Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel

Chapter Twelve

‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’ Good Lord. Was there a more seductive line in the whole world? His entire body was on full alert. He watched her hair fall and his groin hardened. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d sent the invitation after all.

‘Alyssandra.’ His voice was a rasp, made hoarse by desire.

A knowing smile spread across her face. She knew precisely how she was affecting him, the vixen. She wet her lips in a slow, passing lick, her eyes locked on his. ‘Shall I undress you first?’

She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved towards him. Her hands rested at the waistband of his trousers, her fingers warm against his skin where they curled inside the band, tugging at the tails of his shirt until they were free. Her hands moved beneath the fabric, sure and confident, sliding up his torso, over his nipples. Her touch was a hint of the intimacy to follow, of being skin to skin. But the most searing aspect of her play was her eyes—dark flames that held his with a bold message: I know what I’m doing to you, I want to watch you come apart under my hands, under my mouth. He would, too, Haviland had no doubts of that. It was just a matter of when.

He cupped her face between his hands, taking her mouth in a full kiss. She answered aggressively, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip, her hands working his shirt open, pushing it from his shoulders. Then her hands were on him, on his chest, her thumbs stroking the nipples they’d so recently glided over in an effort to divest him of his shirt.

He kissed her hard, his hands taking possession of her waist, his thumbs reaching to stroke the underside of her breasts, sending a bold message of his own. He would be no passive lover. She could not play him without consequence. For every stroke, every caress she used to heighten his arousal and prolong his desire, he would apply himself in equal measure. His arousal would become her arousal, his waiting would become her waiting.

She gave a little moan as his tongue found hers, their mouths hungry, devouring one another as desire spiked. He could feel her breaths come shorter, her excitement rising. Her hands were rough at his waistband, fumbling with his trousers, her movements no longer focused, premeditated strategies of arousal. He knew a moment’s pleasure at having distracted her, of knowing her desire for him was no longer a calculated thing, but something organic that was taking on a life of its own.

The moment was short lived. Her hand closed about his length, firm as she began to stroke him. She had the advantage just now. Haviland could not remember a time when he’d been handled so boldly, so enticingly. She pushed him with a gentle shove into the chair waiting by the French doors, kneeling before him, pulling his trousers down his legs. She ran her hands along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, spreading him for more pleasure. Her eyes glittered mischievously before their gazes broke and she dropped her head between his legs. She took him in her mouth with a dilettante’s skill; slowly at first, her tongue laving his head, her mouth sucking before it travelled his length inch by sensual inch.

He gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to slide, the urge to explode. Her fingers squeezed the sac behind his phallus, and he nearly lost the fight. But losing would mean ending this and he was loath, oh, so loath to see this glorious torture end. And yet his body was priming to return the favour, such as it was. He wanted this—her mouth on him, her hand on him—but he wanted her beneath him, too, wanted her writhing as he did, wanted her eyes to go dark, wanted moans to escape her mouth in acknowledgement of what he could do to her, for her.

His eyes were shut tight, his senses overwhelmed when his body began to pulse, his balls drawing up tight. He felt her warm mouth leave him so she could catch his release in her hand. Once, twice, three times, four, five, he convulsed against her palm. His breath came ragged and short and when he looked at her it very nearly didn’t come at all. He’d expected the smug superiority of a victorious woman, but the look she wore was one of amazement, the classic lines of her face soft with awe as if they’d witnessed something significant together, done something significant together.

Haviland leaned forward, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her softly in recognition of it. ‘I am naked and you are not,’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘We must rectify that immediately.’

* * *

Laces loosened, silk slid. Alyssandra could not have said when her dress had fallen, or when her undergarments joined it in a heap on the floor. All of her senses were riveted on the feel of his fingertips against her skin, the pressure of his mouth on hers. It was a wicked sort of heaven to press against him, skin to skin, to feel him rise hard and strong against her stomach without any barriers between them.

He swept her up into his arms in a slow fluid motion and made the short journey to the high, gloriously bedecked bed, depositing her amid the luxurious pillows as if she were a precious gem. ‘All the better to see you.’ The gravel of Haviland’s voice sent a tremor of anticipation through her.

‘And you, too.’ Alyssandra tucked a hand behind her head and held his eyes before letting her gaze drop slowly down the length of him. The lamp favoured him with light and shadows, showing off the carved perfection of his torso, the sculpted muscle of his abdomen, the masculine contours of his lean hips with their defined, square bones. ‘A man can be such a beautifully made creature.’ Haviland North was definitely that. Years of physical exercise had created the masterpiece standing in front of her.

‘But you, Alyssandra, you are a goddess.’ He came to the bed then and stretched his length down beside her. She fought a moment’s self-consciousness. This was so much more intimate than standing naked together. Then they could only see the other’s face. But now, he could see all of her, could reach all of her and he did. Haviland’s fingers started a slow journey down her body, drawing heat where he touched her, drawing desire.

Haviland North was a tactile lover. With him, it was all about touch, how he could make her feel, and she revelled in it; the feathering caresses that ran from breastbone to navel, his fingertips light and sensual on her skin; the deeper, firmer touches when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs passing over her nipples, coaxing them to erectness much as she had for him earlier. Had it felt like this? This exquisite friction?

Alyssandra arched, hips lifting to him, her body asking for more and for less. There must have been an end to this heat, this slow burn that existed somewhere between torture and pleasure. Her legs opened in invitation, and he settled between them, rising up over her, the muscles in his arms taut with the effort and the discipline of pacing his desire to hers. Their eyes met one more time, one last time. He was looking for consent, waiting for it, she realised, when many men would have been hasty in their lust and seen to their own wants first. Alyssandra gave the signal. She wrapped her arms about his neck and took him full on the mouth, leaving no doubt as to what she wanted.

He thrust, and her body welcomed him, stretching, accommodating as they took up the rhythm, finding one another in the motion of joining and parting only to join again, each time more intensely until the rhythm consumed her, defined her. Nothing existed outside of this. There was only Haviland, there was only pleasure and it pushed her, he pushed her with each stroke towards some unknown cliff.

This pleasure, brilliant as it was, was unsustainable. It would end. She knew it empirically. They could not keep it up for ever. Haviland’s shoulders were sweat-slicked with effort, her own legs strained from wrapping about him, but unwilling to release him. And yet it built, achieving the unattainable. She heard herself cry out, a series of sobs strung together between ragged breaths, desperate and satisfied at once. She felt the muscles of his arms tighten where she gripped them, felt his body tense, his muscles gathering themselves, her own body matching his. He gave a hard, final thrust and pushed them both into completion, into fulfilment.

This was new territory. It was her first coherent thought when she could think again. Long after Haviland had rolled to one side and taken her against him, his arm slung comfortably across her hips, she’d simply felt. She’d felt the rhythm of their breathing start to slow, their bodies start to cool, a hundred other sensations, not the least being the irony of feeling such completion while feeling as if her body had shattered into a thousand crystal shards, each a shining point of light.

Her body had awakened and it was greedy. Having discovered this place where nothing mattered, nothing existed but pleasure, her body wanted to stay. But to stay, it would have to happen again. Could it? Clearly it didn’t always happen. It had never happened...before. She gave a little moan and pushed the thought away. There was not room in this bed for memories or for comparison. Or for hopes. Tonight existed in a vacuum, one time only.

‘How are you?’ Haviland’s voice was at her ear, warm and comfortable as if they were more than acquaintances who’d found temporary pleasure together.

‘Fine. I was just thinking,’ Alyssandra murmured, turning over to face him.

‘Don’t do it. Thinking is dangerous.’ He smiled at her, the sight of it warming her. Probably because he did it so seldom, not a genuine smile, anyway.

‘You’re very handsome like this.’ Alyssandra pushed a strand of dark hair back from his face.

‘Like this? Do you mean naked?’ Haviland chuckled.

She shook her head and smiled. ‘No, just being, I don’t know, relaxed, as if the mask you show the world is off and you’re very simply yourself.’

His eyes drifted away from her, and she felt a moment’s anxiety over having gone too far, which seemed absurd in the extreme considering what they’d already done tonight. A simple observation shouldn’t tip the balance. Yet when his eyes strayed back to hers, she knew it had.

‘Do you know me so well after an afternoon and an evening spent together?’ His tone carried a hint of sharpness beneath the quietness.

She met the challenge and placed a hand against his chest. ‘I know how you look when you kiss me and there has been plenty of that.’

‘How is that?’ The fire was starting to stir in his eyes again. He was going to forgive her intrusion into his privacy.

‘Like a man who could be happy,’ Alyssandra whispered and decided to push her advantage. She pressed against him and kissed him, effectively distracting them both from any chance of dangerous thinking. She didn’t want to contemplate what lay beyond this night, nor did she want to contemplate why Haviland was so very private. ‘Private’ was often a polite euphemism for secrets. People who were private had something to hide. People like the Leodegrances.

Chapter Thirteen

This was going to be complicated. It was the one thought Haviland’s mind kept returning to as the sky began to lighten outside the carriage windows. Alyssandra drowsed against his shoulder even though the drive to the Leodegrance hôtel would be a short one. Neither of them had been overeager to leave his warm bed and they had in fact already lingered longer in that haven than was prudent.

Paris had been waking up around them, or going to bed, depending on one’s perspective, when they’d finally dressed and slipped out the gate at the back of the garden. He didn’t think Archer and Nolan had come home yet, but he hadn’t wanted to risk going through the common room. If the milkmaids and early vendors were out, his friends wouldn’t be far behind. There were a few carriages like his out, too, taking the wealthy home from a night of revels. It was not at all odd to be out this time of day—and night—but there’d been no question of waiting any longer to see her home. They’d escaped her brother’s detection over the kiss in the park, but that would look like a minor infraction if he caught them after tonight. Nor had Haviland wanted to encounter his friends. Nolan would most likely still be drunk and Archer would ask too many questions.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of them or of Antoine Leodegrance. He simply didn’t want to share. He wanted to keep Alyssandra to himself. She shifted in her sleep and murmured something softly incoherent. He looked down where her head rested against his shoulder. She was beautiful even in her sleep, with all that hair falling over her shoulder in a silky curtain of caramel, the sweep of dark lashes against her cheek.

He was already planning when he could see her again and how. After tonight, he knew that once would not be enough. That was the complicated part. There were the logistics, but there were also the ethics. How long could he go on seeing Leodegrance’s sister without telling him? She was of an age to make her own decisions, but Haviland felt something of the cuckolder to face Leodegrance across the fencing piste while pursuing the man’s sister behind his back, regardless of her age. Although it might be best if Leodegrance remained oblivious. The man would want to know his intentions and those were hardly classified as honourable.

Despite the concerns, Haviland knew it wouldn’t stop him. Tonight had been heady stuff indeed. It had been hard to tell who was seducing whom. They’d been partners in pleasure. The result had been explosive and satisfying. The result had also been dangerous—it had created an intimacy, that if pursued, would eventually make demands of its own. There were already signs of it. When I kiss you, you look like a man who could be happy.

She saw too much and he could not give her that part of himself. She wanted to know him, but therein lay the rub. If she knew him, she wouldn’t want him. How could he tell her he was expected to return home and marry Lady Christina Everly? Not only was he expected to marry, but it was a match he’d known about since he was eight years old. He could not plead ignorance.

But neither could Alyssandra, on different grounds. She was no blushing English virgin expecting marriage. She’d come to him for pleasure, not a proposal. She’d come to him tonight knowing full well what could happen and she’d certainly initiated a fair share of it. One night did not qualify as an affaire. However, the longer this went on, expectations would form, a consequence of intimacy that went beyond physical pleasure. It occurred to him that just as he’d never indulged in a purely self-motivated pursuit of a woman, neither had he indulged in a free-standing affaire. It was different than dealing with mistresses where the terms and expectations were less emotional and far more defined. The carriage pulled to a halt and Haviland gave Alyssandra a gentle shake. ‘We’re here.’

She lifted her head and gave him a drowsy smile that had him wishing the driver could take another turn around the city, but the sky was already considerably brighter than when they’d left his rooms. He jumped down and helped her out, insisting on watching her all the way to the door when she refused to let him walk her any farther. He doubted Antoine Leodegrance was awake this time of day, but the servants would be up and servants would talk.

‘Goodnight, or should I say good morning?’ She gave him one last smile and turned to go before it became too difficult. He wanted nothing more than to haul her back to his rooms and lock the day out. Haviland caught her arm before she could slip away. There was at least one detail they could settle that would make the rest of the day tolerable. ‘I have to be at the salle this afternoon, but this evening, where can I find you?’

She gave him a coy smile. ‘I’ll send you a note.’

Haviland arched a brow. ‘It’s to be a puzzle, then?’

Alyssandra stepped away, dancing backwards with a little trill of laughter. ‘I have it on good authority you like a woman of mystery. À ce soir, Haviland.’

Haviland folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the carriage, watching her until she disappeared. Even the Leodegrance home was private in the extreme. A high stone wall set it apart from the street, making the house accessible only through the arch that led into the inner courtyard. Certain she was safely inside, Haviland climbed back into the carriage for the lonely drive home.

Only he wasn’t alone. She had not left him entirely. The carriage smelled faintly of her soap—lavender and lemongrass—as did his coat where she’d rested against him. The seat was still warm from her body, he was still warm. It was something of a novelty to realise he wanted her again, or was it that he wanted her still? After a night of rather thorough lovemaking, he would have thought he was ready for a respite, not just for a chance to recover, but to reclaim his space. He’d always been happy after a night with a woman’s charms to be back in his space, to have his privacy. He enjoyed women, but he didn’t need them clinging to him every second of the day. He liked an independent woman. But this morning he’d not been ready to let Alyssandra go.

* * *

Back at the rooms, Brennan had returned, looking entirely unkempt. Most of his clothes were draped over a chair instead of on his person, a sure sign he’d had to make a quick exit from somewhere. Apparently, he wasn’t in any great danger, though, because he’d stopped for breakfast. French rolls, cheese and a block of rich creamy butter were laid out on the dining table.

‘Just getting in?’ Brennan said around a mouthful of bread. He motioned to an empty chair. ‘I’ll have Guillaume bring coffee.’

Haviland gave a tired smile, the night catching up with him at last. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll go to bed.’

Brennan winked. ‘I’ve already been there tonight, twice in fact.’

‘You can tell me about it later.’ Haviland tried to laugh, but it came out as a yawn. He didn’t know how Brennan did it; up all night, every night, and always cheerful as if his personal life didn’t teeter on the edge of disaster.

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