Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(85)

His fingers touched her mouth gently, silencing her. He wasn’t interested in talking.

His hands reached around her to unfasten her robe, and he tossed it aside. She stepped out of her slippers, relieved to be rid of the clammy leather. As she began to turn toward him, he grasped her hipbones and compelled her to continue facing the door. His body pressed against hers long enough for her to realize he was naked and aroused.

He unbuttoned the nightgown from her throat to her navel, and let it whisper over her skin to the floor. Wordlessly he began to arrange her body, pushing her palms against the door. One of his bare feet came between hers, and he used his thigh to spread her legs until she stood in a mortifyingly exposed posture, her torso inclined forward. Remaining behind her, he let his hands slide over her body, cupping her breasts, catching the tips in gentle pinches and lightly swaying their weights. He stroked her hips, waist, bottom, one hand sliding between her thighs from the front and one from the back.

She made an agitated sound, quivering, as he opened and caressed her, fingering the soft outer lips, tugging at the inner ones, running his fingertips through moisture. She felt the cool air against the wetness of her sex, and the warmth of his fingers as he pressed the tender hood back from the stiffening bud. He teased and played slowly until her legs strained and she was weak with desire. Breathing fast, she leaned her weight more heavily on her hands, wishing desperately that he would take her to bed.

But he stepped closer to her, his hands adjusting the angle of her pelvis, and she let out a little sob of surprise as she felt him begin to enter her. He worked carefully inside her swollen depths, opening her with gradual advances and retreats. The hard shaft circled inside her, the sensation so good that her knees threatened to buckle. She heard his quiet huff of laughter, and he gripped her hipbones more firmly. When he was fully seated in her, he leaned over her and whispered, “Brace your legs.”

“I can’t,” she whimpered. All her bones seemed to have softened into isinglass, and her muscles were trembling. The only strength she had left was deep in the core of her body, where she couldn’t help clamping and kneading the rigid invasion.

“You’re not even trying,” he accused tenderly, his mouth curving against the back of her shoulder.

Somehow she willed enough strength back into her knees to satisfy him, and she moaned as he began to thrust more powerfully and deeply than he ever had before. Each inward drive was a sensuous jolt, lifting her heels from the floor. She breathed and sweated and pushed back at him, the feelings rising thickly to a crescendo. The repeated wet impacts of their flesh embarrassed and excited her, and there was nothing she could do about any of it, she had lost all hope of control. One of his hands slid to the triangle between her thighs, caressing her pulsing flesh, while the other went to her breast and clamped the nipple gently between his thumb and finger.

That was all she needed. She pressed her clenched fists against the door and cried out repeatedly, in ecstasy that sounded like anguish. Satisfaction rushed and ebbed, back and forth, in heavy waves that soon broke into shudders. She really couldn’t stand then, her limbs quaking, and he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

Before her body had even settled completely on the bed, he was in her again, thrusting almost savagely, reaching beneath her hips to pull her up into each plunge. Still oversensitive from climax, she writhed uncomfortably at first, but soon the push and pull rhythm felt good, and then it turned into something she wanted, craved, had to have. She squirmed, her body taking him deeply, arching in counterpoint. The rhythm changed, his hips rolling against hers, and the awareness that he was about to climax sent her into another rush of spasms. He was going to withdraw just at the moment she wanted him to thrust even harder and deeper. Without thinking, she locked her legs around him.

“Don’t pull out,” she whispered, “not yet, not yet—”

“Phoebe, no, I have to, I’m going to—”

“Come inside me. I want you to. I want you—”

His hips froze, suspended in an agony of temptation. Somehow he withdrew in time, burying a vicious cry in the bed linens as his body jerked in release.

Panting and shivering, he rolled away from her. He sat at the edge of the bed, gripping his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe said sheepishly.

“I know.” His voice was a scrape of sound. Then he was silent for a long minute.

Concerned, she moved to sit beside him, one of her hands resting on his thigh. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said bleakly, keeping his face averted. “I thought I could, but it’s going to kill me.”

“What can I do?” she asked softly. “What do you want?”

“I have to leave tomorrow. For my own sanity, I can’t stay with you any longer.”





Chapter 31




One week after West had left the Clare Estate, Edward Larson returned from Italy.

Phoebe had done her best to carry on as usual, maintaining a falsely cheerful fa?ade for the children’s sake and going through the motions of everyday life. She was good at that. She knew how to endure loss and had learned that it wouldn’t break her. No matter how miserable she felt inside, she couldn’t let herself go to pieces. There were too many responsibilities to face, especially those involving Edward and the fraud he’d committed as executor of the estate. Although she dreaded having to confront him, it was a relief when he finally came to Clare Manor.