Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(32)

Grimly he reviewed the past few hours, each one more exquisitely torturous than the last. Every movement of Vivien's body, every shift of her head on the pillow and sigh that escaped her lips, had teased and titillated him beyond bearing. He, who had always prided himself on being the master of his own passions, had been reduced to a mindless fool. All because of one small female who had already slept with half the men in London anyway. He was beginning not to care about that now, he was even making excuses for the legion of lovers she had taken. Damn them all, he just wanted to be one of them.

Her quiescent body fit perfectly against his, the hem of her nightgown twisted around her knees. Her trim ankles and calves were tucked neatly beside his own legs. She was as petite and dainty as a doll. The smell of her warm, unperfumed skin was making his blood race until he was light-headed. He pressed his scratchy jaw into the red silk of her hair, longing to unbraid the rippling locks and spread them over his own chest and throat.

As if the intensity of his thoughts had somehow been communicated to her, she sighed in her sleep, one small foot insinuating itself between his.

That was his undoing. Grant couldn't keep from touching her any more than he could stop his lungs from taking in air or his heart from beating. He settled his hand over the indentation of her waist, his thumb brushing the low edge of her rib cage. Her body was resilient and soft beneath his hand. Inflamed, he moved higher, his fingers exploring the sweet undercurve of her breast, cupping gently beneath the plump rise. Filling his palm with the soft roundness, he wondered what it was about Vivien that made her so different from any other woman he had known. It seemed as if she had been made for him alone. How many other men had felt that way about Vivien? he thought bleakly, struggling with the primitive need to put his own stamp on her, erase every kiss and caress that had not come from him.

He drew his thumb in a slow circle over the tip of her breast, and again, repeating the gentle stimulation until he felt the gathering response of her nipple. It was not enough to feel her through the fabric of her high-necked gown. He was dying to stroke her bare skin, taste it, press his mouth to every part of her. As he caught the sensitive point of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he heard Vivien's breathing change, the relaxed rhythm turning shallow and rapid.

There was a barely detectable motion beneath her stillness, a deep trembling that betrayed her. She was awake...she knew he was touching her...and she wasn't trying to escape him. That meant something, though whether she was holding still from shock, willingness, or just plain curiosity was difficult to ascertain. Cautiously he released her breast and slid his hand down her midriff...slowly, slowly, reaching the low plane of her abdomen and the soft springiness where fragile cotton concealed a thatch of cinnamon curls. He felt her body quiver, and her weight shifted in preparation to escape.

Lowering his mouth to the side of her throat, he worked his way up to the tiny hollow beneath her ear, whispering reassurances, telling her that he wanted her, needed her, that he would be gentle and patient. He slid his hand further between her thighs, cupping lightly, while the pressure of his erection rose hard against her hip. He allowed her every chance of moving away, if that was what she desired. But Vivien stayed with him, responding with a strange awkwardness, like an ardent, overwhelmed virgin. Breathing jerkily, she twisted in an effort to face him, her eyes tightly closed as she brought her hands to his shoulders. He kissed her, his mouth slow and searching, his tongue engaging hers with teasing strokes. She moaned and slid her hands further around his back, holding him close as he rose above her-- The door vibrated with a perfunctory knock. It was pushed open before a reply was given, the usual routine of a housemaid come to clean the grate and light the morning fire. The maid entered the room and saw instantly that the bed was occupied by two people instead of one. She stopped with a sound of dismay.

Becoming aware of the intrusion, Vivien froze beneath Grant, her blue eyes filled with panic.

Grant raised his head and glared at the housemaid. "Not now," he said curtly.

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, and fled the room, closing the door behind her.

It was not the girl's fault, of course. The servants at the Morgan household were largely unused to goings-on of this sort, as Grant was inclined to visit his occasional bed partners attheir homes rather than bring them to his. He had never demanded a great degree of privacy in his own bedroom. However, that was about to change. Savagely Grant made a mental note to tell the housekeeper that a new system was to be instituted right away.

It was clear from Vivien's stricken expression that any amorous inclinations had fled. Her body was stiff beneath his, and she was scarlet with embarrassment. Scowling, Grant rolled to his side and watched her scramble out of bed. His groin throbbed viciously with an erection that was slow to subside. If he didn't find relief soon, he would likely be crippled.

Pulling on a pelisse to cover her nightgown, Vivien hastily tied the garment closed. She went to the washstand and poured some cold water into a bowl, industriously splashing her pink cheeks. Grant watched her intently, noting her rigid spine and the determined haste of her movements. She patted her face dry with a cloth, squared her shoulders...and turned toward him with the expression of someone facing an unpleasant task.

"Do you want me to return to bed?" she asked, staring at the carpeted floor.

The question surprised Grant. As a matter of fact, he did...but first he needed to know why she had made the offer. When he asked, she continued to avoid his gaze.