Wicked Intentions
Page 35

She gasped.
“Temperance,” he whispered, a dark, sexual devil. “Temperance, make love to me.”
She arched her back, feeling his cock, large and insistent, those fingers, assured and relentless. This was wrong, so wrong, and it felt so very, very good.
“Temperance,” he whispered, sliding his left thumb across her mouth as he rubbed his right against her clitoris.
She opened her mouth, licking his thumb.
“Temperance.”
Her hips bucked, once, twice. Her head fell back even as she drenched his penis in her orgasm. She opened her eyes as she came, watching him beneath lowered lids. His face was drawn, his mouth a tight, tortured line.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said.
But she was wild now, a being without thought other than to fulfill her body’s desires. She watched him, half smiling, as she swiveled her hips, teasing him and herself.
He moaned. “Temperance.”
The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, and she let the movement bear her down on him, let him enter her an inch or two.
But then she immediately lifted so that only his head teased her folds.
He swore, his upper lip beaded with sweat.
And she laughed low, the sound like no other she’d ever made in her life. She was possessed, here in this dim carriage, traveling between worlds, on a journey without a clear destination. She arched, bringing him inside again, just a little, and then let him slide entirely from her body.
“Damn it, Temperance.” His voice, normally cool and dispassionate, was ragged.
She smiled and leaned forward, rubbing herself against him, using his hard, hot flesh to arouse herself. She bent, tilting her hips, and took his bottom lip between her teeth.
He might’ve sworn then—the words were unintelligible—but his purpose was certainly clear. He grabbed her hips in a firm hand and brought her up, shoving his cock in place with the other hand and bringing her down hard.
Oh, ecstasy! He filled her, stretching her wide in this position. The feeling was exquisite. She arched, clutching at his shoulders, grinding herself against him, but he wanted something different.
He slapped her bottom through her skirts. “Ride me.”
She pouted. “No.” She liked this, this subtle grinding, this wonderful rubbing.
“Ride me, damn it.” He pressed his thumb against her, and for a moment she saw stars.
Then he took it away again.
“Nooo,” she moaned.
“Then ride me. Please.”
She looked down at him, this aristocrat, this lord, begging her to bring him pleasure, and decided she would take pity. She rose up on her knees, his length sliding from her, and then brought herself down again.
He watched her, thumbing her secretly under her skirts as she rode him, jolting hard into him, swiveling, panting, riding him as the carriage bumped through the darkened streets. Each rough jolt, each swaying swerve added to her pace until she was moving on him fast, openmouthed and gasping for air. Galloping toward a finish.
His face was sheened by sweat, his mouth drawn and strained. The muscles of his neck stood out in ropes of tension, and she saw him swallow as he pressed against her.
She wanted to tell him—to cry aloud to him—how very much he meant to her. But then she lost her pace, faltered, and fell against him, her body convulsing uncontrollably. Dimly she was aware that he clutched her hips with both hands now, that he was bucking beneath her, driving his length again and again into her open flesh. She sobbed into his shoulder, waiting, her muscles turned to liquid, her center a furnace. He pumped into her without mercy, and she turned her head to watch him, saw when he tilted his face to the ceiling, his mouth open, his teeth bared in a silent bellow.
His semen flooded her.
He was arched, his hips tilted up, her knees nearly off the seat as he held himself in her, pumping out his essence.
And then he suddenly relaxed.
Her knees bumped down onto the squabs again. His arms came up slowly, as if he were worn out, and crossed behind her back, holding her close. They were still locked together, his softening flesh in her as she laid her head against his shoulder and listened to the sounds of the London night passing by outside.
SHE WAS A warm weight on his lap, holding his cock still within her soft, slick body.
Lazarus closed his eyes, inhaling the perfume of their mating. It was an earthy scent, a humble scent, one he would forever associate with her. He ran his palm down her back, feeling the rough wool of the cloak she still wore. They’d made love in a carriage. A corner of his mouth twitched up at the absurdity. He wasn’t a young lordling given to flights of wagered daring, but she seemed to arouse him no matter what the venue.
She lifted her head and tried to push away from him, but he held her a moment longer. “Hush.”
“We’ll arrive home soon,” she whispered.
She was right, but he was reluctant to let go. To separate from her. But his flesh was weak. She moved again and he felt himself slide from her depths. He sighed and opened his arms.
She scrambled from his lap, almost falling as the carriage tilted around a corner.
“Careful.” He steadied her with a hand, but she soon moved across the carriage and sat on the opposite seat.
She looked away from him.
Ah. Mrs. Dews, that reserved matron, was back. He laid his head wearily on the seat.
“You need to set yourself to rights,” she said, gesturing at his lap without looking. As if the sight offended her.
He glanced down. Well, he certainly wasn’t at his proudest, lying limp and damp against the outside of his breeches.
“Please,” she murmured.
“Have you a kerchief?” he asked politely.
She fished in her sleeve and produced one, holding it out.
He took it, slowly wrapped the bit of linen around his member, and wiped himself off. He handed the handkerchief back. “Thank you.”
Her mouth dropped open, as horrified as if he’d taken a piss in Westminster.
He would’ve laughed, save that the situation was more tragic than amusing. Why must she be so provincial in her attitude toward lovemaking? He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps her husband had been a prude or otherwise inadequate. It came to him that she’d hardly mentioned the man at all, though she professed to have loved him. He opened his mouth to ask her about the dead man, but the carriage shuddered to a halt. He glanced out the window and saw that they’d drawn up at the end of Maiden Lane.
She was already scrambling to leave him.
He rose.
“That’s quite all right,” she said hurriedly. “I can get out by myself.”
He stretched his lips into a thin smile. “I have no doubt that you can, but I intend to walk you to your door.”
“Oh, but…” Her protest died when she saw his face. “Oh.”
After that she descended quietly.
He took her arm as soon as he made the street, not confident that she wouldn’t simply flee ahead. They walked to her door silently, and by the time they made it, he was in a rage, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. She turned as soon as they were abreast of the home, intending, it seemed, to enter without even bidding him good night.
Something snapped. He muttered a curse before hauling her around and slamming his mouth down on hers. This was what he wanted; this was what tamed the beast within him: her soft lips, the quiet sound of her moan as he licked across them. There was a desperate, animal need within him, one he couldn’t fully identify. One he couldn’t understand rationally. It was tearing him apart from within, this need. It wanted her—something from her—though he didn’t know quite what. He only knew that if this terrible need was not assuaged, he very much feared he might lose something within himself. It was a confusing thought, and as he raised his head, he saw that her face revealed her confusion as well. Perhaps she, too, was in the grip of something terrible that she could not define. She opened her mouth as if wanting to say something.
But in the end, she turned away without saying anything.
“Temperance,” he pleaded, for what he wasn’t sure.
She stopped, her back to him. “I… I can’t. Good night.”
And she rapped on the door to her home.
Christ’s bloody body! He turned away, kicking at the uneven paving stones. They couldn’t go on like this. One of them would break, and he wasn’t sure which would be worse: him or her.
The return carriage ride was long and wearisome. By the time he made his own town house, the clocks had already chimed the midnight hour. He gave his hat, cloak, and stick to the butler and was already walking toward the stairs when the man cleared his throat.
“My lord, you have a visitor.”
Lazarus turned and stared at his butler.
The butler bowed. “Lady Caire is in the library.”
Lazarus strode to the library, some nameless trepidation making his heart beat quickly. He opened the door and saw her at once. She lounged on a settee, her shimmering lake-blue skirts spread about her, her head slumped onto her shoulder. She’d fallen asleep waiting for him.
He approached the settee on the balls of his feet, oddly hesitant to wake her. When was the last time he’d examined her unobserved? Years, perhaps, or more likely decades. She was beautiful; she always had been and she always would be. The bones of her face were fine and aristocratic, but he noticed now a slight softening of her jawline, a tiny drooping of her upper eyelids. He bent closer to look for other changes and inhaled the scent of oranges. Her scent. She’d always worn it, and it brought back memories of the nursery. Of her coming to visit when he ate his tea when he was seven or eight. Of her kissing his cheek before she left.
She stirred and he hurriedly stepped back.
“Lazarus.” She opened those sharp blue eyes. “I’d ask you where you’ve been if I did not fear to hear the answer.”
“Madam.” He propped a shoulder on the mantel. “To what do I owe this visit?”
She smiled, arch and flirtatious, but he thought he saw her lips tremble. “Can’t a mother drop in on her son?”
“I’m tired. If you’ve only come to play, you’ll excuse me if I seek my bed instead.” He turned toward the door, but her voice stopped him.
“Lazarus. Please.”
He looked at her. The smile was gone now, and her lips did definitely tremble.
She inhaled as if bracing herself. “Have you any wine?”
He stared at her another moment and then sighed. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or his own weariness, but he could use a drink as well, though not of wine. He crossed to the decanter and poured them each a glass of brandy.
“I seem to remember you preferring this instead.” He handed her a glass.
“Do you?” She took the glass with both hands, looking startled. “How did you know?”
He shrugged, taking a seat across from her. “I think I saw you one night in Father’s study.”
She raised her eyebrows but did not comment. For a moment, they both sipped their brandy in silence.
Finally she cleared her throat. “You took that woman to Lady Stanwicke’s ball.”
He gazed at her over his glass. Her tone had been very neutral. “Her name is Temperance Dews. She runs a foundling home in St. Giles.”
“A foundling home?” She glanced up quickly. “For children?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” She was gazing at her glass now with pursed lips.
“What did you come for, Mother?” he asked softly.
He expected her usual dramatic outrage. Perhaps some cutting sarcasm. Instead she was silent for a time.
Then she said, “I loved her, you know.”
And he knew that she was talking about Annelise, dead a quarter of a century.
“I miscarried three times,” his mother said low. “Once before you were born and twice before Annelise was born.”