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Rhys slid one hand between them to cup her breast, his fingers teasing at the nipple through the fine fabrics until somehow he freed it from the constriction of her stays.
Thea moaned against his mouth as his tongue plunged in, filling her with the taste of him. His fingers rolled and pinched the hard peak past the point of discomfort into a thrilling, shocking dazzle of excitement that flashed like lightning to her core. It was uncomfortable, exciting, wild. The wall was unyielding, his body as hot and as hard as the stone. She tried to move, to rub against the hard muscle of his thigh to reach for the pleasure that seemed just out of reach. She felt full, swollen, wet down there. ‘I need...’ she panted.
‘Tell me.’
‘I need to move.’
‘No. I am in control here.’ He left her nipple, slid his hand down, bunched up her skirts and pushed his fingers between his own leg and the swollen folds that ached for him. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘Yes. Rhys...please.’
Then he touched her, one long, sliding stroke perfectly placed, and she shattered, sobbing, limp in his arms.
‘Can you stand?’
Thea found herself with both feet on the ground, Rhys still holding her pressed between his body and the wall. ‘I think so.’
‘Good. I cannot see our host approving of me sweeping you through the front door and up the stairs in my arms.’ He eased away and took her arm.
‘A pity, it would be so romantic.’ She sighed with pure contentment, all her dark worries fled. ‘The darkness and the starlight. These ancient buildings, the warm air and the scents. The music...’
‘Venice will be more so. Gondolas and beautiful palazzos reflected in the canals.’
Venice would be wonderful, and it would be the end. Once she was safe with Godmama, Rhys would leave. There would be no romance in Venice, only safety. Safety from a drab half-life, safety from the pain of being with Rhys. ‘I am resolved to enjoy every moment as I live it,’ Thea said, pushing the thoughts away. ‘Tonight, teach me to make love to you, Rhys. Show me how to give you pleasure.’
‘You already do.’ His voice was husky.
‘You are being careful with me, I know. Show me, Rhys.’ She sensed both his arousal and his reluctance to what? Shock her? ‘It excites me to think of touching you. I want to drive you wild.’
‘Continue talking like that and you will have succeeded. Talking is even more powerful than thinking, sometimes.’
‘We’re here.’ Thea made herself walk sedately up the steps to the front door. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’ She nodded to the proprietor. ‘I’ll retire, I think, my lord,’ she added to Rhys, ‘and leave you to your brandy.’
‘Goodnight, Lady Althea.’ She heard him talking to the Frenchman, discussing Cognac. When she reached the landing she picked up her skirts and ran to her chamber. There was something she had bought in Orange, just for Rhys, never thinking he would see it.
She had bathed before they went out, so now she threw off her clothes and sponged herself all over with the tepid water on the nightstand, dabbed rosewater behind her ears, between her breasts and behind her knees. The nightgown she had bought slid over her curves like the water of the Rhone had done that afternoon, silky, fluid, semitransparent, honey coloured. Her hands went to the pins holding her hair up and then left them. Rhys liked to take it down; she had learned that already.
What else might he like? She was going to find out and the waiting was killing her. Thea paced back and forth, the new silken gown swishing around her ankles. Would he like it? The vendeuse had assured her it would bring any lover to his knees.
The sharp intake of breath behind her was all the warning she had that Rhys was in the room. He closed the door and leaned back against it. ‘Is this my birthday?’ He fumbled behind him with none of his usual coordination and managed to turn the key in the lock. ‘You no longer believe you are plain, do you, Thea?’
‘I am not beautiful. Rhys, you do not have to flatter me—it is more than enough that you desire me.’
He pushed away from the door and began to walk towards her, shedding clothes as he came. Neckcloth, coat and waistcoat fell to the floor. ‘No, you aren’t beautiful.’ He heeled off his shoes. ‘You are extraordinary.’ He dragged his shirt over his head and dropped it. ‘You leave me speechless,’ he said as he unfastened his breeches and kicked those and his stockings out of the way.
Thea swallowed at the sight of all that male magnificence right in front of her. ‘Your body is communicating quite adequately without words,’ she managed. His erection stirred as if it had a life of its own. ‘But you had best find the words to tell me what to do.’
‘Explore. You have me at your mercy, do what you will.’ His eyes were half-shut, his hands fisted at his sides, his chest with its light pelt of dark hair rising and falling with his breathing. ‘Men are very visual animals—we are aroused by what we see. And our minds are aroused by what we hear,’ he added, his gaze fixed on her lips. ‘And what we imagine.’
So much control and so much banked heat. What would happen if she forced him to even exert even greater control? Thea padded forward and threaded her fingers into the hair on his chest. Rhys lifted his hands. ‘No, don’t touch, leave them by your side. I am exploring.’
To her surprise he obeyed, even when she raked her nails lightly over his nipples and he growled, deep in his throat. A big cat, provoked, she thought, hardly daring to breathe.
She slid her hands down, over the rippling, corded muscles of his stomach, across to his flanks, down his thighs, ignoring the reflexive thrust of his hips that demanded she touch him where he most wanted. ‘Lie down on the bed. Face down,’ she added and was rewarded by the flare of curiosity in his eyes.
Still in the silken nightgown Thea climbed onto the bed and straddled his thighs. She leaned forward and palmed his buttocks, intrigued by how hard the muscle became as it tightened under her hands. She slid them up, her thumbs following the groove of his spine, stroked them over the scars and healing bruises from the accident. ‘Where do you get all this muscle from?’ she asked, bending low so her nipples touched his back through the silk.
‘Riding, sparring, fencing, swimming.’
‘I am taking off the nightgown,’ Thea murmured. She stroked it down his back and over his buttocks, and his hands fisted in the thick white cotton of the bedspread. ‘Now I am taking out my hairpins and letting down my hair.’ She knelt up and bent to sweep it across his shoulders, up and down until he shivered beneath her, muscles bunching with his effort to stay in control.
‘What are you doing now?’ Rhys rasped when she sat back to recover her breath.
What would drive him wild? Dare she? Thea murmured, ‘Touching my breasts.’
Rhys rolled faster than she could react. Thea found herself pinned beneath him, staring up into dark blue eyes burning in a face stark with desire. ‘You are more provoking than the most skilled courtesan could ever be. It is all instinct and honesty with you, isn’t it? No wiles, just natural, sensual skill.’
‘Skill?’ she faltered. ‘But I don’t know what I am doing.’
‘You are driving me wild, that is what you are doing.’ He caught her wrists and held them one-handed above her head so he could nuzzle her breasts, use teeth and lips and tongue.
‘I was...exploring,’ Thea gasped, writhing against his hold on her wrists, ‘and you stopped me. Next time I will tie your hands to the bed head with my stockings and then I can do what I like.’ Rhys went very still. ‘Would you dislike that?’
‘I have never wanted to lose that much control,’ he said slowly and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. ‘But perhaps...’
‘It excites you.’ Thea arched up against the rigid evidence of just how much.
‘You excite me.’ He dipped his head to brush his cheek, rough with the evening regrowth of his beard, over her sensitive nipples. ‘You could probably suggest making love in a bath of cold custard and it would be arousing, you witch.’
‘I don’t think—’ Thea broke off, panting, and curled her legs around his hips. ‘I don’t think they make custard in France.’
‘Crème anglaise.’ Rhys gasped and eased into her on one long stroke, hot and hard and overwhelming.
‘Whipped cream,’ she murmured against his mouth as she rose to meet him. ‘Chocolate sauce...’
‘Thea.’ Rhys dropped his forehead to hers and held himself still. She could feel his heart hammering. ‘If you mention one more sweet, slithery foodstuff or item of underwear or thing to tie me to, then I am going to lose control completely.’
‘Warm strawberry jam, corset strings, bed posts,’ she whispered as she twisted to curl her tongue into his ear. ‘Oh...Rhys!’
* * *
An hour later Thea snuggled up against him, sleepy, satiated, warm. Rhys had lost control and had been hard, urgent, almost desperate, which was very satisfying. And then, of course, he had to make up for it by making slow, tender, exquisitely careful love to her. It seemed incredible that she could excite him so, could satisfy him. Could even, she thought with a sleepy smile, shock him a little. What would it be like to have that big, beautiful body helpless while she investigated what pleased him?
