In the Arms of a Marquess(53)

The storm broke above, splitting the black sky with strident light, but they were fused. Ben slid his hand between their mouths, separating them, and Tavy took his finger with her tongue and sucked on it. He groaned, gripped her hand and pulled her down the steps.

The rain lashed at them, wind whipping sheets of water at an angle against her skirts. He urged her ahead through the darkness and she ran, her gown clinging and legs light, her body filled with feeling, thoroughly alive. Behind her, he laughed and it was like heaven opening up. She turned mid-stride, tripped, and he grabbed her up, covered her smiling mouth and made love to her with his kiss. The rain washed them in a blanket of sound, pure and clean. He drew away from her lips, holding her face in strong hands, water streaming down his brow and cheeks, and she blinked through the downpour to see him. He found her hand again, then the small of her back, and pressed her forward through the deluge.

She ran so that she could be in his arms again that much sooner.

He pulled her toward a door at the rear corner of the house and they stumbled inside. Ben pushed the door shut against the wind and without pausing drew her swiftly along the passageway, his fingers wrapped around hers. They emerged onto a corridor near the dining chamber. The house was dark and silent now, the sounds of the storm beating on windows and walls outside muffling their quick progress.

He halted abruptly, his grip tightening. Footsteps sounded ahead, then male voices. The glow of a lamp bobbed around a corner, approaching. Tavy’s heart hammered.

Ben dragged her across the corridor, opened a door and pulled her within. A single candle lit the billiards room furnished with only the broad flat table, chairs against the paneled walls, a rack of cues and a sideboard topped with crystal carafes. He turned the key in the lock, dropped her hand and moved silently to the opposite door to fix the bolt.

Shivering in her drenched clothes, Tavy pressed her palms and ear to the door and listened. The footsteps came close and halted. The doorknob rattled. Her pulse leapt. She did not dare breathe.

Lord Gosworth’s voice resonated through the thick wood. “Locked already. Blast Doreé’s Methodist butler, shutting all the best brandy away at the stroke of midnight Saturday.”

“S’pose my wife’s expecting me, in any case,” his companion mumbled.

“Good for you, lad.” A sound like a thwack upon wool. “Good for you.”

The footsteps receded. When they faded entirely, Tavy released her breath, then sucked it in abruptly. Ben’s hands covered hers pressed to the door, his body coming up against hers from behind. From shoulders to thighs he trapped her, hard and purposeful. He kissed her neck and she tilted her head to allow him, shivering with the pleasure. His fingers curled around her wrist, then along her arm, trailing to her breast. He stroked her through the sodden garments and her body tightened with prickling bursts.

Her breaths came humid against the door. She pushed into his palm and his touch grew firmer, his other hand smoothing to her waist and without hesitation between her legs. She caught up her breath. He caressed her in deep long strokes, kissing her throat and neck, her damp skin on fire beneath his mouth.

Tavy sighed, a sound heavy and foreign from the depths of her that he roused so easily. She wanted him, and she wanted this to go on forever, the delirium of his hands on her just like this, the sweet heaven of his male need pressing into her behind, startling but delicious. Where he caressed her, she ached. She tilted her forehead into the door and reached back to grip his hips and settle her body tighter to his.

He pulled her around, flattened her against him and kissed her hard, harder, until she could not breathe. Until she breathed only him.

Ben swept her up in his arms, took two strides and set her down upon the edge of the billiards table. His fevered gaze covered her, and beneath it, soaked to her skin, bedraggled like a street urchin, Tavy felt absolutely beautiful. He had always made her feel beautiful. Always.

Her skirts clung, but his hands upon her ankles and warm along her calves were sure. Petticoat, gown, and shift came up and she helped him, her fingers quivering, her body anticipating she didn’t know what but she wanted it. Wanted him so much. Her thighs were pale beneath his warm hands, but when she lifted her gaze, he was looking at her face. She pulled him forward and kissed him, wrapping her legs around his waist and bringing her tender flesh against the front of his trousers. He curved his hands around her behind and held her to him. He was taut and her breath fled, on fire for him but not knowing what to do.

“Ben?” she barely breathed, pressing into him. He slid his hands up to her breasts and held her and she grew faint, whispering his name as she shifted herself against his hardness, seeking relief for the delicious throbbing.

Gently he pressed her back onto the table. Then he knelt upon one knee, pulled her hips to him, and began again a dance with her body that Tavy had been dreaming about for seven endless years.

He stroked gently at first, his tongue soft against her need, and she nearly jumped from her skin. But he grasped her thighs tight and covered her with his mouth. Time ceased, the storm outside a bare echo of reality. She could not be still, thunder rocking through her with each kiss, each moment of pure pleasure in which she became more his. She arched her back, moving her hips to meet his hot caresses that drew her under. He stroked faster, harder, his tongue upon her a divine torture. Briefly, he dipped inside her, teasing. She gasped and gripped the edges of the table, frantic with the need to feel completion, frantic for more of his tongue in her until her breaths shallowed and her vision clouded.