Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(33)
She wanted to know him. All of him. Wanted to know what his laugh sounded like, how his skin would smell if she pressed her nose to the bristle-shaded angle of his jaw. “I don’t know anything about you.” She tried to understand the effect he had upon her. “It makes no sense that I should feel the way I do for you.”
He stroked her cheek with a tenderness that belied the scorching heat of his stare. “Nothing makes sense, buttercup. Not you, not me, not what we’re doing here or how we found ourselves where we are. Tell me, what do you feel? For me?”
For some reason, her overburdened mind thought first of physicality: his deceptive strength, corded muscle, not a hint of spare flesh over bone. He was larger than she’d even realized at such proximity. Capable of doing her harm if he wished. And yet, she didn’t fear him. He lowered his head, bringing their lips ever closer. Near enough that she could rock forward, take his mouth.
“Longing,” she whispered. “I long… and I ache. No one has ever made me feel as you do, Your Grace.”
“Sebastian.” With one hand, he cupped her face, positioning her as though she awaited his kiss. His other hand roamed. His fingers traveled down her throat, lingering for a beat at the hollow where her pulse pounded. “That is gratifying to hear, considering I’m your husband.”
The grimness in his tone wasn’t lost on her. Oh dear. She had made a muck of it, hadn’t she? But how was she to think properly when his hands were on her and he stood in such proximity, his touch so knowing and delicious, weakening any resolve she’d had remaining?
“You’re a stranger to me,” she reminded him. “My surprise stems from the fact that I’ve known you for so short a time, and already you’ve changed many things for me.”
“More than you know, buttercup.” His mouth tightened as his fingers trailed over her décolletage, across the twin swells of her breasts. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was still wearing the same gown she’d worn yesterday. At some point, she would need to fetch her belongings if indeed her father would even allow it.
She swallowed, trying to tamp down the desire clamoring inside her as he skimmed the lace and bead-trimmed bodice before slipping beneath her corset. “Tell me about yourself, Sebastian.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” He found her nipple, rolled it between thumb and forefinger.
Daisy couldn’t quite suppress her gasp. The heaviness between her legs pulsed with each pluck of his clever fingers. “How old are you?”
“I have thirty years.” He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the skin just beneath her ear. “How many have you, sweet?”
Good heavens, his tongue was upon her. Licking. Scalding. His teeth nipped gently. She couldn’t think. Here was the man she’d been drawn to, in her arms at last. The seducer. The wicked lover. What had he asked?
Years, she recalled belatedly. He had inquired after her age. “Twenty.” She steeled herself against his potent allure. “Have you any siblings? A mother?”
He paused, his lips against her throat. “None in this world.”
She recognized the pain in his voice, the regret. A glimmer of the true man, raw and real, showed through his arrogant fa?ade. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian.” She ran her hands over his back in gentle caresses, seeking to soothe.
“Bloody hell.” Abruptly, he straightened, whisked his touch away, and clamped firm hands on her waist, setting her from him. His breathing was labored, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I promised you a courting, not a fuck on the desk in my study.”
His words made her cheeks burn. She had heard coarse speech before, enough to know what such a word meant. But for the first time, it held a previously unknown appeal for her. The appeal of the wicked. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have objected to a fuck on the desk in his study, and whatever unknown delights such a thing would entail.
She wisely refrained from saying so aloud, even as she felt the loss of his touch as keenly as if he had taken away an intrinsic part of her. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching him as he transformed yet again before her. He was as changeable as the weather, it seemed. Sunny, drizzling, a torrent. She could not predict which version of himself he would be from one moment to the next.
“Jesus.” He raked a hand through his hair, pinning his gaze on something over her shoulder as he attempted to compose himself. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I should not have said something so profane to a lady. To my wife.”
“I daresay I’ve heard worse.” She sought to assuage his concern even as she noted the odd inflection in his voice as he’d called her his wife. As though it were somehow unfathomable. Or perhaps even unwanted.
She had not been raised to be a delicate flower. Though her name was Daisy, she’d never related to her namesake—spindly stems and bright, cheerful blooms that withered in no time. All that brilliant show and heads hanging as if in shame within a few days’ time. Her father had wanted her to be that sort of woman. Pretty on the outside but meek and mild, easily bent. She had defied him time and again, bearing the ugly consequences. He had not crushed her yet. And perhaps, she was beginning to realize, the real truth was that she was uncrushable after all.
“All the same,” he said stiffly, “I beg your forgiveness. Now if you’ll excuse me, my dear, I do have some matters that need my attention. I shall see you at dinner, yes?”