambers, inserted it, opened the door, and disappeared through the doorway without another word. After the door closed, she heard the bolting of the lock.