Page 73 of Because You're Mine
Madeline nodded, forcing an unconcerned smile to her face, and went alone to her room. She would give him all the time he needed. She would be patient with him, just as she would with a wild creature that feared her touch…a creature that might be coaxed to eat from her hand or just as likely bite it off.
Changing into a thin long-sleeved gown, she snuggled beneath the heavy silk covers. Gradually the warmth of her body collected in the cocoon of bedclothes. Her bones seemed to ache, especially the lower region of her spine, and she changed position many times until she found a comfortable place on her side.
Sleep was elusive. Madeline listened in vain for the sound of Logan entering his room a few doors away. Gradually she drifted in and out of a fragmented slumber that gave her no peace. Waking from a vivid dream, she discovered that her legs were tight and knotted, and she flexed her calves to ease them. Immediately she was seized with a knifelike pain in her right leg, the muscle cramping and burning. She wasn’t aware of making a sound, but she must have, for Logan’s voice suddenly broke through the darkness, and she felt his weight as he climbed onto the mattress to reach her.
“Maddy,” he said urgently, his hands sliding over her as she gathered herself in a ball of pain. “Maddy, what the hell is wrong? Tell me—”
“My leg,” she gasped. It hurt. It paralyzed her so that no movement was possible. “Don’t touch me—”
“Let me.” Logan pushed her hands away and felt for her leg. “Try to relax.”
“I can’t.” But she leaned back against him and jerked as his hand closed around her calve. He found the cramped muscle and kneaded gently until the agony began to ebb. Madeline let out a sigh of relief, resting against Logan’s chest as he continued to work out the soreness. When he moved to her other leg, she managed a soft murmur—“That one’s all right”—but he hushed her and massaged it as well.
“What happened?” he asked, pushing her nightgown to the tops of her thighs.
“I woke with leg cramps,” Madeline replied, feeling drugged. Logan seemed to know exactly how to touch her, how deeply to ply her muscles without hurting them. “Julia said to expect it sometimes—it’s common for women in my condition.”
“I never knew that,” he said, sounding disgruntled. “How often does it happen?”
“I don’t know. This was the first time.” Modestly she tugged at the hem of her nightgown where it had ridden too high. “Thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” His hands slipped away from her, and Madeline yawned and curled on her side.
There were sounds of him undressing in the darkness, the rustle of clothes dropping to the floor. Madeline opened her eyes and stared at his shadowy figure. “Aren’t you going to leave?” she asked hesitantly.
“No, madam.” He crawled into the space beside her. “It seems that you’re determined to have me in your bed tonight.”
“If you’re implying that I was trying to trick you—”
“It’s clear that my charms are too much for you to resist. I understand.” His arm slid around her, and his smiling mouth covered hers.
Realizing that he was teasing her, Madeline pushed at his chest. “You conceited man—” she exclaimed with a laugh, as his hand closed around the back of her head.
“Kiss me.” He held her steady as his mouth moved over hers in gentle exploration, his breath burning her cheek. His playful mood vanished, replaced by an intense concentration, a tenderness, that she had never thought he would show her again. He touched her body with his fingertips, brushing across the downy hairs on her spine, the peaks of her breasts, the creases behind her knees. Madeline lay still beneath him, floating on a current of pleasure, trembling in anticipation as his mouth drifted across her chest.
He lingered on her nipples for long minutes, sucking and stroking with his tongue, bringing them to acutely hard points. Restlessly she arched upward, wanting his body over her, inside her, wanting him to crush her with his weight…but he held back, drawing the smooth pads of his fingers over her body in long trails of fire.
All shame deserted her, and she found herself gasping and pleading, opening her legs for him, until finally his fingers parted her aching flesh, sliding inside with teasing flicks.
Madeline reached down to grasp the stiff, hot length of him, her touch inexperienced but ardent. Logan drew in a sharp breath and held her tightly, one large hand sliding over hers. His voice was velvety-rough as he murmured in her ear. “Maddy, yes…sweet…this way…” Growling with pleasure, he taught her what he liked, pressing mingled words and kisses across her skin.
When he had reached his limits, Logan pulled her to her side and drew her leg high over his hip. Her small body, so supple and responsive, twined around him bonelessly, fitting as if she had been made for him. Entering her by slow degrees, he savored the feel of her, silk and heat enfolding him tightly. Her face was transfixed beneath his, her soft mouth drawn taut, low sounds coming from her throat. Slowly he rocked against her, pushing inside her, until Madeline shuddered and moaned, sensations colliding in a white-hot burst of rapture. Then Logan moved strongly between her thighs, inflamed by her sweet welcoming warmth, letting the tension uncoil and streak through him in exquisite release.
Afterward Logan remained inside her, cupping her body in his hands. Her skin was as delicate and fragrant as the petals of night-blooming jasmine. Lowering his mouth to her throat, he tasted the faint flavor of salt and touched his tongue to her still-rapid pulse. This was a luxury he didn’t usually allow himself, to linger with her in the aftermath. Too intimate, and dangerous.
The ticking of the gold mantel clock seemed to mock him. Ignoring the sound, he relaxed beside Madeline, his hands buried in the soft sheaves of her hair. She was his, after all. He could do as he liked with her…just as long as she never came to suspect that he loved her.
Faced with the prospect of a morning meeting with a playwright whose new work required extensive editing, Logan decided to see him at Banbury’s coffeehouse. He often did such work at the coffeehouse, where he was always shown to the same table located near a large window that provided ample daylight. The atmosphere at Banbury’s was relaxed and convivial. Hopefully it would serve to lighten the playwright’s mood, since he tended to regard each word he had written as sacred.
“Brew a pot that’s extra strong and black,” Mr. Banbury called to his daughter, who helped him run the place. “Mr. Scott has just arrived!”
Logan made his way to his usual table, stopping briefly here and there to exchange a few words with friends and acquaintances. Banbury’s tended to attract an intellectual crowd: artists, philosophers, and hordes of writers from Fleet Street.
One of the coffeehouse patrons, a fellow member of the Society of Artists, approached Logan as he set out the play folio, fresh sheets of parchment, and writing implements.
“Scott, what luck to see you here this morning!” the man, Lord Beauchamp, exclaimed heartily. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about a certain matter…pardon, I can see that you’re waiting for someone, but it won’t take long to ask you…”
“Ask away,” Logan said easily, indicating the chair next to him.
Lord Beauchamp sat and regarded him with an earnest smile. “I wouldn’t trouble you with this, Scott, but knowing of your close relationship with the artistic community and the generous patronage you’ve given to so many artists—”
