Page 73 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
It was enough. For now, it was enough. In time, she had little doubt, he would give her more. He would give her all of himself. She was partially to blame for his unwillingness to reveal everything within his heart, but she had seen enough of his small kindnesses, his love, his strength, to know that she loved him. She would do what she must to have him love her.
Rising, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him.
* * *
“Is it here?” he asked.
He drew his tongue along the center of her sole until her toes curled.
“No,” she answered, peering down at his dark head, rubbing her hand along his calf. He was stretched out beside her, but in the opposite direction. The windows had been left open, and the breeze fluttered the curtains. She could hear the ocean thrashing at the shore. As darkness had descended, they’d spotted the pale lights of a distant ship. She did find something calming about this place.
“Here,” he said, twirling his tongue over her ankle.
“No.”
“Can you not at least give me a hint?”
She gave him a seductive smile. “I’d rather you explore.”
She couldn’t believe her boldness, lying completely bare before him. His smoldering gaze traveled over her, causing her breathing to quicken.
“It must be someplace I’ve not touched, but I swear I’ve touched all of you.” He studied her intently and she fought not to squirm. He sat up and skimmed his long, talented fingers along her leg, past her knee, along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. He teased the juncture between thigh and hip. She jumped but only smiled. His eyes narrowed.
“I’ve been very thorough,” he murmured seductively, “along your front, along your back. Have I neglected your side?”
She shivered as he made his way up her body, like some predatory beast, until his face was directly over hers. “Which side, Claire?”
Shaking her head, she instinctively pressed her left arm closer to her body, and his beautiful, naughty mouth spread into a victorious smile. He released a low chuckle before moving to the side as though to leave her. The second she relaxed, he pounced, grabbing both her wrists, and carrying them over her head, holding them in place with one hand, his leg pinning her hips against the bed.
“Westcliffe—”
His laughter was both dark and teasing, just before his fingers lightly taunted her skin, near the swell of her breast. Beth had tickled her when they were girls, her fingers probing and jabbing—still she’d been powerless not to laugh. But his touch—
“Oh, God, don’t!” She tried to buck him off, but he was too large, too strong, too powerful—except for the touch at her side that was more devastating, that made her squirm until a bubble of laughter erupted. “Don’t!”
He stopped abruptly. As her laugh died, he cradled her face. “I love your laughter.” Then he was kissing her deeply as though he wanted to explore for the sound.
Love. A word she was certain didn’t come easily for him. But could he love her laughter without loving more of her? Perhaps eventually all of her?
He released her wrists. The game changed. It was no longer about tickling and making her laugh. It was about touching intimately, making her moan. And she did. She never could have imagined there were so many different ways to touch. Light and hard, soft and firm. A slow stroke, a tantalizing circle. A cool breath stirring the fine hairs on her nape. A warm breath heating her throat. There was nothing he would not do. There was nothing she’d not allow him to try.
She trusted him completely—in her bed and out of it. She believed he trusted her implicitly in his bed. She hoped that he was tentatively beginning to trust her beyond the bed. He’d brought her here, shared with her a place he’d shared with no one. They talked on the balcony about his dreams of travel. He wanted children with her. He wanted a legacy that was not a crumbling estate and a need to marry for coin. He’d even told her how very well-off they were now—he’d never be content with it, would always want more. He knew what it was to be dependent on another’s good graces. He didn’t want that for his children. He’d work to obtain what he desired, when most nobles wouldn’t.
He was a man she respected, admired, and had come to love.
The passion between them flared as it always did. He entered her with one sure thrust, and she received him gladly, welcoming the thickness of him. They moved together in rhythm. Holding his gaze, she watched the contours of his face strain against the escalating pleasure. Beneath her hands, the muscles of his back bunched and undulated. Within her, the sensual sensations rippled and grew—until they could no longer be contained. When they burst through her, he was there with her, his body jerking, his hoarse calling of her name echoing and mingling with her unrestrained cry.
They came down from the pinnacle together, their arms wrapped around each other, their bodies slick and heated. Outside the waves crashed, but within, she knew a contented peace.
Stretched out on the sand, raised up on an elbow, he watched her wading out into the water wearing only a light cotton shift. This was an isolated stretch of coastline. There was little chance that anyone would come across them. He should join her, but the desperation with which he wanted to do so troubled him.
He’d never before felt anything beyond the physical with any woman—but with her he felt far too much. Always, he could hold his own satisfaction at bay, prolong it to draw out the pleasure, but when he made love with her, the emotional satisfaction of watching her climax heightened his pleasure to such a degree that he lost all control. His body shuddered with its intense release as hers did or so very near that he barely had time to draw in a breath.
With other women, he’d always felt something was missing. With Claire, he feared he might have found it. Her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted anyone. He needed her—and he had no desire to need anyone. He enjoyed her company. He appreciated all aspects of her.
He would awaken next to her, and his chest would tighten with such gladness—
He didn’t like being dependent on her in this manner. He’d been dependent before. It made a man feel closed in, uncertain, less than a man. He felt none of those things with her, yet he knew she had far too much power. She could hurt him as she had once before.
