To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(51)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Beatrice took a deep breath and went to the door, opening it. He was outside, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently.

“Come in,” she said, and he straightened.

SHE STOOD TALL and prim and invited him into her room. He’d been there twice before, of course, but not at her invitation.

And that, it seemed, made all the difference.

He could feel his pulse pounding at his temple and lower down at the base of his cock. He was already erect, already ready for her, but he moved slowly. The wolf never wanted to frighten the deer until it was ready to pounce.

She turned and went to the fire, stirring it with a poker. “Will you undress?” Her hand might be steady, but her voice was high and thready.

“Why don’t you?” he asked, his own voice deep.

“Oh.” She set aside the poker and reached for the laces of her bodice.

“No.” In two strides he was beside her, staying her hands. “Why don’t you undress me?”

She looked at him, her face pinkening into a blush, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He wanted to bite that lip himself, wanted to catch her in his arms and bear her to the bed, a warlord with a prize. But he needed to have her come to him of her own volition. True, he’d coerced her, but she’d led him here. He’d take that small bit of free will on her part.

Beatrice set her hands on his coat, slowly, carefully pushing it back over his shoulders. He moved his arms to help her take off the garment, but otherwise he simply watched her. As a young officer in His Majesty’s army, he’d been to brothels in London and the New World. Had sampled the favors of accomplished courtesans. Yet the sight of this properly brought-up woman taking off his coat was far more erotic than anything he’d ever seen at a brothel.

She folded his coat and carefully set it aside. Then she stood on tiptoe and pulled off his wig. He ran his hands over his head, scrubbing at the stubble of his hair.

“I confess it made me sad the day you cut your hair,” she said quietly.

A half smile curved his lips. “You’d rather I sport that wild mane?”

“No.” She reached up to smooth her palms over his head. “But maybe a little more hair than this. Your long hair softened your aspect a bit. I never really realized until you cut it all off. Without it, you look so… ruthless.”

But he was ruthless. Didn’t she know that yet? He didn’t say the words, merely watched her as she bent her head over the buttons of his waistcoat. The only sounds in the room were her breathing and the slide of fabric over the bone buttons. She reached the end and pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders. She laid the waistcoat aside and hesitated for a moment, staring at the expanse of his white shirt. Had her feet grown cold? Only two days before, this woman had been a virgin, and now he was demanding that she undress him. He should take pity on her.

He grasped her hand and brought it to his chest. “The shirt next, I think.”

She began on the buttons without comment, though her breath was coming faster. The brush of her fingers, even with the fine linen in between his skin and hers, was a torture. She undid the last button, and he raised his arms so she might draw the shirt off over his head.

She licked her lips and glanced shyly at him from under her brows. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

She nodded, inhaling as if bracing herself, then reached for the fall of his breeches. He placed his hands on her shoulders as she worked, watching the top of her head rather than where her hands were. She knelt to pull down his breeches, and he stepped out of his shoes and stockings as well. When she reached for his smallclothes, her hands shook.

“Are you frightened?” he murmured.

She paused and looked at him. “No.”

And he had to clench his jaw. That frankness, those wide gray eyes above freckled cheeks, looking at him so innocently, without guile or disguise, nearly undid him.

She took off his smallclothes, and he kicked them aside, entirely nude now.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

He looked at her, kneeling at his feet, her face so close to his crude erection, and several thoughts came to his mind, but in the end, he held out his hand to her. “Come here.”

She rose, placing her hand in his, and he led her to the bed. He threw back the covers and laid himself down on his back, propped against several pillows. He pulled her down beside him so she was sitting on the bed, her gown bunched around her folded legs. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I am.”

He wanted to smile but found that the rigidity of his muscles prevented him. “Then touch me.”

“Here?” She placed her palm on his chest, trailing her fingers through his chest hair.

“Yes.” He watched her face as she explored, circling a nipple. She looked intent, solemn like a little girl mastering a needlework stitch.

“Does it feel sensitive? Like mine?” she asked.

He half closed his eyes. “It’s sensitive.”

She nodded and stroked lower, following the trail of his body hair to below his navel. Here she hesitated again, looking uncertain.

He waited, not prompting her anymore. Slowly she ran her fingers through his pubic hair, drawing ever closer to his cock. When at last she touched him—too delicately, too softly—he let out a sigh.

Her eyes darted to his face, watching him as she traced up his shaft. He held her gaze, though he wanted to close his eyes at the sensation of her warm fingers on his flesh. When she reached the head of his cock, she looked down again, bending closer as if fascinated.

“It’s so hard,” she murmured, circling the helmet. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” His mouth twisted. “Not as long as it’s eventually assuaged.”

Her eyes rounded. “You mean it stays like this until—”

He laughed rustily—it was that or howl. “No. It, ah, goes away after a bit if there’s no stimulation.”

“Stimulation.” Her brows drew together as she watched her fingers wrap about his length.

“The sight of a pretty woman, the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand,” he said.

“Any pretty woman?” She frowned.

Ah, it wasn’t funny, not with his cock in her small, sweet hands, but his mouth quirked. “Some more than others.”

“Hmm.”

He cleared his throat. “You can stroke it.”

She tentatively rubbed him with her fingers.

“More firmly,” he murmured, and wrapped his hand about hers to show her. He brought both their hands up his cock, strongly enough to move his skin over the stony flesh beneath, and then down again. He let go of her hand.