Her nipple popped from his mouth with a wet sound and he stilled, his gaze meeting hers. “Are you sore, my love? I don’t wish to give you any more pain tonight.”
The discomfort from earlier had gone, and in its place was only a wild, ravaging hunger. A need to have him inside her again. “I’m fine. Please, Julian. I want you.”
Her reassurance was all he needed, for in the next moment, he withdrew his finger and his cock was once more at her entrance, poised. “Are you certain, little dove?” His voice was strained, his expression tense.
She moved against him, bringing the tip of him inside her. “Yes,” the lone word left her lips as a hiss. “Oh yes. I need you inside me.”
“Fuck, Clara. Tell me again.”
His guttural demand was as wicked as it was enticing. He liked when she said sinful things to him, she realized, things she would never have before dared to say aloud or even known existed.
She met his gaze, unwavering. “I need you inside me. Now.”
The breath left his lungs in a hot rush, billowing over her bare breasts like a kiss. In one long thrust, he was fully sheathed inside her, deep and rigid and wonderful. Every part of her—her skin, her breasts and limbs and mercy, her entire body—hummed with pleasure. His mouth took hers again as his touch traveled everywhere, stroking her nipples, her back, dipping between where their bodies joined to tease her hungry flesh.
She was wet, so very wet, and he slid in and out of her more easily this time than the last, her body stretching to welcome him, tightening to bring him deeper. It was a beautiful rhythm, and it didn’t take long for her to shatter, clenching around him as waves of bliss licked over her. He continued to thrust inside her, absorbing the ripples of her pleasure.
With another growled curse, he withdrew suddenly from her body and she felt the warm wetness of his seed on her belly. He kissed her again, a possessive claiming as powerful as their coupling had been, and then rolled to his side, his chest heaving, head upon the pillow.
“My God, little dove,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My God.”
The next morning dawned grim and bleak. Julian woke with Clara pressed trustingly to his side, the scent of sunshine and citrus and some indefinable note that was simply her—lush and effervescent and gorgeous—enveloping him. He ached with everything inside him, every instinct and nerve and raw, pulsating emotion, to keep her forever there. To never let her go.
For the first time, he understood what had been missing from his life. She had been. A complex and determined woman with a keen mind and a sound dose of daring, who’d been bold enough to make him want her and steadfast enough to make him love her. It was the sight of the purple bruises circling her neck like some sort of sick necklace that broke the spell she cast upon him, a reminder that he dared not linger or stray from his course.
He had brought the darkness of his world into her light, and he alone could remove the blight.
He knew what he must do, and so he pressed a kiss to the silken cascade of golden hair at her crown and gently extricated himself, taking care not to wake her. He dressed in haste, without the aid of his valet, and made certain two of his most reliable footmen guarded the chamber door. Though he doubted the miscreant who’d attacked Clara would have the bollocks to make another attempt by the light of day, he wasn’t about to take any further chances with her safety.
He took a brief moment to confer with Osgood, leaving the household preparation in his capable hands before settling into his carriage for what felt like the longest drive of his life. With each sway of the conveyance, he felt sicker, the knot inside his gut tightening until he feared he’d cast up his accounts like a sailor on his first day to sea.
Yes indeed, this was the fates’ way of meting out punishment for the reckless sin that had marked his life. Finally, he must do penance. He’d bloody well take it, though, if it meant protecting the woman he loved. The plum-colored flesh of her elegant throat and cheek mocked him as the carriage came to a halt outside the townhome of Jesse Whitney. His visit was unannounced, unexpected.
He’d come to bow and scrape to Clara’s father, to see to it that she remained far from the path of the malevolence he’d unwittingly brought into her life. Far from him and anything and anyone who would hurt her. Swallowing his pride today was the least of his worries. Jesus, someone had almost killed her. On his watch. Because of him.
Another surge of nausea nearly made him wretch but he tamped it ruthlessly down as the carriage door swung open and he descended, gulping the cool morning air despite its familiar stench of horse dung and soot. He entered the stately home in a dreamlike state, only half aware of his surroundings.
As the butler led him to Whitney, Julian rehearsed half a dozen different things he might say. But how the hell did one tell a man that his daughter had almost been murdered in her bed and it was all his fault? Given Jesse Whitney’s searing dislike of him and his propensity for defending his daughter with the business end of a pistol, he wouldn’t be surprised if he left this interview with a gunshot wound.
Whitney stood upon his entrance, looking tense and ill at ease, his mouth drawn into the ferocious frown he’d come to expect. “Ravenscroft.”
“Whitney.” Julian sank into a chair, his legs betraying him. He’d never felt more weak, more pathetic and useless than he had in the hours since Clara’s attack. It left him limp and drained, floating in a sea of self-disgust.
Clara’s father sat, steepled his fingers, and raised an expectant brow. “To what do I owe this visit, my lord? Have you squandered my daughter’s dowry already? If it’s more money you’re after, I’m afraid you’re bound for disappointment. I’ll not give you another godforsaken penny.”
On any other day, he would’ve taken umbrage that the man held him in such low regard that he imagined him capable of losing a fortune in the span of a few days. But today was a different goddamn sort of day.
“I don’t want your bloody money, Whitney,” he bit out. “I want you to assure me that you’ll abide by Clara’s wishes and send her back to Virginia as soon as possible.”
“Well I’ll be damned.” Whitney sat back in his chair, regarding him as he would a thief who’d just approached him on the street with every intent to fleece him. “Is this what you planned all along, you cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch? To get her dowry and then rid yourself of her?”
“No,” he denied, his voice hoarse with the tenseness of the emotions roiling through him. “Her leaving me is the last thing I want in this world. But it’s what needs to happen. Someone attacked her last night. If I hadn’t been able to break down the door when I did…”
His words trailed away, cut off by the sudden thickness in his throat. By God, he would not weep before Jesse Fucking Whitney. He would not. His hands tightened into impotent fists on the chair’s carved mahogany arms. He took a steadying breath.
“My God.” The color drained from Whitney’s face, leaving him as ashen as Julian was sure he appeared. “Where is she now? What happened to her?”
“She’s safe,” he reassured. “She is sleeping under guard as we speak. But the bastard strangled her. She’s badly bruised. His intent was clear. I can only surmise that the person responsible for attacking me is behind this as well and he’ll stop at nothing until he reaches his objective. I’ll not have Clara in danger. Not for all your American gold. Not for all the gold in the bloody world. I want her safe and far away from me and any enemies I’ve made over the years. The farther away the goddamn better.”
