Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(55)

Her fingers clenched against his shoulder blades. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Do I not?” He threaded his hands gently around her neck. “I’m asking you to make love with me.”

That word again. She opened her eyes. “Gareth,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t. This is hard enough—”

She stopped speaking as his gaze pierced her. Incredible. Last night had seemed so intimate. And yet it had been so dark that she had not been able to see anything other than flashes of light, reflecting off the surface of his skin. Now she could look into his eyes. They were golden-brown. They were not cutting or dismissive. And even though she could see the desire smolder inside them, there was something else in them that turned her belly to liquid.

And like that, the answer came to her. If this was all she could have—this brief slice of time with him—she didn’t want any regrets. Years from now, she wanted to remember that she’d stolen every scrap of pleasure she could from this moment. She wanted to fill the biggest bottle with as much of him as she could.

She smiled at him now. And wonder of wonder, he responded, his eyes glowing with satisfaction, an answering smile on his lips.

“Better,” he said. “When you do that, I feel almost human.”

He spread her legs with his own. She had one moment to feel the blunt head of his member against her before he slid inside her. Sore places stretched. Jenny exhaled. Their bodies fit together. He twitched, hard and thick inside her.

“Even better.” His voice was hoarse.

And then he rocked into her wetness, sending shivers of ecstasy shooting up her body. Jenny gasped. She pushed against him, and together they found a rhythm. His hips met hers relentlessly.

A bubble of light formed around them. In a frenzy, she moved under him, reaching for something—she wasn’t sure what. Until the bubble burst, and illumination cascaded around her. Above her, Gareth grasped her hips and pulled her against him, again and again. He, too, shuddered, and made a sound something like a groan.

He pulsed inside her one final time. Jenny opened her eyes. His were shut. His hair was plastered to his forehead, stringy and damp with the sweat of hard exertion. He breathed hard. And then he opened his eyes and looked down at her.

The experience had been amazing.

That glow slowly faded from his eyes. No doubt he was remembering all the reasons this could not be. Call it sex, call it a shag. Call it lovemaking. But he’d never suggested anything other than this act, and she didn’t want him to see how deep her hunger for more burned.

“Well.” She looked away from him. “And that’s that.”

He pulled away from her and said nothing. Jenny sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Behind her, she could hear the even rhythm of his breath and the soft scrunch of fabric. The bed shifted underneath them as he moved. He carefully lifted himself to his feet. As he shook out his trousers and stepped into them, he didn’t look at her. Then he donned the wrinkled shirt that even Jenny could tell was too formal for morning wear.

Jenny clenched the ragged edge of her coverlet in her hands.

He straightened his cuffs and looked up. “Your bed. It’s lumpy.”

Jenny gasped in stung outrage. Lies or excuses would have been better than invective.

Lord Blakely—and he was now every inch Lord Blakely again, even though the waistcoat he was shrugging into was in dire need of pressing—did not seem to notice. “And your coverlet is far too thin.”

“Is that all you can see? At a time like this? All you can do is criticize me?”

He paused, snapping his black cravat out, and cocked his head. “Was that a criticism of you? I don’t believe I mentioned you at all.” His voice was even, punishing.

“You—you—”

“Last I observed—and my observation was very thorough indeed—you were neither a mattress nor a blanket. If you wish to take every aspersion I cast on your furniture as a personal slur, I can hardly stop you.”

“Lord Blakely—”

That imperturbable manner slipped and his eyes narrowed. “It’s Gareth,” he emphasized. “Damn well call me Gareth.”

“You’re leaving.”

He reached for his jacket. “Indeed. I have a great deal to do today.”

“So this is farewell.”

His features froze. “What I am trying to say,” he finally snapped in an accusatory manner, “is that despite the imperfections in the surroundings, I cannot—in all my recollection—remember passing a more enjoyable night.”

Jenny’s lips parted in confusion and he swooped down and gave her another kiss. His mouth took hers imperiously, but she could taste something desperate on his lips. As swiftly as he’d leaned in, he pulled back.

That little speech had been intended as an expression of admiration? It had felt like cold, spiked things gouging into her skin. No other man would strew compliments underfoot as if they were hard iron caltrops, designed to trip up the unwary horse or human who had the misfortune to tread upon them.

His gaze challenged her. Care, he shouted silently. I dare you.

Jenny couldn’t afford to do so. She had a new life to find. Instead she raised one hand to touch his fingers tentatively.

“Goodbye, Gareth,” she said.

He turned and accepted her farewell with grace. Or at least it seemed so, until he turned around at the last minute. “No,” he said. “Goodbye for now.”