Page 22 of The Defiant One
Her hand found him. His knees buckled and, letting go of the table, he sank to the floor in defeat, pulling her with him, kissing her desperately.
"The devil take it . . ."
They fell sprawling into a pile of drawings. Andrew groaned, trying, with the last part of his mind that could still reason, with the last shreds of will that remained to him, to slide backward away from her ruthless seduction, from her maddening touch, but he couldn't hear himself think, couldn't feel himself feel, and knew nothing but the sweetly torturous feel of her hand, her gentle, exploring fingers. It was too much, even for him. His outflung hand managed to snare the leg of a chair; he tried to pull himself to safety, but he was trapped by his own passion. He let go of the chair. He let go of his will. And then, catching Celsiana around the waist, he yanked her up and atop him, rucking up her petticoats as he slid his hand beneath them and up her long, smooth-as-silk thighs.
Oh, God, she was right. Warm and wet . . . oh, so very, very wet. . . .
He heard her moan deep in her throat, felt her sigh against his cheek as his fingers sank into her moist cleft and began to stroke her.
"Yes, oh, that feels so much better," she breathed, showering fervent, inexperienced kisses all over his brow, his nose, and finally, his mouth. Andrew claimed her lips, quickly showing her how it was done, devouring the innocent sweetness of her mouth. His own breathing grew shallow. Erratic. He felt her palming his abdomen, and now her hand slid down to wrap itself around the base of his manhood, squeezing him oh so gently, oh so firmly. He sucked in his breath on a raw gasp; but when her fingers started to flicker over the engorged tip, he knew it was all over for him. His eyes flying open, he drew his lips back in a silent scream and made a wild grab for the chair leg to anchor himself.
It came over with a crash, hitting the table, then the floor near his ear, with a sound that nearly deafened him. A beaker fell and shattered on the floor, along with several bottles and a half-finished cup of tea. "Bloody hell," gasped Andrew. "Sweet, bloody hell!" And as he shut his eyes and tried, oh dear God, tried to delay his climax, Celsie began making little sobbing gasps that heralded her own coming release. The sound was enough to annihilate Andrew's control. Feverishly he seized her around the waist with both hands, plunked her down atop his rigid manhood as she helped guide him in, and, impaling her all the way to the hilt, began thrusting up into that tight, blessedly wet haven with desperate, frenzied, abandon.
"Oh!" she cried. "Oh, I think that is what I needed . . . what I wanted — oh, please . . ."
She met his savage thrusts with equal abandon. Her kisses rained down upon his hot forehead, his lips, his face. "Oh, please, Andrew — go faster!"
Her voluminous skirts and petticoats shrouding his body, her hair swinging wildly about his face as she rode him for all she was worth, he felt her inner muscles beginning to contract all around him.
"Faster!"
"Oh, Goddddddddddd —" Andrew shouted through clenched teeth as the white-hot explosion finally ripped through his loins. Carried along by her movements, he gave a final upward thrust, his senses splintering as she cried out and hung poised above him, her head thrown back, one breast jutting free, tears of unexpected ecstacy rolling down her cheeks as climax seized her as well.
Then she fell, panting and exhausted, across his bare chest just as the door crashed fully open.
Shocked silence.
Shocked, stunned, awful silence.
And then a calm and perfectly unfazed voice penetrating it:
"Dear me. This is certainly a most interesting experiment you are conducting, Andrew."
Still weak and dazed, Andrew raised his head. There was the duke of Blackheath. There was a handful of staring servants.
And there, God help them both, was Celsie's brother, the earl of Somerfield.
"Bloody hell," Andrew said, and throwing a hand over his eyes, let his head thump back to the floor.
Chapter 7
"You rutting bastard!" howled Gerald, drawing his sword and charging forward. "I'll kill you for this, so help me God!"
Lucien calmly reached out and caught the earl's elbow before he could decapitate his youngest brother. "Now, now, Somerfield, if you feel compelled to kill him, please do so outside. Bloodstains are so hard to get off a new floor, you know." He gazed down at the hapless pair, his angry sibling flat on his back, stark naked, and covered only by Celsie's petticoats. Not to mention her partially clothed body. "Besides, I am sure that my brother has a perfectly reasonable explanation . . ." He gave a maddening little smile. "Don't you, Andrew?"
"Damn right I do!" snarled Andrew, hooking a finger around a damp lock of Celsie's hair that webbed his face and glaring up at the intruders from beneath her prone body.
"I, for one, would like to hear it," said Lucien mildly.
"She drank the damned solution!"
"What solution?" thundered Somerfield.
Lucien came forward, retrieved the blanket from the floor, and tossed it over the couple. "My brother here devised an aphrodisiac," he explained conversationally, as though such discoveries were commonplace amongst English inventors. He crossed his arms and looked down at his brother, a faint smirk playing about his mouth. "Really, Andrew, you disappoint me. I would have thought you had more sense than to test such a . . . dangerous composition on a pretty young woman."
"I didn't test it, she asked to try it!"
Lucien shrugged. "Well then, I would have thought you had more sense than to say yes."
