The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(61)

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. There was no tea or supper with which they could occupy themselves while working up to anything more; there was no pretense that could explain his visit. They both knew why he was here and why she had let him in. They held one another’s gaze for long enough that Rob nearly started in on some small talk, but Marian reached out and slid her fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat, not pulling him close, but holding him in place. Then she stepped near and kissed him.

Christ, the way she kissed. It was as if she had a job to do, and that job was to memorize his lips, to map out every place that made him draw in his breath or tighten his grip on her waist. It was as if she wanted to take him apart, and he didn’t think he had ever wanted anything more than to let her.

She put her palm flat against his chest and gave him a push until he stepped backward, his back landing against the wall, his breath almost knocked out of him. Her fingers were on his waistcoat buttons, deftly popping them open until she reached the linen of his shirt and began to ruck it up. And all the while she kissed him, devastating soft kisses that left him gasping and hungry for more.

He let go of her for long enough to shrug out of his coat and waistcoat and to help her get his shirt free of his breeches, then over his head. She smoothed her hands over his chest, through the hair that ran down the center, pausing each time she encountered a scar. The room wasn’t bright enough for her to see, but he was familiar enough with the geography of his body to know that she could hardly miss them with her fingertips, touching him as she did.

If she spent much more time on his scars, that would probably put her right off the idea of doing anything else with him. So he slid a hand up her back and into her hair and then bent to kiss her. She kissed him back, but then hooked a finger into his waistband and tugged him toward the bed. There she gave him a shove and he landed on the mattress, looking up at her.

She hesitated, a little uncertain. “Is that . . . acceptable?”

“Yes,” he said, even before he understood that she was asking whether it was all right for her to manhandle him a little. In which case, “God yes please definitely,” he said on a soft exhale.

She settled onto the bed beside him, holding herself up on an elbow, and this time when they kissed there was nothing between them but the threadbare fabric of her wrapper and whatever she had on beneath it. He could feel her heart thudding against his own chest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, as if answering a question she hadn’t quite asked. “That’s all I want.”

“Surely that’s not all you want.”

“I think you want to make me feel good, too. I think you like having me at your mercy,” he ventured, really hoping he had this right. “I think you’d like that again.”

Her eyes were wide and dark and a little shocked. She nodded.

“I’d like that, too,” he said. “I think it’ll be easy. It’ll be so easy, Marian. How about this. I can’t unfasten my breeches or take myself in hand until you let me. Would you like that?”

She gave him a quick nod. Good. And then something passed over her face, something decisive and mischievous. “That’s enough talking, Rob. Now. You said you wanted to bring me pleasure, but so far all you’ve done is run your mouth.” She flopped back onto the pillow, one hand crooked behind her head.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, and unfastened the sash of her wrapper. Her shift was snowy white but so worn as to be nearly transparent, her nipples visible as dark shadows beneath the fabric. He cupped one breast, running his thumb over the tip and feeling it harden beneath his touch.

He lay beside her, his hand still on her breast, and resumed kissing her—first her mouth, then her neck, then a spot beneath her ear that always made her moan. When he reached for the hem of her shift, she arched up into his touch. When the hem was high enough to bare her breasts, he paused.

“You’re staring,” Marian said.

“Yes,” he agreed, and did it some more. He bent his head to take one pink nipple into his mouth, caressing the other with his thumb. She made a needy little sound and he kept going. He already knew that she liked his mouth on her, and he liked it, too, liked the taste of her and also the way she arched up into his touch. So he took his time with her, sucking and biting and licking, coaxing sounds out of her that he didn’t think she knew she was making. When he pulled back, her chest was flushed, wet where he had kissed, red where he had used his teeth. His erection strained uncomfortably against his breeches, so he sat back on his heels and reached down to adjust himself.

“Tsk,” she chided, taking hold of his wrist and returning it to her breast. “I didn’t say you could do that yet.”

He felt his face heat with an unexpected mix of lust and embarrassment, and he skimmed the thumb of the hand she still held over her taut nipple. “I apologize.”

“I’m sure you can find a way to make it up to me.”

This time when he kissed her breast, she twined a hand in his hair and with the other caressed his shoulder and arm as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed to.

Slowly, he smoothed a hand down her stomach, between her legs, and found her already hot and wet. She had been so easy to bring off the last time, arching against his hand, tilting her hips so he was touching where she wanted. And she did the same thing now, but this time he knew what she liked and stroked her steadily. He didn’t try to slip his fingers inside, just petted at her and kissed her until she went tense beneath him, her nails digging into him as she hovered on the edge of her climax. Then she let out a contented sigh.