A Rogue by Any Other Name
“Wait for me,” he whispered, and he was widening her legs. He pressed closer to her, his fingers leaving her, replaced with the soft, broad tip of him, and as he rubbed against her, he gave a long sigh at her ear, before whispering, “God, Penelope . . . You’re like fire. Like the sun. And I can’t help but want you. I want to be inside you and never to leave. You’re my new vice, love . . . more dangerous than any I’ve ever had.”
He slid deeper, gritting his teeth as the tip of him settled against the entrance to her, where she felt so empty . . . where she needed him. She edged closer to him, loving the feel of him against her. Wanting him deeper.
He stilled. “Penelope.” She opened her eyes, meeting his serious black gaze. He leaned down and took her lips in a long, slow, promise-filled kiss. “I’m so sorry you ever felt dishonored, love . . . in this moment, there is nothing about you that I do not find utterly precious. Know that.”
Tears came to her eyes at the words, stunning and filled with truth.
She nodded. “I do.”
He would not release her gaze. “Do you? Do you see how much I value you? Do you feel it?” She nodded again, one tear spilling over, rolling down her cheek and dropping to the smooth skin of his shoulder. One of his hands slid to her cheek, thumb brushing away the salted track. “I adore you,” he whispered. “I wish I could be the man you deserve.”
She lifted her own hand to capture his at her cheek. “Michael . . . you can be that man.”
He closed his eyes at the words, pulling her to him for a deep, soul-shattering kiss before he reached between them to seek and find that wonderful place where pleasure seemed to pool deep within her. He stroked and circled for long minutes, over and over in perfect, nearly unbearable rhythm until she was pushing against him, and she could feel her pleasure cresting. He stilled before she could reach the edge, letting her come back to earth before pushing her once more and hesitating again. She cried out her frustration. “Michael . . .”
He kissed the side of her neck, whispered in her ear. “Once more. Once more, and I’ll let you take it. I’ll let you take me.”
This time, when she reached the edge, just as she was about to tip over, he slid deep into her in one long, smooth stroke, stretching her. Filling her. Gloriously. And she was lost, over the precipice, safe in his arms as they rocked together and she cried his name and she begged for more, and he gave it to her over and over until she could not breathe and could not speak and could do nothing but collapse in his arms.
He held her for an age, his hands stroking along her back, the movement soft and generous and patient.
She would never stop loving him.
Not for the immense pleasure he’d given her but for the almost unbearable softness he offered her now. For the way he stroked her gently and whispered her name as though he had all the time in the world, while he remained seated to the hilt in her, hard and unsatisfied. He had waited to take his own pleasure, wanting to be certain that she’d had hers first.
He worked so hard to hide this side of him, but here it was, all tenderness.
She loved it.
She loved him.
And he would never accept it.
She froze at the thought, lifting her head, afraid to meet his gaze, worried that he might sense her thoughts. His hands tightened around her. “Did I hurt you?” The question was hoarse, as though he couldn’t bear the idea.
She shook her head. “No . . .”
He moved beneath her, trying to pull himself from her. “Penelope . . . let me . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Michael.”
And then, because she was too afraid to speak—too afraid that if she allowed herself to speak she might tell him something that he did not wish to hear—she rocked against him, lifting herself barely and sinking back onto him, loving the way his head tilted back, eyes narrowed to slits, teeth clenched, neck corded with unyielding control. She repeated the motion, and whispered, “Touch me.”
At the words, he released his control and finally, finally moved.
She sighed at the movement, and he stroked deep, beautifully deep, all pleasure and perfection. They moved together, his hands on her hips, guiding her, as her hands settled on his shoulders, and she leveraged herself above him. “More . . .” she whispered, knowing, somehow, unquestionably, that there was more for him to give.
And he gave it in longer, deeper strokes. “Beautiful Penelope . . . so hot and soft and glorious,” he whispered at her ear. “When I watched you come apart in my arms, I thought I might die with the pleasure of it. You’re beautiful in ecstasy. I want to bring you there again . . . and again . . . and again.” His words were punctuated by his thrusts, by his hands stroking along her back, across her shoulders, down again to cup her bottom and guide her, beautifully, on him.
“Michael, I . . .” And then his hands were on her, between them, and he was so deep, and she could not finish the sentence . . . because that strange, remarkable edge of pleasure was there again, looming up in front of her, and she’d never wanted anything so much as she wanted to reach it.
“Tell me,” he whispered harshly, thrusting harder, faster, giving her everything she did not know she wanted. Needed.
I love you.
Somehow, she stopped herself from saying the words as pleasure rocketed through her. He tumbled over the edge with her, shouting her name in the dark room.
Chapter Twenty
Dear M—
I’m in a bit of a reflective mood—it’s been six years to the day since ���The Leighton Debacle” as my father likes to refer to it, and I’ve turned down three proposals—each less appealing than the last.