Page 58 of Guilty Pleasures

Daphne ran her hands along his torso, savoring the hard muscles beneath his clothes, feeling the excitement of all their past bargains. “And if I do, what do you offer me in exchange, your grace?”

“What do you want?”

She thought of that fresco, of that man and woman, his hand on her breast, their bodies locked together, and she decided it was time for her to start being honest with herself about what she felt and what she wanted. “The same thing you do,” she answered and reached for his cravat, but her inexperienced fingers could not loosen the tight, intricate knot.

“Let me do it.” He made short work of the neckcloth, and it fluttered to the floor. He removed his waistcoat, then pulled off his shirt.

Daphne stared at him. No view through a spyglass, this. She reached out to touch his chest, and found that he was not cold beneath her hands. His muscles were hard like stone, but warm. He did not move, but she could feel his gaze on her face as she studied him in the silver light and traced with her fingers every line and shadowed contour she had so often drawn with her pencil. She flattened her palms against the chiseled muscles of his abdomen and leaned forward to press a kiss to his breastbone.

He stifled a groan and grasped her wrists. “Enough,” he said. “Now, say it.”

She did not want to. Oddly enough, it seemed too intimate, even as she kissed his naked chest, she did not want to say his name and evoke all the feelings of her lovesick former self. This moment was no fantasy view through a spyglass. This was real, and the feelings coursing through her body spoke of desire, not love, not even infatuation. Her body ached for him. She lifted her gaze to his. Wordless, she reached for his hand, held it in her own, touched it to her breast.

Anthony opened his hand over her, and she made a faint sound of surprise. Oh, the exquisite sweetness of it, spreading through her body like warm honey. He shaped and cradled her breast against his palm, and that warmth became a desperate longing that made her ache. She leaned into his hand, wanting more.

She did not get it. He pulled away, but before she could protest this abandonment, she felt his hands at her bodice, and he was undoing the buttons of her dress.

When they were unfastened, Anthony tugged the edges of her dress down her arms and pressed kisses to her neck just above the low neckline of her chemise. “My name,” he said against her skin. “I will have you say it.”

She knew they were about to engage in the most intimate thing a man and woman could do, but she could still not bring herself to say his name. She shook her head and put her hands on his hips, pulling him closer.

He brushed his fingertips back and forth over the bare skin at the tops of her breasts, and Daphne moaned, reaching behind her to grasp the edge of the table as her knees began to give way. He pulled back the edges of her gown, then unbuttoned her chemise, baring her breasts fully to the cool air, then covering them with the warmth of his hands.

Daphne could hear herself making inarticulate sounds as he shaped her breasts in his hands, each caress of his fingers making her burn with need, a need that made her arch closer to him. She rocked her hips against his thighs, and the contact sent shafts of pleasure through her body.

The contact seemed to spark something in him. He slid the gown and chemise back from her shoulders, then reached down, grasping folds of her skirt and petticoat in his fists and pulling them up around her waist. Cold caressed her bare legs above her stockings, and his hands burned against her bare buttocks as he lifted her onto the table.

She felt the shape of his phallus hard and aroused against the outside of her knee as his fingertips glided along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

“Yes, yes,” she moaned instead of his name, leaning back, resting her weight on her hands, his feather-light touch making her hips jerk in response. The sanded surface of the table felt like satin beneath her. Her dress strained against her arms, the braid edging cutting sharply into her skin, but she did not care.

He bent down, unbuttoning more of her gown and tugging up the hem of her chemise. He kissed her belly, a hot, wet kiss over her navel, as his fingers moved farther down to touch her in a place she could not even name, each caress sending shards of indescribable pleasure through her. He knew it, too, knew what she wanted better than she did, for he was tormenting her with his relentless demand. “Say my name,” he breathed against her skin. “Say it, Daphne. Say it.”

He touched her with his thumb, and that tiny movement unlocked something inside her, released all the repressions and restraints she had imposed on herself ever since she had first met him. With the force of a river breaking through a dam, pure, indescribable pleasure rushed through her, and she could no longer stop herself from giving him what he wanted. “Anthony,” she cried, “oh, please, oh, yes, yes.”

He heard his name amid the almost incoherent rush of other sounds that came from her, pleas and sighs and moans that told him more clearly than any words what his touch was doing to her. God, she was sweet. So, so sweet.

Anthony caressed her until she climaxed a second time, then he moved between her thighs. If he held back any longer, he would explode. He tore at his trousers, undoing buttons with frantic haste, then he moved between her thighs, spreading them farther apart.

“Daphne,” he said, sliding his hands behind her shoulders, pulling her to a sitting position. She slid to the edge of the table, and the feel of her, moist and inviting against the tip of his penis drove away any thought but the need to possess her. With one hard thrust, he entered her.

She cried out, and he knew he had hurt her. He stilled, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and tightened her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper into her, and he lost any semblance of sanity. He touched her breasts, kissed her face, and murmured words to arouse her without knowing what he was saying as he drove into her again and again, pushing himself to the edge of oblivion. When he climaxed, he went over that edge, falling into a white-hot heaven of pure sensation.

It was only afterward, when they were lying on the table, when he had one arm wrapped around her and the other beneath her head as a pillow, only when his cloak covered them both and his body was pressed to hers to protect her from the cold—it was only then that he came to his senses, reminding himself of the inevitable consequences of what he had just done.

Chapter 20

Daphne felt him get up, and she opened her eyes. The hint of dawn that came in through the windows enabled her to see him standing beside the table, his back to her.

She lifted herself onto an elbow and stared at his bare back. He was so close that she did not need her spectacles to see him clearly, so close that she could touch him. How wide his shoulders were, she thought, and how they tapered to hips narrower than hers. From her first sight of him at the excavation, she had known what an appealing sight a man could be without his shirt. Such strength, and yet he had held her so gently, touched her so exquisitely. Without the warmth of his body, the room was freezing cold, but just thinking about what had happened only a short while ago was enough to keep her warm. It was enough to make her smile.

With a huge yawn, she sat up, pushing aside his cloak to pull the sleeves of her dress back into place on her shoulders.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said, without turning to look at her.

“No.” She moved her legs astride his hips and wrapped her arms around his waist. She felt feminine, beautiful, and absurdly happy at this moment, content with the world and everything in it. How delightful that coupling with a man could do that to a woman. It was an extraordinary thing.

She laid her cheek against his back, and suddenly she realized how rigid he was in her embrace. She lifted her head with a frown. “Anthony?”

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