And splayed them over his hardened flesh.
She gasped loudly and he drew her face to his and took advantage of her open mouth. He kissed her over and over and over until she felt her legs wobble unsteadily from such attentions. As overwhelming as his kisses were, Clare wanted his mouth on her breasts, as he had done in the closet at her father’s. She arched, her breasts pressing against the edge of her gown, but hidden by the silk fichu tucked around her neck and shoulders.
Within moments he’d pulled the silken cover off and tossed it aside. His nimble fingers untied the laces at the back of her gown even as he pressed himself against her hands. Curling her fingers around his length, she rubbed over the fabric of his trousers. Her dress gaped, exposing her breasts and short corset to his sight.
“My choice,” he said, staring at her until she nodded. “But you will tell me if it is too much.” He gave her power over his basest needs and urges.
Faster than she’d thought possible, he slid his fingers into her hair and wrapped the length of it around one of his hands. Then turned her body, encircling her waist with his other arm, walked them over to the large dining table and leaned her over.
“Put your hands on the table. Hold the edge.”
The next thing she knew, the cooler air in this part of the room crept up her legs as he gathered the length of her gown and tossed it up past her hips. His hand pressed between her legs and spread them apart. She bucked back, leaning on her elbows as he found the places that had enraged her passion before—the folds, the bud, and the channel that led inside her body. Her hair fell like a curtain around her shoulders and face, the length of it lay in a mass of curls on the table’s surface. Her body tightened and tightened, and she could feel the release so close she groaned.
And he stopped. His hot breaths against her back pleased her—he was aroused, rampant from the feel of his flesh against her. The tension in her body eased.
“The bed?” she asked. The door to the bedchamber stood open. The bedclothes had been drawn down, readied for them.
“The table will do just fine,” he said. She had only ever...
His one hand, with two clever fingers cleaving her flesh from the front, pressed against the most sensitive of places. Her hips rose higher, and she felt his other hand release the falls of his trousers and then... then...
He thrust inside her and she screamed. So full, so deep she lost her breath. Slowly he eased back until she was almost empty. His hips arched and he plunged into her again. His flesh filled her, and he repeated the slow withdrawal and almost-brutal thrust over and over until she could feel the walls of her channel begin to throb around his length.
But no, he would not allow a simple release. He reached his free hand up and grabbed the length of her hair, twisting it once more around his hand until he tugged her head back, forcing her to rise back onto her hands. He covered her as a stallion did to a mare and whispered wicked things as he squeezed his fingers together.
“I will fill every part of you, Clare,” he said against her ear, pulling her hair tightly. “I will fuck you here, on the floor, against that wall.” He turned her head towards the wall. “Maybe the bed. Clothed. Naked.” He thrust deep with each word he growled. “I may even tie you to the bed and fill your mouth with this,” he pressed deeper for a moment, then rubbed that bud between her legs, “as I take your quim with my tongue.”
She lost her control then. Waves of pleasure flowed through her body, and she was swept into bliss with every thrust and every tug on her hair. But then he leaned over and bit her! He bit the skin where her neck met her shoulder and the pleasure-pain of it sent her soaring as the tension within let go. Clare screamed his name and lost herself.
How much time had passed by the time she became aware again, she had no idea. The ticking of the clock sounded loud in the silence of the large room. A pop from the fire. Then his breath against her ear.
Though covered by him, she was somehow not crushed by his weight. She shifted her legs and felt him still within her. Her flesh ached now, from the size of him, the strength of his thrusts and the fact that she had not done this in a long time.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “Give me a moment.”
“I cannot move.” His laugh in reply as he walked into the bedchamber made her smile.
Turning her head freely, she rested it on the table as her legs buckled, leaving her lying there on her belly. She could not find the strength to even toss her skirts down. Empty and emptied, that’s what she was now. The strength of every muscle had been stolen by the power of her release and she could not rise, even from this embarrassing position.
Iain carried thebasin he’d had prepared in from the bedchamber and stopped. Bloody hell, what had he done?
Clare lay sprawled on the table, her gown bunched at her waist, her lovely legs covered in silk stockings but bare to his gaze, and her hair in a pool around her. He wanted to feel sorry for having taken her that way, but he could not find it in him. Neither had suffered and both had experienced a shocking satisfaction.
On the dining room table.
He shook his head as he placed the basin and towels next to her. Dipping the cloth into the steaming water, he rubbed some of the soap into it then moved behind her.
“Clare,” he said, not wanting to startle her. He placed the soapy cloth against the folds of flesh between her legs and allowed the heat to soothe the place that must feel quite uncomfortable now.
Dear God, she had been so tight. Tighter than he’d ever imagined she would be. He’d planted himself fully into her with one thrust and her scream as he did was part pleasure, but close to pain. He’d wanted to overwhelm her, to fill her, to take her, but never did he want to hurt her. After her reaction to his mouth on her, he should have realized she would not be one for rougher play.
When the heat in the cloth dissipated, he repeated it a few more times before using the towel to dry her. She did not move during his ministrations and, after adjusting her gown into place, he found she was asleep.
He almost laughed aloud but did not want to disturb her for a few minutes. He gathered up her cloak, bonnet and veil, fichu and gloves and placed them over the chair. Then he poured two rather good portions of that brandy from downstairs and put them on the table in front of the couch.
“Clare,” he said, touching her arm. “My lady,” he said a bit louder as he slid his arm under her and lifted her off the table.
Catching the rest of her, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch. A few minutes later, he’d settled her on his lap, in his embrace and just enjoyed listening to her breathe. In her sleep she looked even younger and more vulnerable than usual. She looked much like the young maid he’d thought her to be on that first encounter.
