Don’t Tempt Me(22)
Author: Sylvia Day

“I am not the only open book in this bed,” she said, smiling. “I can read you as well.”

“Oh?” His brows rose. “What are you reading now?”

“You are mad for me,” she pronounced, without a drop of humility.

Simon laughed. “You are incorrigible.”

“You should have known that when I allowed you to kiss me.”

“Allowed?” His grin widened. “Darling, you hadn’t the wherewithal to stop me. You were clay in my hands.”

“I suppose you are just irresistible?” She snorted.

He rolled and pinned her beneath him, enjoying the view of her pale hair and skin against the burgundy and dark woods of his bed. “Resist me, then,” he challenged.

“That would be a bit difficult with you mashing me into the mattress.”

“Mashing?” He lifted hastily.

“Well, you are a big man.”

“The better to please you with,” he purred, punctuating his claim with a nudging of his bone-hard prick into her thigh. He nuzzled his nose against hers. “You would not want a smaller man, a thiasce.”

“Are you talking about your cock?”

He laughed at her obvious astonishment.

Lynette pushed on his shoulder. “I am serious, Simon! Does size vary greatly in that area?”

“Yes, of course. As varied as height and weight.”

Her eyes were wide as saucers. “So a smaller man might have had less work to push inside me?”

He growled at the thought. “The size of a man’s frame is not an accurate indicator of the size of his prick.”

“Oh. Interesting.”

“Not too interesting, I pray.”

“Are you being jealous?” she tossed back at him, smiling coyly.

With a wiggle of his hips, Simon settled more firmly between Lynette’s spread legs. He stroked the length of his c*ck through the petal-soft lips of her sex, groaning at the feel of her quickening response.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her curved nails digging into his flesh in a way he found highly arousing instead of annoying, as he had in the past. He usually eschewed marks on his skin that would pique another woman’s pride, but here, now, forever, he wanted Lynette’s mark on him. He wanted it to be visible by one and all that she had given herself to him and taken him in return.

He reached between them and positioned the broad head of his c*ck at the tiny slit that led to heaven. She began to pant, her eyelids growing heavy as the spark between them kindled to burning.

“See?” she whispered. “I think you might be a size too large for me.”

Lowered his head, Simon kissed her, slanting his lips across hers in needy hunger. Everything about her mouth set him on fire, from the words it spoke to the pleasure it bestowed. Her lips were soft and moist, delicious. And the way they trembled beneath his and parted so willingly ripped his heart right out of his chest.

“God, the feel of you,” he groaned, sinking his c*ck slowly into the snug depths of her burning hot cunt.

“See?” he mimicked gently, sliding his arms beneath her shoulders to hold her in perfect position. “I can touch you at your deepest point”—he plunged—“and stretch you to your widest . . .” He circled his h*ps in an oft-practiced motion to make her insensate with delight. “I am perfectly proportioned to service you in every possible way.”

She sighed. “I see . . .”

He lingered at certain depths, stroking over discovered pleasure points, reveling in the feel of her slick, succulent tissues. He had never been as enraptured with the sexual act before, never known it was possible to feel a woman’s pleasure as if it were his own. Not in a proprietary way, but in truth.

As before, he took his time, pumping deep and slow. The sun would rise, she would leave, her family would intercede, and their time together would be over. He felt the ticking of the clock keenly, even in the midst of mind-numbing delight. But his goal was not to f**k her as many times as possible. He did not strive to curb his craving for her or make her remember him by sheer number of orgasms bestowed. Any man worth his salt could make a woman cli**x.

Not every man could make love to her.

It was quality he wanted, orgasms that shattered her soul, burrowed deep inside her, became a part of her.

Simon buried his face in the mass of her fragrant hair and held her tightly, absorbing the feel of the tight tips of her n**ples against his chest and the pillowy cushion of her lovely br**sts. Lynette was soft, sweetly curved perfection, so damn beautiful it made him ache to look at her.

She writhed beneath him, her head tossing, her lips whispering his name in a breathless litany. She was so generous in her passion, restraining nothing, giving him everything she was. No other woman in his life had ever come to his bed without reservation. His common breeding, his Irish heritage, his lack of social stature, his lack of property and family. . . He had nothing to recommend him beyond a few hours of pleasurable bedsport.

Lynette’s innocence and purity destroyed him. Not simply her virginity, which he prized, but her pristine heart and mind. Even a whore was pure of heart the first time she fell in love. No wariness to hold her back, no past hurts to fear, no shattered dreams to mend.

Lynette had never loved a man before, in any fashion. He was the first.

He would sell his soul to be her last.

In all of his life he had never had a home, never had a place he belonged or had anything that belonged solely to him. He had never owned anything irreplaceable and precious.

Except for Lynette.

Tonight, she belonged solely to him. The enormity of her gift made him tremble.

“Mon coeur,” she breathed, encircling him with slender arms, anchoring him to her.

Simon continued to ride her slow and deep, determined to make the joining last as long as possible. His c*ck throbbed and ached, his ballocks were hard and drawn tight to his body. If he were less than completely mad for her, he would not have endured. She was so greedy, rippling along his length, tightening deliciously.

“Christ,” he gasped, arching as white-hot sensation wrapped around the base of his spine and fisted tight. “It’s so good,” he groaned. “So damn good . . .”

“Please,” she begged, her voice throaty and seductive.

“Tell me what you need,” he purred, licking the shell of her ear. “Tell me, and I will give it to you.”

“Do it again,” she breathed. “Again . . .”

Hitting the end of her, he rolled his hips, grinding into her, giving her clitoris the final stimulation she required.

She stiffened, then keened, cli**xing hard. Scratching his back and sobbing his name, she fell apart in his arms, her cunt clinging to his tormented c*ck with a viselike grip that clenched and released in a powerful massage.

He growled, grinding his teeth and fisting the pillows as she quivered around and beneath him, luring his seed into the spasming depths of her. He resisted by dint of will alone, waiting until her explosive tremors had faded to yank free and spill on the linens. Spurt after furious spurt shook his frame, the orgasm violent in its release, decimating everything he thought he knew about sex.

As liquid warmth bathed his straining cock, he railed at the injustice of it. His seed would never find purchase in her womb, his future would never have her in it.

He was finally home, but he would not be allowed to stay.

Chapter 13

“Rousseau is not an uncommon surname, Philippe,” Marguerite said wearily. “I would have asked for your help, regardless.”

She stood and picked up her empty glass. Moving to the console, she refilled her drink, then poured brandy into a goblet and warmed it expertly over a taper. She carried it to him.

He had pushed to his feet when she rose and now stood, watching her with the loving eyes she still dreamed of. His fingers wrapped around hers when he accepted the libation, burning her skin and inciting potent remembrances of those fingers touching other, more intimate parts of her body.

“Why not ask your husband for assistance?” he queried softly.

“I have my reasons.”

“Tell me what they are.”

Marguerite’s lower lip quivered and his head bent, his tongue slipping out to follow the trembling curve. He groaned and his fingers tightened on hers.

At the taste of him, heat swept across her skin, her dormant body reawakening at the proximity of its long-mourned lover.

“I have been faithless in my heart all of these years,” she whispered, shaking so forcefully that sherry sloshed over the rim of her glass and soaked her fingers. “The only dignity I have is that I have not been faithless in truth.”

She felt the effort he exerted to release her and step back. His chest heaved from the labor of it and his nostrils flared as if scenting his mate.

“Then give me the truth,” he growled, taking the drink she had prepared for him and downing the entirety of the contents. “If you will not give me anything else, give me that much, at least.”

Although she knew he had reason to be angry, the sound of his pain was too much for her to bear. “I gave you everything!”

“I wish you would have trusted me to protect you.”

Her mouth fell open. “You think I left for me? I parted from my family and friends, left every item I treasured behind, and went to you with only the clothes on my back, and you think I left you for my benefit?”

Philippe’s grip tightened dangerously on his goblet.

“You were half dead!” she cried, feeling echoes of the remembered pain. “They beat you so viciously I was told you would not live out the week. But I had hope.” She set her glass on the table and turned away. “I believed you would survive because I could not imagine life without you in it.”

“Marguerite . . .”

She heard his glass join hers on the table and sensed him approach. Facing him, she lifted her hand to keep him at bay. “Please. You are my weakness. If you touch me, I will crumble and then hate myself. I do not love de Grenier. I cannot, because I love you. But he has been good to me, even though he knows how I feel. Even though I cannot give him the son he desires.”

He stopped, his jaw tightening. “If he is such an exemplary spouse, why not turn to him?”

“Will you not help me?”

“You know I will. I would cut out my heart and give it to you, if you wanted it.”

She flinched, her eyes watering. “He has been good to me, but less so to my daughters. He is not cruel; he simply is . . . indifferent.” Her breath left her in a shaky rush and she looked away. “After the birth of the girls, I was unable to conceive again. I fear he resents them for that, perhaps unknowingly.”

“He is a fool.” Philippe exhaled harshly, his frame losing its combative posture in favor of one of weary resignation. “So, you would like me to delve into the history of both Simon Quinn and Lysette Rousseau. Is there anything else you need?”

“Money. Mr. Quinn has not yet accepted my offer, but if he does, I should like to settle with him immediately. De Grenier was set to leave Vienna for Paris a sennight behind us. If he departed on schedule, he will not arrive for another few days. Not long to some, but for my daughter, an hour can be long enough to land into trouble. She has already ventured out to see Quinn once.”

“She is like her mother, then,” he said, with a fondness in his voice that made it difficult to breathe.

“Too much so.”

“Allow me to ease your burdens, mon coeur. If you need funds, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you, Philippe. I will reimburse the expense as soon as possible.”

“I ask for only one thing in return.” His gaze darkened. “When I have information to share, I want to do so in the flesh. I want to admire you from afar, since I cannot have you.”

Her mouth dried. “It is too dangerous.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Very much so, but I cannot resist. You will not return to Paris, will you, when you leave again?”

Marguerite shook her head. “No.”

He crossed his arms, his coat stretching over the beautifully defined musculature she remembered so well. The years had been kind to him. She found him just as devastatingly handsome now as she had when first laying eyes on him.

“I will protect you from discovery,” he promised. “You will have to protect you from yourself; you know I will never turn you away.”

“Philippe . . .”

“You do not trust yourself as you should. You are decided against sharing my bed again, therefore, you will not change your mind. You are too honorable, too loyal, too stubborn.” The smile he gifted her with was so despondent, she sobbed for being the cause of it. “I cannot resent those traits in you, since they are why I love you as I do.”

She tried to hold her tongue, but could not. It was unfair that their love was like a flower destined to grow in the dark, stunted by lack of warmth and sunshine, struggling to survive in the barren soil of their hearts, watered only by tears and the mist of memories.

“Je t’aime, ” she whispered.

“I know.”

Lynette awakened to the feel of something tickling the tip of her nose. Exhausted, she swiped at the offending sensation with her hand. Her eyes remained squeezed shut in the hope that she could drift back to sleep again.

“Time to rise, a thiasce.”

The sound of Simon’s deep burr woke more than just her brain. Every nerve ending in her body tingled at the sound.

“Simon.” She smiled, but did not open her eyes.

He leaned over her, his skin smelling of bergamot soap. His lips brushed featherlight over her brow. “A bath awaits you.”

“What time is it?”

“A quarter past three.”

She groaned. “Your servants must hate you.”

He laughed and straightened. “Perhaps it is a usual request.”

A low growl rumbled in her chest.

“Thoughts of you have led to a recently acquired need for chilly submersion,” he drawled, soothing her ruffled feathers.