He softened. “You cannot be at a loss for suitors, Lady Beaufort.”
“But none is Stephen de Warenne, heir to the Earl of Northumberland!”
How well he understood her ambition; it was so like his. “I am sure you will make a good match.”
“Good, yes.” She was bitter. “But great? No.”
He did not realize that he had moved closer to her. “Is it the loss of Northumberland that moves you so closely to tears—or the loss of my brother?”
She blinked. “Why do you ask?”
His jaw was tight. So was every inch of the rest of his body, including his loins. “I need to know.”
She gazed into his eyes. “You want me, don’t you?”
He swallowed. God, he did! “Even mere wanting is wrong.”
“No,” she breathed, advancing. “’Tis not wrong—for us, ’tis so right!”
Suddenly he could not help himself, and her face was in his hands. “Did you lust for Stephen as you do for me?”
“No! Never!” she cried. “How I wish you were the eldest! Somehow I would get rid of Mary, for I would never let her have you! And then it would be you I wed, you! And you would not be sorry!”
“You go too far.” But he did not release her stunning face. It flashed through his mind that she might be capable of murder. But the thought was brief. For he was overwhelmed with a dark, primal fear, a foreboding.
Adele was not like the widow Tarn. Her pull was far greater, and far more dangerous. And with that lure there was the threat of complications, complications he sensed but had yet to understand.
“Admit that you want me,” Adele was whispering.
Geoffrey looked at her upturned face, gripped in his large hands. His thumbs moved slightly along her jaw, stroking her silken skin. She was wicked. He wanted to be wicked with her. “I want you.”
“I want you, too, dear God, I do! So badly at night that…” She trailed off, her full lips parted and quivering, ripe for his kiss.
He was mesmerized. “Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely.
She took one of his hands, squeezed it, then brought it down between them. Geoffrey was frozen. She pressed his palm even lower, against the swell of her femininity. He could feel her blood beating against his hand. “At night I touch myself, dreaming that it is you. When I cry out, ’tis your name I speak.”
He groaned. Of its own volition, his hand cupped her sex, ignoring the thin silk that sheathed her. He imagined what she did to herself, imagined what he might do to her. For the first time he faced the depth of his lust. He wanted to rut with her in a mindless, animal-like frenzy. The extent of his own carnality shocked him. Just once, he wanted to let go of all thought and allow his body to do as it willed. He wanted to sink into utter depravity with her. Just once.
He was only a man, and a weak one at that. She would not be the first woman he had taken, but she might very well be the last. For if he soon received the kind of appointment the King had hinted at, he must make his final vows, committing himself irrevocably to God. Vows he would never break.
Geoffrey gripped her hand. Her eyes widened. His mouth carved itself into a harsh smile. “Let us fall from grace together, Adele. Today. Now.”
She gasped. He was pulling her with him across the hall and outside. She had to run to keep up with him as they crossed the courtyard, passing the stables. He was aware of nothing and no one other than the woman at his side, and his sinister intent.
“Where are you taking me?” she cried hoarsely.
“To the woods,” he said shortly, panting. His uneven breathing had little to do with the rapid pace he had set for them.
Finally they were sheltered by thick stands of trees. Geoffrey turned to face Adele, already pulling at his braided belt. It dropped to the ground, the gold cross that hanged from it glinting dully in the daylight amidst fall’s crimson leaves. He did not take his eyes from her face. She appeared mesmerized. He stripped off his robes. She whimpered when she saw his straining phallus.
“Lady Beaufort?” he queried, restraining his impatience with a superhuman effort. “Your clothing. I want you naked.”
She came to life. Her laughter rang out wickedly as she pulled off her cote and surcote. Geoffrey started when he saw she wore no chemise. She laughed again, displaying herself proudly, standing broad-shouldered and full-breasted, her black hair waving in the wind. She preened without shame.
Adele held her arms out to him. “Come,” she whispered. “We have only just begun, you and I. I have never been more sure of anything. You are hard, hurting. Come to me, my lord. Let me ease the pain.”
He pulled her against him. Their mouths met in a wild fusion. She tore her lips away. Before he could protest, she was slithering down his body. On her knees, she nibbled his navel, rubbing her breasts against his sex. Then her head descended, and with her tongue, she began to lick him in slow, sure strokes. Finally she took him deep into her mouth.
