Annabelle, The American Page 5

  “Is it really that startling? Now I am flattered.” He moved even closer. “You’ve seen me naked before. You’ve touched me. Stroked me. Why so bothered now?”

  “I’ve always been naked, too. I don’t know what to do when you are like this.” She shrugged.

  “Who says you have to do anything?” He took the last half step forward. A deep breath would have brought their bodies into contact. His scent surrounded her now, pulled at her in ways she had never experienced.

  And then he slipped to his knees, his face lifted to stare up at her.

  Naked. On his knees before her. A supplicant.

  Now the message was unmistakable. He both asked for forgiveness and gave her power. The world might give him control over her entirety, might forbid her any say in his life while granting him the rights of a master over her—but he offered it all back to her.

  He was lucky she’d grown up around men, that she understood how men spoke with action far more often than words.

  She answered him the same way, placed a hand upon his head, ran fingers through his satin hair, pressed his cheek against her belly, cradled him there—offered him safety and assurance.

  Together they stayed there for a moment, caught in a sliver of time.

  And then he moved, turning his face into her belly, warming her with his breath. Warm, moist air seeped through her gown, caressing her most secret spots. She pressed her thighs tight.

  Strong arms wrapped about her, large hands cupping her behind and squeezing, not hard but very firm. She squirmed against him. It was almost unfair how well the man knew her body.

  Expecting his hands to rise to her laces, to unfasten her until she was as bare as he, she was surprised when instead he ran his fingers down the backs of her legs, massaging her tight muscles, slowing to caress the backs of her knees, and admiring through touch alone a well-turned calf and slender ankle.

  He was under her skirts then, long fingers brushing up the legs they had just stroked down. Her thighs shook with the effort to remain still as his fingers searched for every tender spot. His face was still against her belly and he was breathing, almost blowing, rhythmically. Small sparks of fire were beginning to build within her and her fingers curled hard in his hair, pulling his face up until their eyes met again.

  His pupils were large, almost overshadowing the dark irises. A deep flush colored his face and she could see how strong his desire had already grown. Pulling against her hold, he bent his face forward, nipping at her belly through the heavy silk of her dress.

  A pang of want so great it was almost painful swept her, her legs began to buckle.

  In one graceful move he gathered her up, sweeping her into his arms and over to the—not the bed—the large wing chair that sat before the fireplace. He sat her there, pressing her back into the pillows, standing strong between her thighs.

  And strong did not begin to describe it.

  Their new position, him standing, her seated in front, placed her face exactly level with his sex, his proud, magnificent sex. She reached out and stroked the dark head, watching it bead with moisture. She’d seen him before, seen it—she’d even touched it with her mouth, but never like this, never by full candlelight—and never with him standing. These affairs had always taken place in the dark, hidden beneath the covers. This was something new, something exciting.

  She stroked the head again, watching it jerk, watching him jerk. She’d always loved this sense of control, of power—and now she felt like a queen, a goddess. His standing should have given him the power, but while he was naked and she fully dressed she felt the ruler.

  Again, she stroked, rubbed, enjoying the sensation of velvet and steel, strength and softness. She leaned forward and it was her turn to breathe, to blow, to watch him shiver at her will.

  Then he caught her hands and held them, moving them out from his body. He raised them to his lips and kissed them sweetly, but did not let them return to their task. She wanted to fight, to protest, but something in his face stopped her.

  She caught his gaze and nodded, the barest movement of her chin.

  She did not know what he intended, but now, in this moment, she would not refuse him anything.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He had her agreement. Dropping her hands he watched as they came to rest at her sides. There was still tension in them, but then how could there not be? He was well aware what a gift his wife was granting him. It would have been well within her rights, and his expectations, if she’d stalked from the room and refused to speak to him after his revelations.

  But not Annabelle. Annabelle always reacted with strength—and dignity. She’d never once let him down.

  Even now, as she leaned back in the chair, her hair a delicious tangle of blond curls, one long strand brushing against her cheek, her blue eyes shining with womanly knowledge, and her breasts—god, those magnificent breasts, he would probably have married her for those breasts alone—rising and falling with each breath, sometimes hurried, sometimes paused and held—yes, even now she was offering herself to him, holding nothing back.

  Except . . . except now there was something in her eyes, a wariness, a sense of waiting.

  It was up to him to set things back to where they had been this morning, to find the path back to their familiar home.

  He knelt before her again, completely at home in his nakedness. When she’d stroked him before, he’d almost lost it, almost swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed to proceed as they’d proceeded so many times before.

  But not tonight. Tonight he needed to show her that despite everything, he was hers. That he would do all in his power for her.

  He reached forward and stroked a single finger along her breast, just above the edging of her bodice. She wore pearls tonight, pearls that he’d given her on their wedding day. He knew she thought they were part of some family treasury, but in truth he’d spent most of his accumulated funds to purchase them. Now, he leaned further and unfastened them, letting them fall down her creamy chest and into the bodice of her gown. Then, with long, lean fingers he reached in and grabbed the strand again, pulling it forth with utmost slowness, letting her feel the roll of each individual pearl as it slithered against her skin.

  When the strand was free, he did not release it, but rather trailed it back and forth across her chest, watching her pleasure at the subtle movement. The gesture became almost hypnotic—each pearl catching the candlelight and glowing with that mysterious incandescent glimmer, her slight gasp as the pearls slid beneath the edge of the bodice, stroking sensitive spots he had not yet seen this evening—and her skin, skin that was more than the equal to the pearls’ luster, called to him to taste, to touch. Instead he continued, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Are you ever going to undress me?” she whispered.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  He smiled, letting the warmth reach his eyes. “Of course, I want to. But tonight is not about what I want.”

  The pearls slid across her skin again.

  She started to reach up, to stop them, but his glance caught her and her hand returned to her side.

  “Then what is it about?” she questioned.

  He wished she hadn’t asked. He didn’t have the words to explain.

  Hesitantly, watching for his response, she raised her hand and placed it on his cheek. Her thumb brushed across his mouth. “Do what you need—I am sure I will have no complaints.”

  He nipped at her thumb, and then kissed away the wound. He would make very sure she had no complaints. “Hmmm, perhaps you could be a little less dressed.” He ran the pearls across her breasts again, but this time as they passed above the edge of the bodice, he paused, dipped lower, smiled. The pearls slipped free, dropping deep into her dress again. His smile grew.

  “Allow me.” This time he did not reach in, fishing, with his fingers. Instead he caught the edge of the dress and pulled it down, sweeping her corset along. The d
ress caught just below her nipples, her swollen, berry-like nipples. He surveyed his work. Pressed his lips together. Not quite right. He swept his hands deep into her crumpled bodice and lifted her heavy breasts fully free, settling them atop the sapphire fabric. “Perfect.”

  He could feel her swallow, heard her little gasp.

  He pulled loose the pearls again and draped them from peaked breast to peaked breast.

  It was his turn to gulp. God, she was beautiful, perfect. What had he done to deserve this?

  He stretched forward and reverently placed a kiss on each jewel-clad tip. And then another. He’d only meant the one, but . . . He let his tongue sneak out to taste, only the smallest taste. No, that was not enough, she was so sweet. A small suck, a gentle nip, a—god, he gave up—he gave in to all his desires, his wants, his needs. Suckling, laving, burying himself between her breasts he gave up all thought but heaven—and she didn’t seem to mind.

  Annabelle had always known that Thomas adored her breasts, but never had she understood quite the power they had over him. She would have reveled in the knowledge if she hadn’t been too busy reveling in everything else. The man was talented.

  She didn’t know that she’d ever been so aroused in her whole life. Every inch of her seemed to be burning—and the throb between her legs was almost too much. Slipping forward on the chair she pressed herself against him, rubbing herself against him, lining herself up with his hard arousal. The fabric of her skirts added both friction and frustration. For a second everything would be perfect, she’d feel herself begin to give, to reach for that final point—and then some twist of fabric would change and she’d have to begin again.

  Oh, there—there—no. Thomas leaned farther forward, cupping both breasts, wrapping the pearls tight, and she lost the perfect friction she’d just found. But as the pearls drew fast, catching against each other, she could not mind. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever imagined, the tight necklace causing her breasts to swell, to ache and then the relief of Thomas’s mouth.

  She squirmed, endless excitement pushing her further than she’d ever been pushed. She tried to press herself against him, to find that goal, the finish, but now he held her fast. He pulled himself back, panting, almost wild with desire. He stared at her, as much animal as man, his need clear on his face.

  And then her skirts were up. Her knees spread wide, her own desire clear for him to see.

  He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes locked on her womanly core, her most private spots.

  She closed her eyes, knowing that he saw how moist she was, how needy. In all their intimacy she’d never felt so exposed, so vulnerable—and then she opened her eyes and saw how powerless Thomas was in the face of his own desire. Her hips slid forward along the chair until she perched on the very edge.

  Thomas took his sex in his hand, and rubbed the shaft, causing moisture to shine upon the tip again.

  He flexed forward, positioned himself—and—and—heaven.

  He filled her fully, hitting that magic spot within that sent arrows of fire along all her limbs. Her head fell back, her breasts rising and falling with each thrust. She tried to press upon the floor, to find leverage to set her own rhythm, but her slippers slid along the smooth wood, leaving her at his mercy.

  And then his hands were on her hips, lifting her thighs, wrapping them about his thighs, angling himself deeper—and she no longer cared.

  Only feeling mattered, sensation, the endless search for—he shifted again, drawing her legs even higher—and she was lost, her whole body tightened, again, again.

  And the bliss—the sharp peak of bliss.

  And still he continued, thrust, withdraw, thrust.

  She felt herself begin to climb again.

  Reaching up, she gripped his arms and pulled herself up a bit—and then she saw herself, saw them. Over his shoulder stood the tall mirror—the mirror that reflected back her own face, lips swollen, eyes dark and wild, hair tumbling all about. But it was not that that held her, it was the image of them together, her disheveled but still fully dressed—or at least mostly dressed—and him, naked, muscled, magnificent, caught between her legs, the blue silk billowing about him. It might be the most sensual thing she had every seen.

  She bit her lip, watched the woman in the mirror do the same. God, it was too much. Her fingers bit into his arms, her legs wrapped tighter about him—and then—and then she saw it happen, watched herself come apart, break into a million pieces, and then become one again.

  When it was done she could only lie there panting as Thomas gave his final roar and collapsed to his knees, his head coming to rest upon her breasts as he too gasped for air.

  “That was not what I expected, what I meant to—”

  “Hush, before you say you’re sorry for something that certainly needs no apology,” she answered.

  “No, I won’t apologize.” He laid a lazy kiss on the side of her breast.

  They were quiet then for a bit, enjoying this new peace between them.

  “We should go to bed,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, we should.”

  Neither one moved.

  “I can’t move until you do,” Annabelle said, stretching her arms high above her head with a little yawn.

  “But if I move, I might lose my pillows.” He kissed her breast again.

  “I imagine you’ll find them again.”

  He moved to standing in one fluid motion. “If you promise.”

  “I prom—” Her words were cut off as he swung her up from the chair into his arms and carried her to the high bed.

  “You’ll sleep here tonight,” he stated, dropping atop the coverlet.

  Well, that was certainly what she had wished, but it was nice to have all doubt swept away. Rolling onto her stomach, she waited as he quickly unfastened her laces and pulled off her gown and corset. He left her chemise on without asking, clearly remembering her embarrassment the last time she’d slept in his room and his valet had seen far too much the next morning. Thomas was wonderful about remembering those things.

  She curled into him in a contented ball as he settled onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms and finding his pillows.

  The bright sunlight of mid-morning greeted Annabelle when she woke. Rolling over she was surprised to find her nose brushing the down of Thomas’s chest. What a wonderful start to the day. Keeping the coverlet pulled high, she lifted her head and stared about the chamber. The wash water was steaming in the jug and a pot of tea with two cups sat on the table before the window.

  The valet had definitely been in and she was glad she had kept on her chemise—and it certainly hadn’t stopped their further nighttime activities. She blushed as she considered all the things she’d done last night. Her pearls were curled on the pillow beside her. She didn’t know that she’d ever be able to wear them again in public. Every time she did she’d think about Thomas and she was sure her thoughts would show on her face.

  Not that she ever went anywhere these days, except occasionally to afternoon tea. A soft sigh escaped her as she considered her lack of evening invitations. Her new friends Linnette, Kathryn, Elizabeth, and Annie had promised to be sure she received invitations, but as yet there had not been any. Not that she held it against them. Linnette had only recently reconciled with the new Duke of Doveshire, and if Annabelle had to guess, a wedding would be announced soon and she’d certainly receive an invitation to that.

  Annie was hoping to hold a masquerade ball sometime before the king’s coronation, but was still trying to get her husband’s agreement.

  And as for Kathryn, she had recently confided in Annabelle that she thought she might be expecting her own joyous occasion sometime late next winter. Annabelle could hardly blame her for not throwing an elaborate affair when she had a distinctly green tinge to her cheeks much of the time.

  A joyous occasion. A blessed event. Annabelle placed a hand on her own stomach and wondered. It was possible. It was far too early to be certain, b
ut she had begun to wonder. It was part of why yesterday’s cartoon had upset her so greatly—not that she wouldn’t have been upset anyway—but the thought of Thomas already having a child, a baby, had been unbearable.

  The whole thing was unbearable. She lay back on her pillow, holding her pearls clenched in her hand, and stared at her husband. Had she made a mistake welcoming him to her bed so quickly? Although technically it was his bed in this instance. Turning on her side she stared at his face, the strong jaw, dark lashes swept down on sleeping cheeks, the stubble shadowing his chin.

  No, she didn’t think she had made a mistake. A mistake would have been walking away, leaving things silent between them. Now, at least they could talk. Although, she sighed to herself, there were so many things that still remained unsaid. Who was the woman in the cartoon? If the baby wasn’t Thomas’s, whose was it? Where did she live? Did Thomas keep her? Did he intend to keep her on, even now?

  The questions spun through her mind, darkening the warmth of the morning. Last night she had thought she could live without knowing—now she was not so sure.

  “Why the intense frown? I thought we moved beyond that last night.” Thomas’s lashes swept open and he stared over at her. He’d always woken all at once, ready to face the day, far different than her own slow struggle against the delights of slumber.

  She ignored his question for a moment, turning to lie on her back and glaring up at the canopy. The questions kept barging through her mind, filling her. Last night she’d put it all aside, today it returned to haunt her. One question in particular would give her no relief. The one question she had not dared to ask last night.

  She sat up, twisted to face him. “Do you love her?”

  “Love who?”

  He knew exactly who she meant, but she would not argue. “The woman, the girl in the cartoon, do you love her?”

  “Margaret.” He said the name slowly, delaying.