Tempt Me at Twilight
Page 30Eager and intent, Poppy strained upward to put her mouth to his again. He allowed it for just a moment, then pushed her back. A swallow rippled visibly down his throat. If the first kiss had startled him into silence, the second had utterly disarmed him.
“Poppy,” he said hoarsely, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I tried to be gentle.”
Poppy laid her hand softly along his cheek. “Is that why you think I left, Harry?”
He seemed stunned by the caress. His lips parted in a wordless question, his features stamped with exquisite frustration. She saw the moment when he stopped trying to make sense of anything.
Bending over her with a groan, he kissed her.
The shared heat of their mouths, the sinuous brush of tongue against tongue, filled her with pleasure. She answered him ardently, withholding nothing, letting him search and stroke inside her as he wished. His arms went around her, one hand clasping beneath her bottom to pull her closer.
Caught up on her toes, Poppy felt her body list forward, chests, stomachs, h*ps pressing together. He was aggressively aroused, his flesh jutting boldly against her, every hint of friction wringing out deep and resonant delight.
His lips dragged along the side of her throat, and he bent her backward until her br**sts strained the front of the dressing gown. He nuzzled into the valley of compressed flesh, stroking between her br**sts with his tongue. His hot breath mingled in the white lace, his mouth dampening her skin. Roughly he sought the tip of her breast, but it was tucked too tightly beneath the soft pink fabric. She arched desperately, wanting his mouth there, everywhere, wanting everything.
She tried to say something, perhaps suggest they go to the bedroom, but it came out as a moan. Her knees were close to buckling. Harry tugged at the front of the bodice, discovering the row of concealed hook-and-eye closures. He opened the bodice with stunning swiftness and stripped the dressing gown away, leaving her naked.
Reaching for her, he turned her away from him and pushed the gleaming fall of her hair aside. His mouth descended to the nape of her neck, kissing, almost biting, his tongue playing, while his hands slid over her smooth front. He cupped a breast, gently pinching the hardening peak while his other hand slid between her thighs.
Poppy jumped a little, gasping in anticipation as he parted her. Instinctively she tried to widen her stance for him, offering herself, and his approving purr vibrated against her neck. He held her in a deep fondling embrace, feeling her, filling her with his fingers until she arched back against him, her bare bottom cradling the shape of his erection. He coaxed sensation from her, pleasuring her vulnerable flesh.
“Harry,” she panted, “I’m going to f-fall—”
They sank to the carpeted floor in a sort of slow, grappling collapse, with Harry still behind her. He muttered against her back, imprinting words of need and praise against her skin. The texture of his mouth, wet velvet surrounded by the bristle of his jaw, caused her to shiver in pleasure. He kissed his way along the curve of her spine, following it to the small of her back.
Poppy turned around to reach for the placket of his shirt. Her fingers were unusually clumsy as she undid the four buttons. Harry held still, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched her with volatile green eyes. He stripped off his open waistcoat, pulled his leather braces to the sides, and tugged the shirt over his head. His chest was magnificent, broad reaches of curved muscle and tough-knit hardness covered by a light fleece of hair. She stroked him with a trembling hand and reached down to his trousers, trying to find the concealed placket at the front.
“Let me,” Harry said brusquely.
“I will,” she insisted, determined to learn this bit of wifely knowledge. She felt his stomach against her knuckles, hard as a board. Finding the elusive button, she worked on it with both hands while Harry forced himself to wait. They both jumped as her delving fingers inadvertently brushed against his erection.
He made a choked sound, something between a groan and a laugh. “Poppy.” He was breathless. “Damn it, please let me do it.”
“It wouldn’t be so difficult—” she protested, finally managing to free the button, “—if your trousers weren’t so tight.”
Comprehending what he meant, she paused and met his gaze, and a shy, rueful grin curved her mouth. He took her head in his hands, staring at her with a longing that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Poppy,” he said raggedly, “I thought about you every minute of that twelve-hour carriage drive. About how to make you come back with me. I’ll do anything. I’ll buy you half of bloody London, if that will suffice.”
“I don’t want half of London,” she said faintly. Her fingers tightened on the waist of his trousers. This was Harry as she had never seen him before, all defenses down, speaking to her with raw honesty.
“I know I should apologize for coming between you and Bayning.”
“Yes, you should,” she said.
“I can’t. I’ll never be sorry about it. Because if I hadn’t done it, you’d be his now. And he only wanted you if it was easy for him. But I want you any way I can get you. Not because you’re beautiful or clever or kind or adorable, although the devil knows you’re all those things. I want you because there’s no one else like you, and I don’t ever want to start a day without seeing you.”
As Poppy opened her mouth to reply, he smoothed his thumb across her lower lip, coaxing her to wait until he had finished. “Do you know what a balance wheel is?”
She shook her head slightly.
“There’s one in every clock or watch. It rotates back and forth without stopping. It’s what makes the ticking sound . . . what makes the hands move forward to mark the minutes. Without it, the watch wouldn’t work. You’re my balance wheel, Poppy.” He paused, his fingers compulsively following the fine curve of her jaw up to the lobe of her ear. “I spent today trying to think of what I could apologize for and maybe sound at least half sincere. And I finally came up with something.”
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I’m not the husband you wanted.” His voice turned gravelly. “But I swear on my life, if you’ll tell me what you need, I’ll listen. I’ll do anything you ask. Just don’t leave me again.”
Poppy stared at him in wonder. Perhaps most women wouldn’t find this talk of watch mechanisms to be terribly romantic, but she did. She understood what Harry was trying to say, perhaps even more than he himself did.
“Harry,” she said softly, daring to reach out and caress his jaw, “what am I to do with you?”
“Anything,” he said with a heartfelt vehemence that almost made her laugh. Leaning forward, Harry pressed his face into the silky mass of her hair.
She continued to work on his trousers, popping the last two buttons from their holes. Her fingers trembled as she gripped him tentatively. He let out a growl of pleasure, his arms sliding around her back. Unsure of how to touch him, she clasped him, squeezed gently, drew her fingertips up the hot length. She was fascinated by him, the silk and hardness and contained force of him, the way his entire body shivered as she stroked him.
His mouth sought hers in a full-open kiss, obliterating all thought. He rose above her, powerful and predatory, famished for the pleasures that were still so new to her. As he lowered her to the carpet, she realized that he was going to take her, now, here, instead of seeking the more civilized comforts of the bedroom. But he hardly seemed aware of where they were, his eyes focused only on her, his color high, his lungs pumping like hearth bellows.
Murmuring his name, she lifted her arms to him. He struggled out of the rest of his clothes and bent to feast on her br**sts . . . hot, wet mouth . . . restless tongue. She kept trying to pull him farther over her, seeking the weight of his body, needing to be anchored. She groped for the hard, aching length of him, and urged him against her.
But she was determined, her grip insistent, and somewhere amid his groans and pants, a husky laugh emerged. He mounted her, adjusted her hips, and paused as he struggled for a measure of self-restraint.
Poppy wriggled helplessly as she felt the gradual pressure of his entry . . . torturously slow . . . maddening, heavy, sweet.
“Does it hurt?” Harry panted, hanging over her, bracing his weight on his arms to keep from crushing her. “Shall I stop?”
The concern on his face was her undoing, filling her with warmth. Her arms slid around his neck, and she pressed kisses on his cheek, neck, ear, everywhere she could reach. Her body held him tightly down below. “I want more of you, Harry,” she whispered. “All of you.”
He groaned her name and surged into her, alert to every subtle response . . . lingering when it pleased her, pressing deeper when she lifted, every slow plunge tamping more sensation inside her. She let her hands glide over his sleek, flexing back, the burning silk of his skin, loving the feel of him.
Following the long lines of muscle, she went lower until her palms smoothed circles over the tight curves of his backside. His response was electric, his thrusts turning more forceful, a quiet grunt escaping his throat. He liked that, she thought with a smile, or would have smiled if her mouth hadn’t been so thoroughly occupied with his. She wanted to discover more about him, all the ways to please him, but the accumulating pleasure reached a tipping point and began to spill powerfully, inundating her, drowning all thought.
Her body clenched him in strong spasms, extorting release, pulling it from him. He let out a harsh cry and sank into her with a last thrust, shuddering violently. It was indescribably satisfying to feel him cl**ax inside her, his body powerful and yet vulnerable in that ultimate moment. And better still to have him lower into her arms, his head dropping on her soft shoulder. Here was the closeness she had always craved.
She cradled his head, his hair a silky tickle against her inner wrist, his breath flowing over her in hot rushes. His unshaven bristle was scratchy against the tender skin of her breast, but she wouldn’t have moved him for all the world.
Their breathing slowed, and Harry’s weight became crushingly heavy. Poppy realized he was falling asleep. She pushed at him. “Harry.”
He lurched upward, blinking, his gaze disoriented.
“Come to bed,” Poppy murmured, rising. “The bedroom is just over there.” She murmured a few encouragements, urging him to follow. “Did you bring a traveling bag?” she asked. “Or a gentleman’s case?”
Harry glanced at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Case?”
“Yes, with your clothes, toiletries, that sort of . . .” Perceiving how utterly exhausted he was, she smiled and shook her head. “Never mind. We’ll sort it out in the morning.” She towed him to the bedroom. “Come . . . we’ll sleep . . . we’ll talk later. A few more steps . . .”
The wooden bed was utilitarian, but easily large enough for two, and it was made up with quilts and fresh white linens. Harry went to it without hesitation, climbing beneath the covers—collapsing, really—and he fell asleep with startling immediacy.
Poppy paused to look down at the large, unshaven man in her bed. Even in his unkempt state, his dark-angel handsomeness was breathtaking. His lids trembled infinitesimally as he succumbed to encroaching dreams. Complex, remarkable, driven man. Not incapable of love . . . not at all. He merely needed to be shown how.
And just as she had a few days earlier, Poppy thought, this is the man I’m married to.
Except that now, she felt a stirring of gladness.
Harry had never known such sleep, so deep and restorative that it seemed he had never experienced real sleep before, only an imitation. He felt drugged when he awoke, drunk on sleep, steeped in it.
Squinting his eyes open, he discovered that it was morning, the curtained windows limned with sunlight. He felt no overwhelming need to leap out of bed as he usually did. Rolling to his side, he stretched lazily. His hand encountered empty space.
Had Poppy shared the bed with him? A frown gathered on his forehead. Had he slept all night with someone for the first time and missed it? Turning to his stomach, he levered himself to the other side of the bed, hunting for her scent. Yes . . . there was a flowery hint of her on the pillow, and the sheets carried a whiff of her skin, a lavender-tinged sweetness that aroused him with every breath.
He wanted to hold Poppy, to reassure himself that the previous night hadn’t been a dream.
In fact, it had been so preposterously good that he felt a twinge of worry. Had it been a dream? Frowning, he sat up and scrubbed his fingers through his hair.
“Poppy,” he said, not really calling out for her, just saying her name aloud. Quiet as the sound was, she appeared in the doorway as if she’d been waiting for him.
“Good morning.” She was already dressed for the day in a simple blue gown, her hair in a loose braid tied with a white ribbon. How apt it was that she’d been named for the showiest of wildflowers, rich and vivid, a gleaming finish to the bloom. Her blue eyes surveyed him with such attentive warmth that he felt a catch in his chest, a dart of pleasure-pain.
“The shadows are gone,” Poppy said softly. Seeing that he didn’t follow, she added, “Beneath your eyes.”
Self-consciously, Harry looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “What time is it?” he asked gruffly.
Poppy went to a chair, where his clothes had been set in a folded pile, and rummaged for his pocket watch. Flipping open the gold case, she went to the windows and parted the curtains. Vigorous sunlight pushed into the room. “Half past eleven,” she said, closing the watch with a decisive snap.
Harry stared at her blankly. Holy hell. Half the day was over. “I’ve never slept so late in my life.”
His disgruntled surprise seemed to amuse Poppy. “No stack of managers’ reports. No one rapping at the door. No questions or emergencies. Your hotel is a demanding mistress, Harry. But today, you belong to me.”
Harry absorbed that, a tug of inner resistance quickly vanishing into the pull of his enormous attraction to her.
“Will you dispute it?” she asked, looking vastly pleased with herself. “That you’re mine today?”
Harry found himself smiling back at her, unable to help himself. “Yours to command,” he said. His smile turned rueful as he became uncomfortably aware of his unwashed state, his unshaven face. “Is there a bathing room?”
“Yes, through that door. The house is plumbed. There’s cold water pumped directly from a well to the bathtub, and I have cans of hot water ready on the cookstove.” She tucked the watch back into his waistcoat. Straightening, she glanced over his na*ed torso with covert interest. “They sent your things from the main house this morning, along with some breakfast. Are you hungry?”