No true gentleman, p.26
No True Gentleman, page 26
He gazed straight into her eyes, the silken weight of his erection brushing her thigh, and for a woman once married, Catherine felt shockingly inexperienced. Slowly, she slid her hand down and wrapped her fingers around the hot, throbbing length of him. Max sucked in his breath and squeezed shut his eyes, the tendons of his throat drawing taut. “Ah, Catherine!”
“I . . . should not?” she whispered.
“Should,” he hissed, gathering her against him, burying his face into her shoulder. “Touch me, love. Touch me until I die of the pleasure.”
Catherine stroked him again, reveling in the silky heat. “I want this inside me,” she whispered against his heart. “Show me, Max. Show me what to do. It’s been a miserable few weeks. I’ve probably forgotten how.”
He laughed, a choking sob, his breath hot and moist against her throat. “Witch!” he panted. “You’ve forgotten nothing.” He lifted his face and came onto his knees, straddling her, his cock reaching halfway up her belly. Sliding his fingers into her hair, he bent down, stilling her for another kiss which was savage and starved. Then, almost worshipfully, he placed one hand over her womb while the other spread her, probed her, drawing forth her desire, hot and slick.
Suddenly, a shudder seemed to rack his body. “Catherine,” he choked, still staring down at her wet, swollen flesh. “Catherine, even if we’re careful, have you considered that . . . that you could get with child? Might even carry my child now?”
Teetering on that fine edge of madness, Catherine thought that he meant to deny her. “I’m not,” she cried a little desperately. “Oh, I wish I were, Max! But I can’t.”
His fingers still working her, his cock still hard and hot, Max threw back his head, the muscles of his throat working feverishly as he considered. “Catherine, you can’t be sure,” he rasped, staring up into the ceiling. “And so you must promise me something.”
“Yes,” she panted, drawing her hand down his length again. “Yes. Anything. Anything.”
His head came down, his black eyes capturing hers, commanding her to his will. “Promise yourself to me, Catherine,” he said quietly. “God forbid we make a child, but if we do, no matter your feelings, promise me we’ll be wed. Swear it!”
“I—I do,” she said certainly. “I swear it.” But his hand was already on his shaft, and he was spreading her wide to take him. Catherine drew up her knees, set her feet on either side of his hips, and let her head fall back into the pillow, aching for what was to come.
Max let himself slide into her slowly. She was tight. Oh, mercy. So tight. She gasped at the size of him, and he hesitated. She enveloped him with warm, womanly flesh, coaxing, urging, and Max let his body surrender to the rhythm. Oh, God, what a sweet, sweet thing this was, like being welcomed home after a long and harrowing journey. Like feeling, ever so fleetingly, as if he belonged somewhere. And to someone.
Catherine sighed, lifting her legs to better cradle him. He bent his head and kissed her long and deep, and felt her ache answer his as she rose to meet him thrust for thrust. She seemed so delicate and beautiful beneath him, her shoulders pressed into the softness of the bed, her curtain of dark hair spread sideways across the pillow. In the silence, he drove into her, over and over, until sweat sheened his body and dampness slicked her thighs. But, God help him, he already wanted more. Much more. Not just release but a life. With her, this beautiful, brown-eyed earth goddess. On a whispery sigh, Catherine curled her legs about his waist and kissed him again, open-mouthed and eager, inviting him to claim her. He drove deeper, harder, and felt release slide blissfully near.
Then he dragged in his breath and prayed for restraint. He was no green boy. By God, he would not rut like one. He would take Catherine slowly, to better pleasure the both of them. He had to, for what if she’d spoken the truth? Just once more, she had begged. Now, with his cock throbbing hot and deep inside her, Catherine’s words suddenly chilled his heart. He smoothed his hands around her waist, down her hips. “Move with me, Catherine,” he whispered, lifting her as he rolled smoothly beneath her. “Come, love, on top of me.”
Long, mahogany hair swaying over her breasts, Catherine came up, straddling him with her ivory thighs. “Oh!” she softly cried, pressing her fingertips into his chest to steady herself.
Max cupped his hands beneath the lush curve of her derriere, lifting her. “Oh!” she said again, more certainly. And then she came up onto her knees, easing up his shaft with an instinctive grace. The flickering glow of the lamp limned her, warming her skin to a pale peach. Again and again, she lifted herself, her mouth open in a silent cry, seeking her pleasure against his hardness. He let one hand drift up to push the hair back over her shoulder, baring her breasts to his hungry gaze. But when his knuckles brushed over her nipple, Catherine gasped, her eyes flaring open, burning bright with desire.
He lifted his hips, thrusting hard beneath her. His body surged, too soon, too fast. His mind raced, willing control. He battled for strength even as she sought pleasure from his body. Her breathing shifted into soft, thready pants. Crooning his name mindlessly, she began to caress herself, sliding her hands over her belly, cupping her own breasts, writhing as she drove her fingers into her hair, and Max was sure he would die of just watching her. His earth goddess. Good God, how he wanted her. Wanted her, wanted her, could keep no other thought in his head as he rhythmically thrust himself up and into her.
And then, Catherine moaned into the night, a sound of pure pleasure, her spine drawn back like a taut bowstring. He was undone by the sight. Unbidden, a feral growl sounded in the back of Max’s throat, and he jerked up, twisting the rope of mahogany hair about his hand and dragging back her head to bare the tender stalk of her neck. He bit her hard, as a stallion would a mare, stilling her for his cock, pumping his hips furiously upward, driving himself deeper and deeper as Catherine rode him, whimpering.
In the night, flesh pounded against flesh, damp and sliding. Hunger and need sizzled like a lightning strike, came together in a firestorm of sensation. Fleetingly, his awareness faded, and he knew only his own desire, nothing of hers. And then she sobbed, and sobbed again, her tight passageway caressing him, milking him past the point of sanity. This time, there was no question; he had to come inside her. And then, Max felt himself explode, her every stroke lashing him with pleasure, like the crack of a hot, sweet whip.
Bone and muscle shuddered beneath the strain, until Catherine fell forward, her body collapsing across his own. For a long moment, they trembled in one another’s arms until, almost prophetically, the lamp sputtered and went out. In the distance, thunder rolled across the night sky once more. Catherine did not stir.
“Oh, Max,” she murmured drowsily against his throat. “Oh, my love. We’re in serious trouble now. Once was definitely not enough.”
With his body still inside hers, Max listened as the rhythm of her breathing shifted into a sound, innocent sleep. But slumber did not come to him so easily. Serious trouble? Ha. That was a lame phrase to describe the sort of trouble he was in. His body slaked but his mind in turmoil, Max wrapped his arms around Catherine and drew her closer, knowing with a dreadful certainty that his life had just changed forever.
Chapter Fifteen
Never maintain an argument with heat and clamour.
An injury is sooner forgotten than an insult.
—LORD CHESTERFIELD, 1776,
The Fine Gentleman’s Etiquette
Catherine awoke long moments later, lifting her head to stare at Max through somnolent eyes, her breath softly stirring the hair on his chest. Max smiled and rolled with her onto his side, unable to tear his gaze from her. She gave him a slow, drowsy smile which curved her mouth and melted her eyes, and Max found himself hoping that his seed had taken root in her womb. And on that thought, his heart seemed to seize in his chest.
What sort of madness was this? This wasn’t something he should wish for, for God’s sake! He came fully awake, an old admonishment—some long-ago schoolboy lesson—leaping unbidden to his mind. He that hath wife and children hath given hostage to fortune. True and clever phrasing, but whose? Virgil? No, Bacon.
In his mind, he could hear the mind-numbing clack of Herr Jaeger’s chalk. His old tutor had been ever fond of philosophical debate, particularly this one, the notion that marriage was an impediment to those who took up society’s most critical causes. But in his father’s case, it had proven far worse than an impediment. It had been a tragedy. And Max had seen firsthand the truth of Herr Jaeger’s beloved theory. A man who committed himself to a greater—and more dangerous—good could never afford the luxury of a wife and family. It was both foolish and perilous to think otherwise.
He was drawn gently back into the present by the warmth of Catherine’s touch, which filled him with a pure, aching sweetness. She slid her hand along his jaw, pushed the hair back off his face, and softly laughed. “Oh, Max, your hair looks a fright,” she murmured, her eyes drifting over him. “Did you walk all the way from Wellclose Square in the rain?”
Max frowned. “Yes.”
“Ah,” Catherine said quietly. “I thought so.” Then she kissed him lightly on the chin, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Your grandmother is well, I hope?”
“My grandmother is insane,” he muttered, brushing his lips over her hair. “But she’s well enough, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”
Catherine didn’t answer that one. Instead, she yawned and stretched again, beautiful in her languor. “Do you know, Max,” she said musingly, “your appalling behavior aside, I have missed you dreadfully.” Her words were spoken without any hint of malice. It was a kindness he scarce deserved.
“I’m not a very pleasant sort of fellow, am I?” he muttered, threading his fingers through her hair. “Really, Catherine, I can’t think what you see in me.”
With a wry half-smile, she looked up at him. “Oh, I suppose there’s always decency and honor?” she suggested. “Then there’s your willingness to work hard. And the fact that you care more for others than yourself. All very dull things to be sure, Max, but redeeming qualities nonetheless.”
“Spare me my blushes, Catherine,” he said dryly.
“Oh, don’t blush yet, Max!” she warned. “I’ve not enumerated your bad habits.”
“By all means, do so. I cannot bear suspense.”
“Yes, of course,” she said cheerfully. “You’re stubborn, dogmatic, and appallingly arrogant. You always know what’s best for everyone, are far too quick to say so, and your wardrobe sometimes looks like an afterthought.”
“Is that all?”
“It will do for the nonce.” She let her head fall back, pressing her ear to his chest, and lightened her tone. “Now, tell me what you’ve been up to. Talk to me, Max. I like to hear that soothing rumble in your chest.”
Max felt acutely embarrassed. “I’ve nothing interesting to say.”
“Ah, that sounded wonderful,” she sighed. “Come, now, talk! What news of Julia’s murder? Have you notched some suspect in your sights yet?”
His work again? It seemed she was always interested in his work, and, fleetingly, he wondered why. But she was Catherine. He could trust her. “Too bloody many suspects,” he finally grumbled, reaching out to fondle a strand of her hair.
As if she wished to see his face, Catherine rolled gracefully onto her belly and propped herself up on her elbows. Despite the dim light, the angle provided a breathtaking view of her buttocks. “But what of your friends, Mr. Sisk and Mr. Kemble?”
“Sorry, what?” Max returned his gaze to her face.
Catherine crossed her legs at the ankles and stared intently back at him. “Constable Sisk and Mr. Kemble,” she repeated. “Can they not help you narrow down this onerous list?”
Max opened his mouth to refuse her, to tell her he had no wish to discuss his work, but, to his consternation, that would have been a lie. He wanted very much just to rest here, stretched lazily atop her bed, sliding his fingers through her hair and pouring out his frustrations. And, really, as long as he didn’t breach anyone’s confidentiality, why couldn’t he? To some extent, Cecilia had already involved Catherine.
“We’ve had some success,” he finally admitted. “We’ve discovered there might be an element of jewel fraud involved. And we’ve eliminated most of the suspects. I’m persuaded we’re narrowing in on one or two.”
“Professional criminals?” she pressed. “Or one of her lovers?”
Max made a sound of disgust. “Lovers,” he grunted. “Lord Bodley, for one, though I daresay I oughtn’t mention names. Just continue to keep your distance from that one, Catherine. And there’s another fellow, a young rogue with a rather desperate need for money.”
Catherine crooked one brow. “You sound displeased.”
Max frowned again and stared into the depths of the darkened room. “Oh, I rather liked the scoundrel,” he reluctantly admitted. “Though I’m damned if I know why. Sisk, however, is certain of his guilt, and the fellow did leave town rather suddenly. Ah, but better him than Harry, I suppose.”
“Max, that sounds rather harsh.”
“Police work is a harsh business, Catherine,” he answered, letting his fingers toy with a strand of her hair. “It is ugly and, frequently, no matter how hard we work, unfair. But we won’t hang an innocent man.”
Catherine dropped her gaze. “I never thought you would, Max,” she murmured. “Tell me, is Harry no longer a suspect?”
Max shrugged and folded his arms behind his head, feeling rather pleased with himself as Catherine’s eyes drifted appreciatively over his bare chest. “Not in my mind,” he confessed. “But Harry isn’t helping himself much.”
“Oh?” ventured Catherine. “Bedding the lady’s maid, was he?”
Max felt his mouth drop open. “How the devil did you know?”
Catherine’s mouth curved enigmatically. “Oh, Cecilia feared as much,” she confessed. “She’s half afraid poor Harry will hang himself. Ladies do love to gossip, you know.”
Max tried to look stern. “So you have said,” he grumbled. “But you’d best have a care, Catherine.”
Mischievously, she dipped her head and bit him, right in the tender flesh below his ribs. “Ouch, vixen!” he yelped, jerking away. “Don’t bite!”
“Then don’t scowl,” she murmured, eyeing him across his chest as she soothed his skin with her lips and tongue. “And if you do, then take your punishment like a man.”
Weary of the torment and driven just a little mad from staring at the luscious swell of her arse, Max grabbed Catherine’s shoulders and flipped her neatly onto her back. She hadn’t time to draw breath before he’d dragged his weight on top. “I’ll show you punishment, you sharp-tongued wench,” he growled, shoving her thighs apart and pressing her arms over her head. “I didn’t come to your bed for a bloody lecture.”
Eyes wide, Catherine swallowed, the motion of her throat entrancing. “For what, then?” Her voice was thick, husky. “Show me.”
“For this,” he answered, rising up to sink his shaft deep inside her. “To be pleasured. To ride you hard, Catherine. You begged me to come to your bed, and you may beg me to leave ere I’m done with you.”
Catherine tipped back her head, opened her mouth. “Oh, is that . . . is that a threat?”
He barely heard her question, suddenly lost in sensation. “Ah, Catherine, I want to make you scream,” he choked, the pleasure sucking him into her again. “I want to make you plead. I want, I think, to punish you for what you’ve done.”
“What?” she panted, lifting her hips to meet his. “What, Max? What have I done?”
But Max did not answer, could not answer, for Catherine had wrapped her legs around his waist and had begun to rise to meet him with a sweet, urgent rhythm. She knew him now, understood his body, matched him stroke for stroke, sigh for sigh. In the near-dark, their eyes caught and held. Forcing her hands hard into the pillow above her head, Max held her down, held himself back, and drew out the pleasure like a fine silk thread. He wanted to thrust himself inside her forever. He wanted to stay forever in her bed, working her body, feeling it shiver beneath him. He was happy, he realized. Blindly happy. Her pleasure drove him, inspired him. Slowly, Catherine’s eyes glazed over.
Soon her gasps ratcheted up, and her body began to beg for release even as he held himself in check. “Ah, ah, Max.” Catherine fought, struggling to rise up from the bed. “Please—oh—oh, please, higher, now . . .”
But Max just smiled, pressed her firmly into the mattress, and settled in for a long, tormenting ride.
In the course of his long and strange career, Max had slept in some very odd places. Police work was half patience and half persistence, which meant a man often found himself cooling his heels long into the night. Miserably damp cellars, hard tavern settles, and once—while shadowing a corrupt customs officer—stuffed under a barrel in the hold of an East Indiaman. Yes, Max had slept everywhere. But he couldn’t recall ever having slept into the wee hours of the morning with his arms about a woman. That had been a luxury he’d been careful never to allow himself. As a distant clock struck four, Max came slowly awake to find Catherine’s body molded inside the curve of his own, and he realized just what a luxury it was. Sleeping with Catherine could prove addictive. And he almost didn’t care.
A hostage to fortune. The phrase echoed again, but after a bit of sleep, it no longer seemed quite so ominous. He banded his arms more tightly about her, buried his head against the turn of her neck, and drew in the warm, comforting scent of her. Soap and lilacs. Heat and musk. Woman. He wanted to stay like this forever, to capture just this one moment for all eternity. Briefly, he let himself consider again. But, of course, he couldn’t . . . and Catherine wouldn’t . . .
