Page 12 of The Lyon and the Lamb

He smiled. That little pause had made her anxious and forced her to enter the game. He decided to torment her more. He brushed his cheek against one breast, laved an erect nipple with his tongue, and was rewarded with a gasp. He pulled away, stroked the sides of her breasts, then gave the other nipple the same treatment. She sucked in another sharp breath.

It was the hardest thing of all, to pull away again, and wait for her response. But eventually, her hands were on his body again, feeling their way down his flanks, exploring every muscle, every sinew. Then she pushed at him again in mute demand.

This time, he took a nipple in his mouth and sucked gently, grazing it carefully with his teeth. His kiss swallowed her gasp. When she pushed against him urgently and her hands pressed into his flesh, he knew he was winning.

Her hands felt their way up his neck, forced themselves into his hair, then explored his neck and the muscles of his shoulders. He groaned, and raised himself, nudging her legs with his knee. She immediately parted for him.

My word, could she be ready for him so soon? He stroked her crotch, and she let out a shuddering sigh. Then her hands bit into his shoulders—she wasn’t ready to relinquish power to him just yet. Forcing down his excitement, he paused once more, then lowered his head to bestow a kiss on the exquisite silk of her mound. He waited, repeated the gesture, then waited again.

If only she would touch him now! She must be able to feel his pendant manhood brushing against her belly. But if it was too soon for her, he understood. Pleasure was infinitely more delicious when one had to work for it.

He laid his hand between her legs and let it remain there, allowing her to get used to the feel of him so close to her entrance. Then he deployed his finger, returning his mouth to hers to gauge her response. The bucking of her hips told him all he needed to know, as did the flow of hot moisture between her legs. She was ready for him. Could he endure waiting a moment longer to claim her for his own?

He pushed against her opening, gently, slowly, inexorably. She was tight—oh, so tight! He would have to take his time, but that made the ultimate reward all the more precious. If only he could speak! He would tell her how divine she was, how wonderful she felt to touch, to smell. That exotic scent she wore was making him dizzy—or was it just the delirious happiness that washed over him?

Now he was inside, and he could feel the welcoming warmth of her body clenched around him. Was any sensation ever as exquisite as this one? Men might drink, fight, take opium, and race horses, but there was no experience, no sensation, as all-encompassing, as miraculously satisfying, as joining with a woman. He pressed deeper, withdrew, then pushed in again.

She had wrapped her legs around him now, giving him full access to her soft core. They were no longer two separate beings, but one, squeezing, pushing, driving each other higher and higher. He wanted to make this last. He needed to prove to her that he was no selfish lover, that he could be the best husband any woman could want in her bed.

But of course, his body had its needs, and he’d deprived himself for too long. He pressed in again, and again, and increased his speed, relishing the friction, the hot moist contact between their bodies, his hardness and her softness, complete opposites coming together to create one ecstatic whole.

He should pull out—now was the moment to withdraw. He attempted to disentangle himself from the woman wrapped so tightly around him, but suddenly she had him in a bruising grip, urging him on and refusing to let go.

For a dizzying moment, his willpower hung upon a knife edge. Then, accepting that this was what she wanted, he permitted himself a glorious release, unable to prevent the impassioned moan that escaped his lips. She made small sounds of her own, gasping, breathing rapidly, sighing, and whimpering as her head moved from side to side. It was almost as if she were surprised by her response, as if she’d never experienced such ecstasy before.

He supposed he should be proud of himself. His face broke into a self-congratulatory smile. How he wished for light, so she could see how gratified he was, how thrilled and delighted to have made her his. And he needed to know that he’d pleased her.

His body relaxed into the deep calm he always felt after such intimacies, and he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, and rested his chin against her hair. Normally at a time such as this, sweet words would be exchanged, and vows of everlasting love declared. But they were forbidden to speak, he couldn’t see his lover, and it was killing him. So, he held her close, stroked and soothed her, and made wordless sounds of comfort and reassurance.

Later, when he was sure she must be asleep, he eased away, pulled the covers up to her shoulders, and felt his way back in what he thought must be the direction of the door. It was high time he looked upon the face of the woman he had claimed for his own in the most fundamental way possible. Forgetting that he was still naked, he flung open the door, allowing flickering lamplight to flood the room.

And was immediately gripped around the neck by a strong arm while a bag was forced over his head.

Chapter Six

Araminta awoke. She stretched lazily, luxuriously, then opened her eyes.

The room was still dark—good. She had no wish to leave the bed yet—her body thrummed with pleasure still, and she reached for the man who’d gifted her such ecstasy throughout the night. She’d never known it before, and the idea that she might actually have the same joy repeated in the marriage bed was as heady as strong wine.

She felt for her lover, but there was no warm, powerful body beside her, no head upon the pillow. As she sat up in shock, she realized what had woken her—there was a ruckus in the corridor outside. It sounded like a fight, with curses, grunts, and bumps. Alarmed, she felt around for a lamp, but there was none.

Where were her clothes? She couldn’t face danger naked. Gathering a sheet around her, she padded to the door, and at the same time, a man shouted, “Get your hands off me. Don’t you know who I am?”

His voice was strangely muffled. Had someone been trying to break into their room, and was he being restrained by one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veterans? For a brief moment, she feared it must be one of her husband’s relations, come to deny her the opportunity of taking over Forty Court.

The voice came again, and this time it was clear as a bell. “I wish to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon at once! You cannot treat a peer of the realm so shabbily!”

Her fear turned to dread. Oh heavens! She knew that voice—it was Lord Aylsham.

Scuttling back in the direction of the bed, she banged her knees painfully on the edge, then flung herself under the covers, fighting back tears. What was he doing outside? Oh, to be discovered thus by him! Aylsham’s opinion of her was low enough already, but if he knew what she’d just done, he’d be appalled. He’d be sure to spread the word and ruin her reputation. He wasn’t the kind to let sleeping dogs lie.

After all, she had dared to confront him, to stand up to him, and if he were the kind of man to have a resentful nature—which she suspected he was—he would revel in publicizing her downfall to all his cronies. She was finished!

Before she could work out what to do, the door opened and she froze, hoping that nothing of herself was visible.

“You may come out now, Lady Lamb. Everything has quietened down.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice.

Araminta let out an enormous sigh of relief. “It sounds as if there’s been a battle outside.”