Closing the door silently behind her, she stepped forward, trying to remember the layout of the room. The couch, she knew, was in the left corner. She did remember a low table and reading chair, somewhere in the middle of the room. She headed into the darkness and for a moment felt terribly afraid. The silent room felt alive, a dark beast listening to her slow breathing and watching…waiting for her next move.
She cursed quietly, using her Uncle Daniel’s favourite oath, as she stubbed her toe on…something; the room must have laughed, as she felt the padded outline of a chair. Perhaps she should just curl up here? No, dreadfully uncomfortable, and she was nearly there. Clara stepped forward again.
Rook stirred to the sound of the noisiest burglar ever. He still felt half-cut, and his head was horribly muzzy. It was female. He could tell as it cursed like a sailor in a hushed whisper, as though it may wake the mice. Before he could warn the bumbling thief, it landed on him, its rump directly in his lap.
“Well,” whispered Rook dozily in the female’s ear, “What a nice dream I’m having.” He was just about to push the female back out of his lap, and try and find the tinderbox to light a candle, when he heard his name spoken.
“Rookdean!”
He knew. He knew that shocked gasp, that expression of both terror and desire.
“My masquerade woman,” he whispered.
He waited. She didn’t move, and he knew it was her. The very silence condemned her identity. He’d been searching everywhere for her, and she’d landed in his lap.
“I’ve been looking for you.” His hand slid around her waist, pulling her back against his firm body. She felt – familiar – her softness conforming to his outline as though she belonged.
The heat of Rookdean engulfed Clara through her wrap and night attire. She gulped: Ralph was in her room; her aunt was ‘occupied’; and she was alone in the dark with Rook. Clara didn’t think now was the time to reveal herself.
She disguised her voice – a harsh whisper. “Not looking very hard, since you didn’t discover me.”
“I didn’t think to look inthisroom, and since I kissed you, my mind has been in disarray.” Clara felt his hand push her hair over her left shoulder, and he started to feather kisses down her bare neck. Clara’s mind railed against the action, at the same time her back arched to his touch.
He doesn’t know it’s Clara, her heart cried out,he wants that jezebel he met at the ball.
You are that jezebel,a voice in her head responded,he wants you, he just doesn’t know it.
She felt his hot, large palm that held her tightly against him, start to caress her waist, and then move up towards her breasts. When his fingers grazed her nipple she couldn’t contain her moan.
“That’s what I remember,” he whispered huskily and nipped her earlobe lightly. “So responsive, so sensitive, so…alive.” His voice roughened “God, I love it…”
Clara shifted restlessly on his lap, while he stroked his fingertips over her breast. She couldn’t think, let alone protest. The pleasure of Rook’s touch kept her silent in the darkness – only gasping pants escaped her. She moved again. She knew what that hard prodding against her derrière meant, and her body automatically shifted to cradle it between her buttocks.
“Sweet Jesus…” Rook groaned, as he felt the woman’s arse grind on his lap. He had been too long on the edge, and now his body demanded satisfaction. She was exactly right in his arms, she felt exactly like…
The lady’s body moved again, and Rook could stand it no longer. “Turn round, turn around and kiss me,” he breathed into her ear and, without waiting for a response, proceeded to shift her around on his lap. Her night rail caught on her legs, and he yanked the material up around her thighs, ripping away the impediment to his desires. He caught a shapely limb and pulled it around his waist, till she was straddling his body on the couch.
Her breasts were crushed against his upper chest, and Clara could feel that his waistcoat and jacket were missing; his shirt hung loose. Before she could utter another word, his large hands came either side of her face, and his lips reached up to hers in the darkness.
This time there was no preamble. It was instantly wild and hot: mouths open, tongues seeking, flames searching something to burn.
“God, you’re just as I remembered…better… sweeter…” Rook elaborated harshly, as his mouth trailed down her neck: nuzzling, petting, kissing.
“Thought you’d forgotten me,” Clara whispered low. “All those dark-haired women…”
“I was looking for you…always you…” he answered hotly. His hands were pulling her wrap and night rail from her shoulder.
“And Clara Lockwood? You seem to enjoy her company,” she couldn’t help but ask. Clara felt Rook’s lips halt on her shoulder, and his hand stilled on her arm. For a moment, she thought he would stop; his body seemed to freeze in tension.
Finally, his mouth smothered hers again, leaving her question unanswered in the hushed blackness.
She should leave now; he would never know. But the pleasure of his touch… it made her burn, and she could not deny that if tonight was all she would ever have of Rook, maybe it was worth it. Maybe it was better, to have this moment in the silent darkness, than never to know passion and desire. For this was what it was, and surely, she would never feel this way again.
Although the earl did not know her identity, she made him burn as well – of that she could be sure. Straddling him, she could feel the hard bulge in his breeches pressing against her feminine core. He rocked against her suddenly, thrusting his hips and pleasure unknown streaked through her body, as that hardness pushed against her femininity. She cried out in pleasure, and she knew itwouldbe worth it.
Hands had now pushed down her wrap and night rail; the unresisting silk gathered around her waist. Hips thrust unceasingly against her, and Clara felt pressure build within her and instinctively pushed back hard against him, matching his rhythm.
He was panting heavily as he tasted her mouth, her throat, her shoulder. Clara started her own exploration. Her hand pressed against his shoulder, and she scratched her nails down his lightly hair-clad chest. She felt him move away slightly and realised he was pulling his loose shirt over his head. She put her hand back and heard him groan in response, so continued lower – intuition being her only guide.
