Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(80)

A devil whisper sifted through the darkness. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“No.” A half second after that, she took a sobbing breath and said, “Yes.”

A quiet laugh vibrated against her wet flesh, and she nearly swooned at the feel of it. “Which is it?” he asked. “Yes or no?”

“Yes. Yes.”

It was not pleasant to discover that one’s moral resolve had all the strength of wet cardboard.

“Show me where,” he murmured.

Breathing hard with excited misery, she made herself do it, reaching down to expose the tiny peak. His mouth covered her slowly, tenderly, the flat of his tongue resting against the intimate throb. Her hands fell away and groped for the velvet cushions beneath her, fingertips digging tightly. His tongue slid over her. Once. Trembling and half fainting, she let out a plangent moan.

Another languid stroke, finishing with a flick. “Tell me you need me.” His breath tickled her softness as he waited.

“I need you,” she gasped.

He used his tongue in a wickedly teasing circle. “Now say that you’re mine.”

She would have said almost anything, the desire was so consuming. But she’d heard a subtle change in his tone, a note of possessiveness that warned he was no longer playing.

When she didn’t reply, he insinuated a finger into the entrance of her body… no, two… nudging past sensitive tucks and pleats of flesh. The sense of fullness was uncomfortable but exquisite. She could feel her inner muscles pulsing, striving to pull his fingers even deeper. As he searched, he touched something inside her, some acutely tender place that made her knees draw up and her toes curl.

His voice lowered… darkened. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she said brokenly.

He made a sound of satisfaction, almost a purr.

Her hips arched, begging him to touch that soft inner spot again, and she jerked as he found it. All her limbs went weak. “Oh. Yes, there, there…” Her voice dissolved as she felt his lips open over her, sucking, teasing. He rewarded her with a steady rhythm, his free hand sliding beneath her writhing bottom, guiding her, rocking her more firmly up against his mouth. With every ascent of her hips, he licked upward, the tip of his tongue catching wetly just beneath the little pearl of her sex, again and again. She heard herself breathing in sobs and moaning out words, and there was no controlling anything now, no thought or will, only a terrible need that raced higher and higher, until the wrenching spasms began. With a low cry, she jerked against him, her thighs clamping uncontrollably on his shoulders.

After the last long, helpless shudders had faded, Kathleen fell back on the velvet cushions like a rag doll that someone had tossed aside. Devon kept his mouth on her, easing the pleasure into relaxation. She summoned just enough strength to reach out and caress his hair.

That might have been worth going to hell for, she thought, and didn’t realize she had mumbled it aloud until she felt him smile.

A few guttural words caused Helen’s steps to slow as she neared the upstairs parlor. The sounds of Welsh curses had become quite familiar during the past week, as Mr. Winterborne grappled with the limitations of his injuries and the heavy leg cast. Although he never shouted, something about his voice carried farther than the average man’s: It had a deep timbre like bronze bell metal. His accent fell pleasantly on her ears, with singsong vowels and tapped R’s that carried the hint of a burr, and consonants as soft as velvet.

Winterborne’s presence seemed to fill the household, no matter that he was still confined to the upstairs rooms. He was a vigorous man, easily bored, chafing at any restrictions. He craved activity and noise, having even gone so far as to insist that the carpenters and plumbers resume their daily cacophony of work, despite the fact that Devon had told them to stop while Winterborne recovered. Apparently the last thing Winterborne wanted was peace and quiet.

So far he had kept her father’s old valet running on constant errands, which would have been a cause for concern, except that Quincy seemed to be thriving in his new position as Winterborne’s manservant. A few days ago, Quincy had told the news to Helen as he had been on his way to the village with some telegraph dispatches from Winterborne.

“I’m so very pleased for you,” Helen had exclaimed, after the initial surprise had worn off. “Although I confess, I can’t imagine Eversby Priory without you here.”

“Yes, my lady.” The elderly man had regarded her warmly, his gaze conveying an affection that he would never express in words. He was a disciplined and buttoned-up man, but he had always treated Helen and the twins with unfailing kindness, interrupting his work to help search for a lost doll, or to wrap his own handkerchief around a scraped elbow. Deep down, Helen had always known that of the three sisters, she was Quincy’s favorite, perhaps because their natures were somewhat similar. They both liked everything to be peaceful and quiet and in its place.

Helen’s unspoken bond with Quincy had been cemented by the shared experience of taking care of her father in his last days, after he had fallen ill from a long day of hunting in the cold and wet. Although Sims and Mrs. Church had done what they could to ease the earl’s suffering, it had been Helen and Quincy who had taken turns sitting at his bedside. There had been no one else: The twins hadn’t been allowed into his room for fear that the earl’s illness was catching, and Theo hadn’t come from London in time to say good-bye.