The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)

The Serpent Prince (Princes #3) Page 27

He stopped breathing. “Ah, God, I remember them. Do you know what it did to me to turn away from you that night?”

She shook her head, her throat clogged. She remembered as well, his hot gaze on her bare breasts, her own wanton craving.

“It nearly unmanned me.” His hands hovered over her breasts, tracing her curves without touching. “I wanted to feel you so badly.”

His palms were so close to her skin that she could feel his heat, but he didn’t touch her. Not yet. She found herself straining toward his hands, anticipating that first contact. She withdrew her arms from the chemise sleeves but clutched the material at her waist so it wouldn’t fall.

“I remember you touched yourself here.” His hands cupped the air above her nipples. “May I?”

“I . . .” She shivered. “Yes. Please.”

She watched his hands descend and lightly touch her breasts. His warm fingers curved about her. She arched and her breasts thrust themselves into his palms.

“God,” he breathed. He stroked in a circle around her breasts.

She looked down at herself and saw his big, long-fingered hands on her skin. They looked unbearably masculine. They looked unbearably possessive. He brought both hands toward the tips of her nipples and gently but firmly squeezed them between his forefingers and thumbs. She inhaled at the shocking sensation.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his lips in her hair.

“I . . .” She swallowed, unable to answer. It was more than good.

But that seemed answer enough for him. “Let me see the rest. Please.” His lips skimmed across her cheek, his palms still cradling her breasts. “Please show me, my wife.”

She opened her clenched fists, and her chemise fell to the floor. She was naked. He brushed one hand down to her belly and pulled her back against him so her nude buttocks brushed the fabric of his breeches. They were warm, almost hot, from his body. He pressed against her, and she felt his male organ, long and hard. She couldn’t help it. She began to shake.

He chuckled in her ear. “There was more I was going to say to you, but I can’t.” He pressed into her again and groaned. “I want you too badly, and I’ve lost the words.”

Suddenly he lifted her into his arms, and she could see his eyes, shining silver. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He set her on the bed and put one knee beside her, making the mattress dip. “It will hurt the first time; you know that, don’t you?” He reached both arms behind him and pulled his shirt over his head.

She was so distracted by the sight of his bare chest that she hardly heard the question.

“I’ll go as slowly as possible.” He was lean, the long muscles on his arms and shoulders moving as he climbed into the bed. His nipples stood out in startling contrast to his fair skin, brown and flat and so very naked. A diamond of short, fair hairs grew in the very middle of his chest. “I don’t want you to hate me afterward.”

She reached to touch his nipple. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I won’t hate you,” she whispered.

Then he was on her, kissing her wildly, his hands at either side of her face. She felt like giggling and would have, if his tongue hadn’t been in her mouth. It was so wonderful to have him want her like this. She cradled the back of his head in her hands and felt the bristles of his shorn hair against her palms. He lowered his hips to hers and all thought spun away. He was hot. His chest slid across her breasts, damp with sweat. His hard thighs, still encased in his breeches, were nudging her legs apart. She opened her legs, welcoming the weight of his body, welcoming him. He settled against her most vulnerable part, and for a moment she was embarrassed. She was wet and the moisture must be staining his breeches. Would he mind? Then he pressed against her with his maleness and she felt . . .

Wonder.

It was so extraordinary, better even than when she touched herself. Was it always this good, this physical sensation? She thought not. It must be him—her husband—and she gave thanks that she had married such a man. He pressed again, sliding this time, and she sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He lifted his mouth from hers, his face tight and without humor.

He fumbled between them, and she realized he must be releasing himself. She skewed her head sideways to look. But he was on her before she could see.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his words sharp and bit off. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. If only”—something nudged against her—“later. Ahh.” He closed his eyes as if in pain.

And invaded her. Pushing and widening. Burning.

She froze.

“I’m sorry.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. At the same time, she was oddly touched by his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Something tore quite explicitly, and she inhaled but didn’t make a sound.

He opened his eyes, looking stricken and hot and savage. “Oh, God, sweetheart. I promise it will be better next time.” He kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “I promise.”

She concentrated on steadying her breath and hoped he would finish very soon. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but this was no longer pleasant for her.

He parted his mouth over hers and licked her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

His hand moved between them and caressed her lightly where they were joined. She tensed, unconsciously expecting pain, but instead it was pleasant. And then it was more. Heat began to flow from her center. Slowly her thighs relaxed from the rigid arch they’d assumed when he’d entered her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice deep and lazy.

His thumb brushed against her nubbin of flesh. She closed her eyes and sighed.

He circled. “Sorry.”

He moved very slowly within her, sliding. It was almost . . . good.

“Sorry.” He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she sucked it.

She let her legs drop open to give him better access. He groaned into her mouth, incoherent, and suddenly it was beautiful again. She arched her hips to meet that thumb, to demand more pressure and dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He moved faster in reply. He broke their kiss, and she could see his silver eyes, pleading and taking at the same time. She smiled and wrapped her legs about his hips. His eyes widened at her movement and he groaned. His eyelids fluttered closed. Then he was arcing back, the tendons in his arms and neck straining to meet an invisible goal. He shouted and heaved against her. And she watched him, this powerful, articulate man driven to helpless, wordless pleasure by her body. By her.

He fell to her side, his chest still heaving, his eyes closed, and lay there until his breathing calmed. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but he reached out and gathered her to him.

“Sorry.” The word was so garbled, she wouldn’t have known what he’d said if he hadn’t been repeating it all along.

“Shh.” She stroked his damp side and smiled secretly. “Go to sleep, my love.”

“WHY DID YOU SUMMON ME HERE?” Sir Rupert glanced uneasily around the park. It was very early morning and cold as the devil’s heart. No one else was in sight, but that didn’t mean Walker hadn’t been followed or that some fashionable lordling might not be out riding. He pulled the brim of his hat lower to be on the safe side.

“We can’t wait for him to make the next move.” Lord Walker’s breath steamed as he talked.

He sat his mount like a man who’d been bred to the saddle, as indeed he had. Six generations of Walkers had led the hunt in his home county. The Walker stable was renowned for the hunters that came out of it. He’d probably sat a horse before he could toddle on leading-strings.

Sir Rupert shifted on his gelding. He hadn’t learned to ride until he was a young man and it showed. Add to that his crippled leg and he was damned uncomfortable. “What do you propose?”

“Kill him before he kills us.”

Sir Rupert winced and looked around again. Fool. Anyone listening would have blackmail material at the very least. On the other hand, if Walker could solve this problem for him . . . “We’ve tried that twice and failed.”

“So we try it again. Third time’s the charm.” Walker blinked at him with bovine eyes. “I’m not waiting like a cockerel to have its neck wrung for the supper pot.”

Sir Rupert sighed. It was a delicate balance. As far as he knew, Simon Iddesleigh still wasn’t aware of his part in the conspiracy. Iddesleigh most likely thought Walker was the last man involved. And if Iddesleigh could be kept from finding out, if he could bring his revenge to its inevitable bloody conclusion with Walker, well, all and good. Walker wasn’t such a very important piece of Sir Rupert’s life, after all. He certainly wouldn’t be missed. And with Walker gone, there would be no one else alive to connect him to the conspiracy that had led to Ethan Iddesleigh’s death. It was a seductive thought. He’d be able to rest, and God knew he was ready for it.

But if Walker talked before Iddesleigh got to him—or, worse, when Iddesleigh found him—all would be lost. Because, of course, Iddesleigh was really after Sir Rupert, even if he didn’t know it. Hence, Sir Rupert’s indulgence of Walker’s melodrama and this meeting in the park at dawn. The other man must think they were together in this.

His hand drifted toward his waistcoat pocket where the Iddesleigh signet ring still lay. He should’ve gotten rid of it by now. He had in fact nearly thrown it into the Thames on two occasions. But each time something stopped him. It was illogical, but he fancied that the ring gave him power over Iddesleigh.

“He married yesterday.”

“What?” Sir Rupert focused on the conversation.

“Simon Iddesleigh,” Walker said patiently, as if he weren’t the slow one. “Married some chit from the country. No money, no name. Maybe the man is insane.”

“I think not. Iddesleigh is many things, but insane is not one of them.” He squashed an urge to massage his thigh.

“So you say.” Walker shrugged and took out his snuffbox. “Any case, she might do.”

Sir Rupert stared bemusedly as the other man inhaled a pinch of snuff and sneezed violently.

Walker flapped his handkerchief and then blew loudly. “To kill.” He sniffed and wiped his nose before pocketing the handkerchief.

“Are you mad?” He nearly laughed in the other’s face. “Remember, it was the death of his brother that set Simon Iddesleigh off in the first place. Killing his new wife isn’t likely to stop him, now, is it?”

“Yes, but if we threaten her, tell him if he doesn’t cease, we’ll kill her.” Walker shrugged again. “I think he’ll stop. Worth a try at any rate.”

“Really.” Sir Rupert felt his lip curl. “I think it would be like lighting a powder keg. He’ll find you even faster.”

“But not you, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

Lord Walker flicked a speck of snuff from the lace at his wrist. “Not you. Made sure to stay out of this, haven’t you, Fletcher?”

“My anonymity has served our case well.” Sir Rupert met the younger man’s gaze steadily.

“Has it?” Walker’s heavy-lidded eyes stared back.

Sir Rupert had always found Walker’s eyes stupidly beastlike, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was so easy to discount the intelligence of a big, slow-moving animal. Sweat chilled on his back.

Walker’s gaze dropped. “That’s what I plan to do at any rate—and I expect you to back me, should I need it.”

“Naturally,” Sir Rupert said evenly. “We’re partners.”

“Good.” Walker grinned, ruddy cheeks bunching. “Have the bastard over a barrel in no time. Must go now. Left a little dove all cozy in her nest. Wouldn’t want her to fly before I got back.” He winked lewdly and nudged his horse into a trot.