In the Arms of a Marquess(31)

He pressed her back against the huge tree, dropped to his knees and pushed her gown to her hips. He locked her gaze with his bright eyes and touched her between her legs.

Reality ground to a halt and something else frightening and wonderful took its place. She was hot and felt liquid, and a beautiful man was kneeling before her with his hands where she had never imagined a man’s hands could be. He stroked, and Tavy nearly choked on her own rapture. She dissolved, her legs going weak. He set her knee against his shoulder, wrapped his grip around her thigh, and his intense gaze held hers as he gave her the most sublime pleasure with his hand. Her breaths came faster, his caresses soft and steady. Inside, just beyond where he touched her, something built, thickened and shivered, then withdrew only to rise again. She whimpered, needing him, wanting him kissing her, her fingers gripping the striated bark of the banyan tree, her breasts aching so fiercely. Her eyelids fluttered, and she saw his eyes fevered. Then he leaned forward and put his mouth on her.

He kissed her, and Tavy’s body came apart, a wave of pleasure seizing her, washing up then slamming down again. His tongue stroked, wet and firm yet wonderfully soft, pulling her under, submerging her in the sweetest delirium, rippling within her flesh in one after another shower of hot gratification. She made sounds she did not recognize. She shook, weak and in shock, exalted and thoroughly ashamed. Ashamed, because the instant the sensations subsided she wanted more.

Ben pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh and Tavy dragged air into her lungs. He stood, letting her skirts fall, and curved his hands around her hips. She stared at him in awe, the songs of cicadas and crickets surrounding her, a distant macaw’s cry, the heavy heat of the night and silver moonlight shining in his hair like in a dream.

She grabbed his waistcoat, pulling him close, and he kissed her and held her against him. After everything, it seemed absurd that his hand spread on the small of her back gave her such enormous pleasure.

“Ben, I—”

He caught her utterance with his mouth then murmured in a low, beautiful voice, “Hush, shalabha. No words.” He stroked the side of her breast, then her hair, and she trembled. But his kiss seemed to retreat now, and his body was stiff with tension, like the tension still simmering in her despite how good she felt.

“I want to—” she stammered. “Can I do something to—to make you feel like you made me feel?”

His chest constricted in a taut chuckle. He brushed a stray lock from her cheek and shook his head.

“Not tonight, my—”

“Take your hands off of my niece.”

Chapter 7

END-FOR-END. A reversal of the disposition of any thing is turning it end-for-end.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

Aunt Imene’s gravelly voice came from three yards away.

Tavy grabbed at her shift, pulling it across her breasts. Heat flooded her face as she scrabbled for her bodice. With unhurried care, Ben slipped each of her hands into the sleeves and drew her garments up, then stepped back.

“Aunt,” she choked, gripping her clothing together at her back.

“Be quiet. Your guests asked after you, so I came searching. How was I to know you were cavorting like a doxy with a—” She spluttered and raked Ben with a contemptuous sneer. “Get out of here.”

Tavy gasped. But he did not even look at her aunt. His black eyes glinted in the moonlight, questioning. Tavy nodded and whispered, “Tomorrow.”

Finally he glanced at her aunt, hardness forming around his perfect mouth. Then he turned and disappeared through the gate between their houses. Tavy had to restrain herself from running after him.

“You are a disgrace, Octavia,” her aunt ground out.

Tavy pivoted. “Aunt Imene, I—”

“Do not speak.” She strode forward, jerked her around, and roughly fastened her garments. She stepped away and her harsh gaze slid over Tavy. “Go in by the servants’ entrance to your bedchamber. Your guests must be content with learning that you have contracted a megrim.” She strode off, her posture stiff.

Tavy stared through the darkness toward the garden gate, her pulse fast. Then she did as she was told.

She did not sleep. The hours until dawn were a sublime heaven spent remembering over and over again his touch, his eyes, and what he had done to her.

As the sun crept above the horizon, over ships anchored in the bay and warehouses and the massive fort, then filtered onto the neighborhoods and into Tavy’s bedchamber window, she dressed in her most demure morning gown and arranged her hair neatly. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, and she felt different inside and out, like a woman, and she wanted to look that way for him.

No one yet had come to the breakfast parlor. Nerves too high to allow her to stomach food, she went onto the veranda and paced, but as slowly as she could. She was no longer a child. She must control her actions now. Some of her actions. She closed her eyes, warm at the recollection of Ben’s mouth touching her intimately.

“What are you doing out here?” Aunt Imene crossed the veranda. “Come inside and take your breakfast.”

“Aunt.” Tavy clasped her hands. “I beg your pardon for leaving the party last night.”

Her aunt stared at her, lips a thin line of disapproval.

“Did you arrange that assignation, Octavia?”

Tavy’s eyes went wide. “No!” But guilt nipped at her. She had met him in secret so many times. “I like him.” Like did not come close to describing what she felt. But she could not share those feelings with her aunt before she shared them with him.