Waking Up With a Rake Page 20

  Everything she’d really learned about life until she met Rhys had come from her parents. She might have chafed against some of her mother’s strictures and wished for her father to be home more often, but they still taught her that the world was a safe place and she could count on their support.

  Rhys had been taught that the ones who should have trusted him didn’t.

  “So you see why I don’t want to present you to my family,” Rhys said. “I can’t be sure of our welcome, and I would not subject you to that.”

  She palmed his cheek and turned his head so he had to face her. She felt his pain as if it were her own and realized suddenly why he’d become a libertine. If no one else cared about him, why should he care about himself? His family’s rejection had sent him on a self-destructive downward spiral. She pulled his head down so their lips were an inch or so apart.

  “I want you to be sure of your welcome with me.”

  He closed the distance between their mouths and claimed hers in a warm, sure kiss.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her over onto his lap. She melted into his embrace, giving herself over to the gentle assault of his tongue.

  It was a potent reminder of how wonderfully they’d fit together in other ways. He was hard as iron where her hip pressed up against him.

  “I believe you told me once that it’s possible for man to have carnal knowledge of a woman in a moving coach…” she said with a sly smile.

  Chapter 25

  Rhys’s mouth on hers was a revelation. Now tender, now demanding, inviting her to do the same to him. Her heart hammered so hard, she wasn’t the least cold any longer. She suddenly realized his hand was under her cloak, and it heated her to fever pitch.

  While his kisses distracted her, he’d unbuttoned the top three buttons on her traveling ensemble. He teased his fingertips over her skin, grazing the lacy edge of her chemise peeping above her corset. Her nipples ached at his hand’s nearness. He kissed his way along her jaw and down her throat.

  His finger slipped under the lace and brushed her nipple, softly at first, then with a more determined thrumming. Longing shot to her core. Her breath hissed in over her teeth.

  Desire flared white-hot when he kissed the hollow between her breasts. With his teeth, he caught the ribbon that held her chemise closed and tugged it loose. He nuzzled the linen aside to bare her nipples above her stays. He closed his lips over one and sucked.

  The creaking wheels and jostling coach faded around her.

  All that mattered was the pounding need. She was hollow with longing.

  He took her hand and guided it inside his jacket, down the front of his waistcoat.

  He wants me to touch him.

  She undid his waistcoat as a thrill of power shot through her. His warmth radiated through the fine lawn fabric of his shirt. The image of Rhys naked and ready rose in her mind. His chest was rock hard beneath her palm.

  She slid her hand down to discover another part of him was too.

  When she stroked him, wishing the woolen trousers didn’t separate her hand from his hot maleness, Rhys stopped nipping at her breasts and raised his head.

  “Aren’t you the little minx?”

  “Disappointed?”

  His gaze sizzled into hers. “Never. What say I lift your skirts and swive you senseless?”

  She nodded, too shocked to answer.

  Swive.

  The deliciously decadent sound of it shivered over her. Oh, yes, being swived senseless was just what she needed.

  He slipped a hand under her hem and ran his palm up her leg. Her thin cotton stockings and pantalets were no shield against the shivers that trailed his touch. When he reached mid-thigh and found bare flesh, she gasped at the nearness of his fingers to her throbbing core.

  “I didn’t promise to obey you in our wedding vows,” she said with a hitched breath, “but I’ll do whatever you say right now if you promise not to stop.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” His hand moved up to where her pantalets left her crotch bared. He covered her mound with his hand, holding her hot, moist center. A fingertip invaded her soft folds.

  She closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. Then she realized no one but Rhys was likely to hear her over the pounding of hoofbeats and clatter of the coach. She let her delight slip out of her throat in helpless little sounds.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in her ear.

  She ought to bridle herself. She ought to be the proper English wife. She ought to insist they wait for a bed and the modesty of nighttime coupling. Hadn’t Mrs. Noddlingham advised that real ladies were merely supposed to tolerate their husbands’ marital attention?

  “One must think of the children that may come as a result. Think of the coming week’s menu to distract one’s self from the unseemly invasion. Think that it will be over all the quicker if one closes one’s eyes and lies quite still,” the worthy Noddlingham advised.

  But when Rhys’s fingers moved with exquisite slowness over her secret parts, all she could do was moan like a wanton. She didn’t want it to be over quickly. She welcomed the invasion, and if children were on their horizon, they were the farthest thing from her mind at the moment.

  The coach’s shades were open, but as they were bouncing through open countryside, she didn’t worry that anyone might see her cradled on her husband’s lap. Of course, there was always the chance that they’d pass by an observant goatherd. He’d get an eyeful if they did.

  Her breasts were bared and her skirt hiked up around her waist. She spread her knees to give Rhys easier access to her secrets. Rhys’s mouth covered hers, driving all thoughts of modesty from her mind. He swallowed her needy little sounds. His blessed, wicked hand was between her legs. Her world spiraled down to that heat, that friction as he laid bare her soul with each stroke.

  Olivia hitched one knee up, hooking her heel on the seat to open herself wider to him.

  “Lord, you’re so sweet,” he said, his voice hoarse with wanting. He dipped a finger deep inside her and she moved against his hand, controlling how hard and how fast the fleshy part of his thumb rubbed against her sensitive spot. “Where did you learn that?”

  She pulled her knees together. “Am I being very wicked?”

  “Yes, but I like it. You’re so wet.” He teased her knees apart and resumed sliding his fingers through her intimate valleys. “Besides, no matter how wicked you decide to be, you can’t touch my level of decadence.”

  She decided it might be fun to try. “Is this very wrong, what we’re doing?”

  “Nothing you and I do together is wrong.” He kissed her deeply, then released her lips and started back down to her breasts again.

  The swaying coach, his mouth on her nipples, his hand on her mound—the disparate movements conjoined in devastating rhythm.

  She was so wet, he’d said. But he liked it.

  Her heart seemed to crowd her ribs. She’d been taught to feel shame about that part of her, but Rhys handled that bit of her as if it were special, precious.

  And fascinating.

  She was slick and swollen, desire licking over her in tingling lashes.

  He traced around her nipple with the tip of his tongue while his thumb circled her sensitive spot. She whimpered into his mouth. The long finger he’d slid inside her slipped in and out as his thumb continued its torture.

  Sauce for the goose, she decided and reached between them to cup his groin hard.

  It was his turn to groan. Through his wool trousers, his balls bunched tight under her touch. Then she rubbed her palm over his hard length from root to tip, pressing harder than she thought she should, but Rhys seemed to like it. He raised his pelvis into her strokes.

  He growled with pleasure and tugged at her nipple, sucking the needy flesh. Desire flashed like heat lightning between her breasts and the tender spot between her legs, but offered no relief.

  Frustration made her jerk in his arms.
She was reaching for something, straining toward that unnamable place he’d taken her to before, that blessed unraveling. Rhys drove her toward her goal with aching fury. She finally came undone under the weight of his hand and his mouth and his warm embrace.

  After her slow climb, the surge of release came fast. It washed over her with no warning, a warm flood. Her limbs trembled with the force of her inner pulses, and her spirit seemed to leave her body, drawn into a realm where all was warmth and light and pure joy. When she settled back into herself, the last concentric rings of her release were fading and she was once again bouncing along the Scottish excuse for a road in a rattling coach.

  And Rhys was kissing her again, his mouth soft on hers.

  Urging her to return from wherever she’d been.

  Now it was her turn to torment him. She grinned wickedly, moved to the seat opposite him, and tugged off her gloves. If there was no wrong way to undress a man, then it stood to reason there was no wrong way to partially disrobe him. Then she undid his trouser buttons with agonizing slowness.

  Chapter 26

  The faint scent of alyssum he always associated with Olivia wafted toward him, along with a strongly sweet muskiness. Rhys responded to both. When Olivia moved off his lap, her skirts had drooped downward and now covered her knees, but her cloak was thrown back and her pert breasts still peeked out of the open bodice.

  A delight to his eyes and frustration to his cock. How he’d love to rub its full length in the sweet hollow between those lovely mounds.

  Her brows knit in concentration as she worked on his trouser buttons.

  It was the height of hubris for him to think he was going to teach her about all things sensual.

  Everything she did was already more than enough to send his body into rock-hard urgency. He resisted the urge to tell her to hurry. He didn’t want to break the spell. His knowledgeable former virgin took to carnal business like a fledgling highflyer. He clamped his lips shut and let her do as she would. She made short work of the fastenings on his trousers.

  Olivia sat back suddenly and frowned at him. “You’re wearing drawers,” she said accusingly. “You told me you didn’t.”

  “I’m not in dress clothes,” he explained. “I only go without undergarments when the line of the trousers is in jeopardy.”

  He took her hand and guided it back to his groin, showing her how to find the slit in his undergarments that allowed his cock to spring free.

  When her fingers found his bare flesh, Rhys released her hand, letting her explore as she wished. Even though his shaft was ready for action, she wasn’t content until she’d eased his scrotum out as well. He leaned back and watched her through half-closed eyes while she studied his male parts.

  Her pupils expanded, darkening her hazel eyes as she trailed a teasing fingertip around his balls. Every wiry hair stood at full attention. She knuckled his testicles and slid along the full length of his penis. She discovered the rough patch of skin just beneath the head.

  Rhys shuddered with pleasure.

  “So,” she said, her voice a satisfied purr, “that’s your special spot.”

  “One of them. Touch me anywhere and I’m a happy man.” He willed the pressure in his shaft to drop, but a pearl of fluid formed on his tip despite his best efforts.

  “I’m glad I make you happy,” she beamed.

  He reached to stroke her breasts, and her nipples tightened.

  “I can think of something that would make me happier.”

  Her smile was luminous enough to light the dreariest Scottish day. She lifted her gown and cloak as she climbed onto his lap again, settling herself near his groin. With the movement of the coach surging forward in bounds and swaying from side to side, it was a good trick, but she managed it. The soft warmth of the curls between her legs tickled against his shaft. He silently blessed the tailor who dreamed up crotchless pantalets. If Rhys were king, he’d elevate the fellow to a baronetcy at the very least.

  “I married a mind reader,” he told her.

  “Not such a feat since the bent of a rake’s mind is fairly easy to guess.”

  At that moment, the coach lurched into a pothole that sent them both airborne. When they came back down, his cock slipped into her in a single lucky thrust.

  “Oh!” she said, her eyes wide.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Better than all right.” She squeezed his length with her inner muscles and laughed. “That was a happy accident. I thought you said doing this in a coach could lead to spectacular disasters.”

  “It almost did.” Rhys laughed with her, jubilant over the way she engulfed all of him. Not all his previous bed partners could. She was a snug fit, but she was so ready, he’d slid in hard without hurting her. He covered her mouth, her cheeks, and chin with kisses.

  Then he moved to her breasts. She arched them into his mouth. He scraped his teeth over her nipples. Those little mewling sounds of pleasure she made sent his cock into near spasms.

  She shifted her weight, grinding her hips on him, coating him with the wetness of her arousal. He wasn’t ready for it to end so he bit his lip to keep from spilling his seed.

  “Careful, you’ll make it bleed.” She leaned forward and kissed him softly, suckling his bottom lip so he couldn’t bite it any longer.

  He rocked himself under her.

  She sent him a perfectly wicked smile and lifted herself on her knees until he was nearly expelled. Then she lowered herself on him again inch by maddening inch, luxuriating in her own arousal.

  Rhys couldn’t believe his luck. He was leg-shackled to a woman who reveled in the joys of the body as much as he did. He knew he didn’t deserve her. He just hoped she wouldn’t figure that out for a while.

  He hadn’t spoken to God in a long time, but he launched a prayer skyward, thanking Providence for giving him such a randy little wife.

  “What a perfect devil you are,” he breathed as she engulfed him in her hot, tight channel.

  “Perhaps I have the makings of a lady rake,” she said, setting their pace.

  “Only with me,” he said fiercely.

  Her eyelids drooped languidly as she moved on him. Her lips parted in pleasure. She raised her arms and steadied herself with splayed fingers on the coach’s ceiling.

  “Only with you,” she promised.

  Rhys reached between them to spread her soft folds and circle her spot again. She might be setting the pace, but he wanted to give to her as well. He liked the control of pushing her to another pinnacle.

  Her head fell back, her cloak slipping off her shoulders. She arched her back and quickened her rhythm.

  Rhys groaned.

  He wished for a bed so he could spread her out and torment her properly. He’d make her beg.

  But now he was near to begging himself. She brought him to the brink, then slowed her pace, denying him release. At least at the slower rhythm, Rhys could stroke her more deftly, using feather-light touches that had her panting.

  She moved faster again, but he kept up the pressure she seemed to need. A low growl of feminine desire rumbled out of her.

  He was close, perilously close. He really ought to pull out. He hadn’t done so on their wedding night, but he’d silently berated himself for it several times since. Children were a complication their already complicated marriage didn’t need. He should be more responsible. He ought to make it a firm policy that he’d do the gentlemanly thing and withdraw.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to sever their connection. He ached to feel her come around him. He arched up, penetrating her as deeply as he could. She cried out.

  Her first spasm fisted around his cock. He teetered on the brink of control. She pulsed hard, squeezing him in sudden little contractions. The spurt of his semen rushed upward and it was suddenly far too late to do the gentlemanly thing.

  He pumped for half a minute, clasping her close, wallowing in the fierce pleasure of release. His breathing was still ragged when the last pulse died.
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  Her arms wrapped around his neck and he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Her heart rate finally slowed from a gallop to a canter.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She leaned back and cocked her head at him, a puzzled frown marring her brow. “For what?”

  Guilt gnawed at him. Childbed was no light matter. Churchyards were littered with the graves of young mothers. Why hadn’t he thought of that before he swived her willy-nilly?

  “For not withdrawing at the last moment,” he said.

  Her cheeks paled. “Why would you do that?”

  “So I don’t get you with child, of course.” She was so damn trusting. Hadn’t she learned yet that he didn’t deserve it? “Honestly, did your mother tell you nothing?”

  He hadn’t meant it to come out like that. It was just that he couldn’t bear the thought of her going through the pain and danger of childbirth because he let his body make the wrong decision.

  The selfish decision.

  Olivia moved off his lap and slid over to the opposite seat, smoothing down her skirts. She fiddled with her bodice. Not meeting his gaze, she covered her breasts and tied the lace over them in a neat bow. She fumbled with her buttons.

  “Let me help,” he said softly.

  “I’m perfectly capable,” she said, her voice tight.

  He was plagued with an odd sense of loss. For a brief moment, when he and Olivia were joined, he wasn’t alone. He was part of a glorious “us.” Now his soul was his own again and he was already tired of his own company.

  “Are you angry?” he asked.

  She glared at him. “Shouldn’t I be? You’ve just told me you don’t want me to bear your child.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “How else could you possibly mean it?” She pulled her cloak tighter around her.

  “I didn’t know you wanted children,” he said. She’d never mentioned it. Of course, it wasn’t a subject a rake usually broached with a woman he intended to ruin. It occurred to him that he could report success to Mr. Alcock now, but since the Duke of Clarence had already cried off, Rhys’s deal with the Member of Parliament was probably a moot point. Guilt strafed his soul afresh.