Page 71 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
As he laid her on the bed, his mouth came down on hers with an urgency, then a gentleness. He massaged her neck, stroked her cheek. There was almost a sweetness to the kiss, as though he were imploring her to accept him, to want him. To be content with what he could give, even as he seemed to be acknowledging that he knew it wasn’t enough. He could carry her to incredible heights of pleasure, but he couldn’t reveal his heart.
He trailed his lips along her throat, a leisurely sojourn, leaving behind the dampness of his mouth and little tongue tickles. The urgency he’d expressed in the bathtub was gone. He’d needed her for a physical release that would cleanse him as much as the soap and water. She understood that, the importance of it. But how did she convince him that she could be so much more?
Had all the women he’d been with wanted nothing more from him than this? As exquisite as it was, she wanted him to know that he was so much more than this. But it was a task for another time, because he was very skilled at this—until all her concerns melted away, until she was lost in sensations.
His tongue circled one breast while his hand kneaded the other. Desire swirled, clamoring for the release he could provide. She threaded her fingers through his hair, as he scooted down, his breath wafting over her stomach. Delicious, intoxicating. He moved lower, parting her thighs.
“Westcliffe?”
“Shh.” He looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “It’s your turn now.”
He buried his mouth in the soft curls, and his tongue swept over her sensitive flesh. She nearly came off the bed, only he held her down, the fingers of one hand splayed over her stomach. They inched upward to cup her breast, and his thumb toyed with her nipple while his tongue continued its wicked doings below.
She skimmed her hands over his shoulders, felt his muscles rippling beneath her touch, just as her own body undulated with each stroke of his tongue. He suckled and nibbled. He thrust and soothed. The pressure built until she was arching against him, crying out, experiencing a cataclysmic release that had her soaring among glittering stars before falling back, breathless and limp.
His low moan echoed around her. He slid up her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. When he reached her throat, he eased off her and nestled his face in the curve of her shoulder.
She thought she felt his mouth form a smile before he drifted off to sleep. His arm and leg were draped heavily over her. She couldn’t move. But she wouldn’t have even if she’d had the ability. She simply wanted to stay curled against him.
Blood and carnage. So many crying out for help. He struggled to reach them—
He awoke with a start, a cry echoing around him. And she was immediately there, caressing his chest, kissing his shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she murmured softly. “Were you there again, in your dreams? At the railway accident?”
Not dreams, nightmares. He wondered how long before they’d dissipate. “Yes.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.”
The lamp on the bedside table was burning low, creating a halo around her. His angel. He combed his fingers through her hair. Why was she so different from the others? Why was being with her so different?
“How was the ball?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Did you dance?”
“No.”
“Did Beth dance?”
“Repeatedly.” She tapped her finger on his chest.
“What is it?” he asked.
She peered through her lashes at him. “You wish me to talk about what bothers me, but you won’t talk about anything that you’re feeling.”
“Why don’t you teach me how to do it by demonstrating?”
Grinning wryly, she shook her head. “After what you went through earlier, my troubles are nothing really.”
“Troubles? What troubles?” He threaded his fingers through her hair, anchoring her head so she couldn’t prevent him from studying her face. “Did something happen at the ball?”
“Lady Anne spoke to me.”
He swore beneath his breath. Anne could be cutting when she wanted—and she very often wanted. “That can’t have been pleasant.”
