Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(42)
And he was mad, his head swimming with lust, body drenched in unquenched desire, conscience in turmoil. Wrong, being with her like this was wrong. Unfair to Daisy. A betrayal of his oath. She could be dangerous. She could be deceiving him. Christ knew he was deceiving her.
He didn’t give a damn about anything other than Daisy as he took another step, then another until his leg wedged between her soft thighs. Her dressing gown parted. Sebastian released her bottom with one hand and caught his robe, dragging it to the side. Nothing but naked skin would do. He pressed into her farther. Silken inner thighs slid against him, setting him aflame. Farther again, slowly. The kiss deepened. He didn’t stop until she rode his thigh, trapped between him and the bed at her back.
Nothing could have prepared him for the first touch of her slippery heat. Wet, so wet. And on fire. Bloody hell, she scorched him. On a shocked gasp, she arched, dragging herself over him, leaving a trail of her dew.
Sweet Christ.
Madness. Sheer, unadulterated madness was what made him catch her up in his arms and deposit her on the bed’s edge, her legs still spread, dressing gown open. His thigh was wet, and he felt the loss of her heat in a pang that tore through him. Breaking the kiss, he stood to his full height, allowing himself the pleasure of seeing her so thoroughly undone.
Lord was she a sight to behold.
Her mouth was swollen from his kiss, lips red and succulent as raspberry syrup. Her robe gaped, the knot at her sash gone loose in their frenzied lovemaking, leaving her breasts partially freed as well. His gazed traveled lower, to the vee of her dressing gown. Twin slices of the creamy flesh of her inner thighs beckoned, her cunny nearly exposed.
He’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
Or a woman he wanted more.
Jesus, she unmanned him.
“Sebastian?” Daisy was breathless, her eyes searching his. She appeared dazed, flushed. Consumed by the same torrent of desire coursing through him like a bloody flood.
He didn’t know what her question was, but the answer was yes. Absolutely. Undeniably. Yes. To everything. To anything. To whatever she wished. For Daisy, the answer would always be yes.
He recognized the truth of it as she sprawled across the bed, waiting for him to lay his claim. So much hung in the balance, so many words unspoken, so many falsehoods and blockades between them, seemingly unsurmountable. But he was seizing this moment because he was a bloody selfish bastard, and he was going to give her what she wanted. What he needed so badly to give her.
Release.
He swore to himself that he wouldn’t take her, no matter how much he longed to. It wasn’t right or fair to her, not when she didn’t know the truth behind their union. Not when he intended to procure an annulment. But he could give her pleasure. Just this once, even if doing so ended him in the process.
“Take off your dressing gown.” The command was torn from him.
She swallowed, gaze searching his, a pretty pink flush tingeing her high cheekbones. “You wish to consummate the marriage after all?”
Yes, cried out every bloody part of him.
“Not tonight,” he reassured her instead, leaning forward and catching her waist. Slowly, he lifted her onto the center of the bed and lowered her until her head nestled in pillows, a bounty of golden curls spilling everywhere. “Tonight we will get more acquainted with each other.”
Acquainted. Such a mild, silly verb for what he intended to do. He nearly smiled at the absurdity of it as he joined her on the bed, readjusting to keep the barrier of his own robe intact. Stretching his body alongside hers, he lay on his side, an elbow propped on one pillow to give him purchase. Sebastian couldn’t resist sinking his fingers into the lush strands of her hair. Like burnished silk, it fell back to the pillow, teasing his senses with a fresh wave of bergamot and ambergris.
“Can you not acquaint yourself with me while I’m wearing my robe?” Daisy asked, finding her starch amidst a renewed sense of modesty.
He did grin then, skimming a slight caress over her cheek. She was still flushed, and damn it if she didn’t look utterly delectable lying there, shy and beautiful as sin. “I can, but it won’t be as enjoyable for either of us, buttercup.”
Her fingers remained on the knot securing her robe in place, gripping tightly. “Enjoyable, Your Grace?”
He winced at her reversal, the habit of using his title as though they were strangers in a drawing room exchanging pleasantries. She seemed to revert to formality whenever she grew nervous.
“Sebastian,” he prompted her for what was surely the hundredth time, cupping her cheek in his palm and brushing his thumb over that irresistible lower lip of hers.
She would need some coaxing, it seemed. The bravado that had led her to defiantly urge him to take his turn at the Beresford Ball had been precisely that. He was beginning to understand her a bit, this wild summer storm wrapped up in luscious female form. An inner layer hid beneath the fierce face she showed the world, one that was vulnerable.
“I’m not certain I’m in agreement with that statement.” She eyed him warily, her gaze dropping to his right cheek for a moment before settling once more on his.
His rogue dimple, he realized, and it occurred to him that he’d seen her staring at it on more than one occasion. Clearly he would need to make use of it more often. For some mad reason, he imagined her lips pressing to the groove in his skin. The mark of happiness, as his mother had once called it.