Don't Tempt Me

Chapter 11

Lynette impatiently waited two hours after her mother returned from her outing before sneaking out.

It was not uncommon for the vicomtess to take some time away after a row. Lynette had inherited the same wanderlust when aggravated, so she knew the feeling well. Sadly, she was not allowed the freedom tonight. Her only recourse was to pace the length of her room and think endlessly of Simon. No matter how it appeared, she believed him and she needed to see him, needed to warn him that her family may react in disturbing ways. She would not see him harmed in any fashion due to her.

And so it was that when the hour turned sufficiently late and the odds that her mother would attempt to speak with her diminished greatly, Lynette set in motion her plan to leave.

She stuffed pillows under her counterpane and topped the body-shaped form with one of her wigs. The ruse would not bear close inspection, but a quick peak from the doorway would give the impression that she was abed and sleeping.

Shielded by a cloak and hood, she exited to the rear garden, then out to the alley. There a stableboy waited, a young man named Piotr who had been with her family for years. She had always been kind to him, bringing him sweets and treats when possible, deliberately cultivating a bit of favoritism that had enabled her frequent bouts of mischief at home. Tonight he provided her with a pair of his breeches, a man's cloak, and a tricorn. She changed in an empty stall in the stable, then met him outside.

He handed her the reins of a saddled horse, then mounted another to accompany her, as he always did. He had been trained to use a pistol with precision, as most of the male servants in the de Grenier household were. Simon's admonishment to avoid confusion with Lysette Rousseau was foremost in her mind. To the casual observer, they were two young men riding alone.

The horses' hooves clopped rhythmically along the street, lulling her into a semidreamy state. The night was dark, the moon half hidden by clouds. The breeze was slightly chilly and it slipped through the arm slits in her cloak, cooling her heated skin.

Would Simon be at home? Or would he be out? Perhaps he was not alone…

What would she say if he was entertaining someone when she arrived? A woman.

Lynette inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Her posture while riding-head and shoulders bent low to hide her features-only added to her sense of falling off a cliff. She was not a woman to cower in the face of anything, yet she was afraid now.

Afraid to be seen, afraid to find Simon occupied or gone, afraid her parents would never forgive her this transgression.

Yet she did not turn about. Her need to be with him was stronger than her apprehension. He calmed her, at the same time he revived the spirit she'd once had. The spirit suppressed when Lysette died. She felt like herself with him. Free of airs or evasions. Freed from the need to maintain an unfamiliar timid deportment.

Do not upset the balance. Do not give her parents reason to lament the misfortune of losing the good and quiet daughter, instead of the unruly one.

Lynette drew her mount to a halt before Simon's home. She was not certain how she ended up standing before the door or why she was breathing as if she had run the distance traveled. She felt dizzy. Disoriented. More than ever, she wanted to cling to Simon's strength.

She blinked and found the butler standing before her, a stocky man whose wig did little to disguise his youthful features. His only sign of surprise upon seeing her dressed in the garb of a male servant was a slight rise in his brow line, then he stepped out of the way without her saying a word and closed the door behind her.

"Mademoiselle," he said, his voice sounding as if coming from a distance due to the rushing of blood in her ears. "May I take your cloak and hat?"

She gave him the hat, but clutched the thick wool like a shield.

"I should warn you, mademoiselle, Mr. Quinn is in poor humor this evening."

"Is he alone?" she whispered, emboldened by the kindness in his eyes.

"He has a guest in residence, but his lordship is otherwise occupied." The butler gestured ahead with arm extended. "May I show you into the parlor while I inform Mr. Quinn of your arrival?"

"Would you mind terribly if I s-showed myself up?"

She was afraid Simon would make her leave if she stayed downstairs.

But she knew what would happen if she went upstairs.

The butler did as well, if the flushing of his cheekbones was any indication. His head tilted slightly. "Second door on your right," he murmured. "I will see that your servant is shown to the kitchen."

"Thank you."

Gripping the staircase railing with white-knuckled force, Lynette ascended carefully, her steps hesitant due to the shaking of her legs. She gained the landing and paused.

The hallway was barely lit; only two tapers in widely separated sconces shed any illumination. Although the decor was vastly different, she was reminded of the Orlinda manse. Her blood heated in response.

Light peeked out from beneath two doors. One on the left, the other on the right. She was passing the first when voices within arrested her. Her nerves were already strung tight by existing circumstances. She had no notion how she would survive a chance meeting in addition to that.

Fear of discovery froze her in place. Then, mercifully, the conversation grew more animated, ensuring that the participants were too engaged to hear her pass by. She was about to continue on when conversation ceased and the creaking of a bed was plainly heard. Biting her lip, she remained motionless.

A woman's throaty laugh floated through the door, followed by a man's.

The soothing baritone of the man's voice thickened and became coaxing. The woman purred something that incited a masculine groan… followed by a rhythmic thumping that permeated the walls, strong and steady and endless.

Sex.

Lynette's lungs seized. Her hand rose to her throat as sweat beaded on her forehead.

Unable to stop listening, she sagged into the wall, her free hand fisting and releasing in the folds of her cloak. She clenched her thighs to ease a growing throbbing, and bit her lower lip as fevered cries of pleasure rose in volume and spilled freely out to the hallway.

She had no idea how long she stood there. She knew only that her senses were overstimulated, her skin too hot, her mouth too dry, her breasts too full and aching unmercifully.

The door on the right wrenched open and golden light flooded the hall. Lynette straightened as Simon strode out with a thunderous scowl. Breeches were his only garment. They were unfastened, revealing a tantalizing triangle of tawny skin and a thin trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the doeskin… just above the long, thick evidence of his arousal. His abdomen was laced tight with muscle, his fisted hands causing his powerful biceps to bulge. His hair was unbound, the silky ebony strands swaying around his powerful shoulders.

She had never seen anything as savagely beautiful.

Or wanted anything more.

Simon paused midstep, staring at her, unblinking. The tempo of the rise and fall of his chest altered, as did the air surrounding him. Fury turned into lust so hot it scorched her.

"Simon," she whispered, raising her hand to him.

Two strides and he had her in his arms, cradled to his chest. Her arms circled his neck, pressing her breasts to his torso and her lips to his throat.

He smelled of tobacco and brandy and musk, and the fragrance soothed something restless inside her. She was where she needed to be, in Simon's arms. Boneless, she held him as he carried her into his bedchamber and kicked the door closed.

I need you. She wanted to say the words, but her throat was too tight.

Simon knew. His features were austere with hunger, his eyes feverishly bright in the light of the many candles. He set her on her feet by his massive bed and unfastened the frog at her throat. The shield of her cloak puddled around her feet, leaving her feeling as if she were naked, despite being fully clothed.

"What in hell are you wearing?" he barked.

"A disguise."

"Christ." His jaw Tightened. "Turn around."

Frowning, she did as he asked. She jumped as his hands cupped her buttocks and squeezed.

"Have you any idea what the sight of you hungering to be fucked does to me?" he asked crudely. "Then you compound the problem by displaying every curve of your body."

It aroused her to be spoken to in that manner. She would not have guessed that would be true.

She faced him. "Is it anything like what the sight of this"- her fingertips touched his navel, then followed the trail of dark hair until impeded by his breeches-"does to me?"

He caught her hand and squeezed gently. "Why did you come?"

She smiled. "Would it ruin the moment to say I am here for me?"

"No."

"My mother thinks marriage will rein me in. If that is truly her intent, I will take my pleasure now."

Tension caused his chest to tighten into rock-hard, delineated muscle. She thought him beautiful, not in the elegant refined lines of statuary, but in the unpolished power of a man who survived by his physical strength.

"She came to see me tonight," he murmured, gripping her hips and tugging her closer. "She offered to pay me to go away."

Indignation and deep sadness warred for dominance. "What did you say?"

He met her gaze directly. "I told her I would consider it."

Pain, sharp and searing, pierced through her chest. She inhaled sharply, but did not pull away. Perhaps she was naive, but she did not believe a man could look at her as he did and not care for her at least a little. "Why?"

"My accounts have been seized. I cannot leave of my own accord, I cannot afford to."

"Do you need to leave?"

"For your sake"-he pressed his cheek to her temple-"I would have."

"Would have?" she whispered, her fingers kneading along his spine, feeling the way he tensed and quivered beneath her touch like a skittish stallion.

"No need to go now. I will have your virginity within the hour."

Tangling his fingers in the tie at her throat, Simon tugged it free. His breath gusted hot and damp across her forehead, the sensation primitively arousing. "By the morning," he purred, "there will be nothing innocent about you, I'm afraid."

He had pounced, caught his prey, and was preparing to devour.

She shivered, more than ready. More than eager. "I am not afraid at all."

He stilled. The energy he radiated was raw, possessive. She could smell the lust on him. Felt it in the shaking of his industrious fingers. Heard it in the laborious rhythm of his breathing.

Lynette offered him her mouth. He took it, his lips slanting across hers, his tongue thrusting deep, making her sex quiver and grow damp.

Simon's hands cupped her breasts, the feeling intensified by the lack of material between them. Only the linen of her shirt and her chemise separated his touch from her skin. Then his right leg hooked behind the back of hers and tugged.

With her feet knocked out from under her, she toppled. Holding her firm to his chest, he cradled her down to the bed.

"Simon?" she gasped, suddenly finding herself beneath him.

"Every time you look at me, you beg me for sex with your eyes." He crouched between her spread legs and began unlacing her boots. "You have driven me half mad. No more, or I will be in you before you are even undressed."

Lacking experience, Lynette still knew that such was not the normal order for going about the business. The thought that she was with a man of uncommon appetite and skill kept her on a knife edge of anticipation, sharp and perilous.

As her feet were bared, gooseflesh spread across her skin. Simon must have taken note because he paused, his hands cupping the backs of her calves and stroking soothingly. He rubbed and massaged, moving down to her stocking-covered feet and pressing his thumbs into her arches. The heat of his sensual touch affected her deeply, arousing her as if it were the flesh between her thighs that he ministered to.

She moaned, her eyes closing in delight.

He pressed a kiss to the pad of her foot and stood, reaching for the placket of her breeches.

Without her vision, the sounds of the crackling fire and the distant sounds of his guests' carnal activities were more pronounced, adding another layer to the sensual cocoon she floated in. The bed smelled of Simon, pure delicious masculinity. She turned her head, pushing her nose into the turned-down linens and breathing him in.

"I want the smell of you on my skin," she confessed, her hands fisting into the bedclothes as his fingers brushed across her stomach.

Simon yanked too hard on the waistband of her breeches and she heard a tearing. She smiled.

"Hold tight," he ordered. His arms were thrust beneath her and she was pulled upright. She gripped his forearms and held on, inhaling sharply at the sudden violence of the movement. She was stood on her feet, then summarily undressed.

Her breeches were pushed to the floor in one fell movement. The shirtsleeves took more effort, but not much. Her chemise was pulled up and over, leaving only her stockings as the last garments on her body.

Oddly, she felt overdressed.

Simon caught her up, lifting her feet from the floor.

Lynette's head went back and she gazed up at him with wide eyes, her brain attempting to process the heretofore unknown sensory input-the feel of coarse hair and damp skin against her breasts, the kiss of air against her bare buttocks, the feel of a man's arms against her naked back.

His features remained taut and strained by desire. Perhaps she should have been afraid of the lack of softness, but she could not fear anything about him. Lynette knew, as only a woman could, that the only thing that mattered to him in this moment was her.

Taking the necessary steps to the bed, Simon laid her down again. He stood over her, his gaze drinking her in. He followed his eyes with his fingers, caressing the marks her confined chemise had left in her skin. The touch warmed her and brought an ache to her chest. It was not a touch given in the act of seduction, but one designed to comfort, to say that he found her beautiful even when marred.

Lynette struggled to keep from closing her eyes, fighting the feeling of surrender and vulnerability. Her body was not her own. It burned and clenched and quivered for him, ignoring any control she might have exerted to bind him to her as tightly as he bound her to him.

"Such beautiful breasts," he murmured, the splayed fingertips of both hands brushing over the upthrust tips. "Such lovely nipples."

Simon caged her to the mattress, his hair coursing over her fevered skin in a curtain of ebony silk. His breath blew hot and moist over the tender peak, in and out. Her nipple hardened and ached, demanding more.

"Simon," she whispered, absorbed in the sight of such a powerful, sensual animal so passionately focused on her. "Please."

The look he gave her was both amused and sharply intent. "Not yet."

"Please!"

The rough pad of his tongue licked across her. She arched upward, crying out.

"Is that what you want?" he crooned.

Lynette shook her head. "It aches, Simon."

He relented then, tenderness sweeping across his features. His mouth opened, straight white teeth gently biting the firm flesh before circling the tip with his lips.

"Yes," she whimpered, straining upward.

Kneading her breast with one hand, his other slid down her side, briefly cupping her hip to hold her steady. "Lie still," he admonished, lifting his head to look at her.

"I need you."

His slow smile caused a painful tightening in her womb. "I know."

As his fingers ruffled the pale curls at the apex of her thighs, Lynette's breath caught and held in her lungs. A single blunt fingertip pushed between the slick folds and stroked across a point of agonizing pleasure. Her legs widened in helpless invitation, beyond shame.

"So hot and wet." Simon licked his lips and she moaned, her head thrashing as he began exploring every curve and crevice of her spasming sex. She felt the tiny entrance pulsing, straining, weeping freely.

The tip of a finger circled the clenching opening, then pushed a scant bit inside. Her body sucked hungrily at it, luring it deeply into the spot where she throbbed for him.

"Dear God," he groaned. "You are so tight and greedy."

"Take me," she begged, tortured by the feelings of emptiness and desperation. She lifted her hand and pushed it into the thick silk of his hair, tugging him toward her.

"Not yet." The lilt of Ireland in his voice was more pronounced now.

She adored it, as she was beginning to adore all of him. Except for those two words.

"I cannot take anymore." She was shaking violently, a creature of desire and longing.

"You will take all of me, a thiasce." A wicked smile preceded the return of his lips to her breast.

"A thiasce." Her eyes stung from the reverence with which he said the words. "What does that mean?"

"My treasure." His mouth surrounded her aching nipple with drenching heat and she writhed, broken by his endearment and the whiplash of pleasure created by his suckling.

This was what she had needed, what she had refused to forfeit for her family and the future she was destined to have. In all of her life, only Simon had inspired these feelings of complete trust and mindless need. If this was all she could have of him, she would accept it without fear of reprisal and treasure the memory as he claimed to treasure her.

His tongue curled around the tight, hard peak and pressed it against the roof of his mouth, his cheeks hollowing with every drawing pull. An invisible thread led straight to her womb and tugged in timed rhythm to his ministrations. The teasing finger between her legs slipped inside her to the first knuckle, causing a burning stretching that scorched her skin and made her perspire.

"Simon!"

He moved, fitting his mouth over hers, his thumb rubbing into the sensitive knot of nerves just above where he entered her. Pleasure swept through her body in a rush, bowing her spine and freeing a relieved moan that poured into his mouth. Her sex clenched like a fist, then rippled in release, moisture flooding her body and easing the sudden thrust of his hand.

The rending of her maidenhead was scarcely more than a pinch of discomfort amid the violence of her first climax. It seemed to affect him more than her, his groan louder than her cry, his powerful frame shuddering brutally. His kisses grew shorter, more fervent. His finger thrust gently, soothingly through the tender tissues of her ravished sex.

"Lynette," he murmured in a broken voice. "Forgive me."

Her arms wrapped around him and pulled him tighter to her, her tearstained cheek pressed tightly to his. "I wanted this, mon amour. I wanted all that I can have of you, however much or little that may be. However short or long the duration."

He leaned heavily against her for the space of several heartbeats, his hands leaving her body. Then his voice came rough and needy, "I must move you higher."

She tried to help by holding tight to him, fighting through a penetrating languidness that slackened her muscles. He lifted her, his knee pushing into the mattress, then the other, moving them both in a half-crawl across the bed.

He set her down amid a profusion of pillows of various sizes, textures, and colors. Resting back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs, he watched her. Lynette held her arms out to him, giving him the invitation he seemed to be looking for.

Simon rose to his knees and reached for his waistband, drawing her gaze to that tantalizing triangle of skin.

Her mouth dried.

The thick crown and top few inches of his erection were visible there, peeking out defiantly in a straight line toward his navel.

For the rest of her life she knew she would remember this image of him vividly-his knees spread wide, his dark hair loose about tawny shoulders, his abdomen ridged with muscle and glistening with sweat, his cock hard and thick and thrusting hungrily upward. She moistened dry lips and a dangerous growl rumbled up from his chest.

A moment later, his breeches were around his knees. Simon rolled to his back and kicked them the rest of the way off. Gloriously naked and impressively aroused, he climbed over her in a dazzling display of rippling strength and golden skin.

There was nothing languid about her any longer. She was as hot for him now as she had been in the gallery earlier. And as always, he knew it. A slight smile softened the harshness of his taut jaw. It shattered her, that gentle curving of his voluptuary's mouth and the adjacent tenderness in his eyes.

His thighs pressed her legs open wider. One arm rested in the mattress by her shoulder, the biceps bulging with the strength required to support his torso above her. The other reached between them, taking his weighty cock in hand and tucking the thick crest into the slick entrance of her body.

The heat of him made her whimper and writhe. He set his other hand into the mattress. The only parts of his body touching hers were his outer thighs and the broad head of his cock. Silky smooth and burning hot.

Lynette's fingernails dug into his forearms as he rolled his hips and pushed into her. Her head fell back, her eyes closing. Panting, she clawed at him, certain she would lose her sanity in the maelstrom of sensations flooding her senses.

The scent of his skin was stronger now, surrounding her, filling her mind with every breath. The feel of the coarse hair on his chest and legs was unbearably arousing, emphasizing the differences between them-his hardness to her softness, his strength to her litheness, his size to hers.

"Sweet." He groaned. "Dear God, you are so sweet and right."

"Please… Simon…" She struggled to arch her hips and take him deeper, faster. His weight held her down, forcing her to accept his pace and the short, fierce digs of his cock inside her. Advancing and retreating in tiny increments, allowing her body time to adjust to its first claiming by a man. But she did not have time to spare. At any moment she would go mad, she was sure of it.

"Beautiful," he praised hoarsely as she tightened around him. His hips circled expertly, pushing the length and width of him ever deeper into the heart of her. Simon cupped her face in his large hands. "Look at me."

Lynette forced her heavy lids to lift. He was devastating to gaze upon, his eyes brilliantly blue and glittering, his cheekbones flushed, his hair swaying with his movements.

She whimpered and clung to him. "Deeper."

"Soon," he rasped.

"Simon… I beg you…"

But he refused to be goaded, maintaining his slow relentless drive until finally he was seated to the hilt, impossibly thick and throbbing. She felt every beat of his heart, every rope-like vein, every straining inch. It was the basest, most primitive of dominations. She was crammed full of him, stretched too tight to move.

"I am finally where I have longed to be since the moment I first saw you." His hands left her face and captured hers, his fingers linking with hers and pinning her down. He moved then, withdrawing until the veriest tip of him remained, then gliding deep and slow.

The friction curled her toes, the wide flared head of his massive cock stroking across nerve endings she had never known she possessed. She could not believe she fit him, or that he fit her, but they were tailor-made for each other, despite the snugness of her untried flesh.

His hips rose and fell again, still leisurely and sure, his expertise evident in his ability to make every plunge an exercise in unalloyed bliss. He watched her like a hawk, noting every gasp and sob of delight so that he could continue to rub those tender spots. Lost in the rapture he imparted so skillfully, she still noted his intense perusal. It was why she had wanted him, why she had come to him at such great cost. She had wanted to be pleasured like this, to be the sole focus of an expert lover's attentions, to be cherished by a man whom she adored.

Simon was deliberately and methodically imprinting himself deep into her, making absolutely certain she would remember his touch, his scent, the minutiae of how he felt inside her. Forever. The sense of the end approaching, of the fleetingness of this night, incited a potent desperation. Sweat soaked her skin, causing her hair to cling to her forehead and cheeks in damp tendrils. She twisted and slid beneath him, her head thrashing as he rode her with studious leisure. In and out. Driving deep. Retreating to the tip. Building her arousal moment by moment, making the climb to climax a lengthy, unhurried, unforgettable affair.

Her legs wrapped around his pumping hips, pulling him into her, trying to increase his pace to the pounding tempo his guests had used, but unable to match his strength. Nothing could sway or move him. He simply laughed softly and teased her aching nipples with the hot lash of his tongue.

When the orgasm finally hit, it was devastating, the slow stoking of her arousal releasing in a violent jolt through her body, her sex sucking hard on the swelling cock inside her, her womb spasming in grateful relief. She cried out, over and over, shivering violently and sobbing his name.

"Yes," Simon purred, his mouth to her ear. "Melt for me, a thiasce. Mold to me."

And she was, she could feel her body softening to hold him more perfectly. He extended her pleasure until she thought she might die of it, the drugging thrusts of his cock prolonging her tremors until she could hardly breathe for the joy of it.

Only when her legs fell wide in exhaustion did he take his own pleasure, shafting her quivering sex in fierce strokes that were nearly too much after the ravaging intensity of her climax. He gasped lewd praise in her ear, remarking on the feel of her, the scent of her, the totality of her submission.

"For you," she whispered, her fingers tightening on his. "Only for you."

He wrenched out of her with an agonized groan, kneeling above her and fisting his cock, spurting his seed across her stomach in long, silky skeins. Guttural cries tore from his throat as he came with such force, it awed her to see it.

She had done this to him, led him to this end. But even in the extremity of his orgasm, he thought of her and protected her.

When he had finished, his head hung low, his face shielded by his hair, his chest heaving with the need for air. A stallion winded from a long, hard ride.

Lynette would have spoken, if her mouth were not so dry and her body so weary. When he left the bed, she held her hand out to him and he kissed her fingertips, his eyes dark with emotion.

He moved behind the screen in the corner. She heard water poured and a cloth wrung out. When he reappeared, his face and locks were damp, his chest glistening, his stride sultry and relaxed. Unabashedly naked and half-erect. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled, setting a chilly wet towel on her stomach.

"Oh!" she gasped, jerking in surprise. "Wicked man."

The sensation of cold on her fevered skin revived her slightly, although she felt even better after drinking the glass of water he poured for her.

"Thank you," she murmured, handing it back.

Simon retrieved the cloth and stroked it over her sticky skin, cleaning off his semen and soothing the flesh between her thighs. His touch was reverent, his gaze warm with something akin to gratitude.

"You are very quiet," she said when he had set the towel aside. "Have you nothing to say?"

He paused, breathing deeply. His throat worked on a swallow and tension weighted his shoulders. The more time that passed, the more she adored him. There were no practiced platitudes, no teasing gambits, nothing to take the moment from the extraordinary to the mundane.

"Could it be," she wondered, tapping her chin with her fingertip, "that Simon Quinn, lauded lover, has been rendered speechless by a virgin?"

Rich, masculine laughter filled the air and stilled the beating of her heart. He leaned over and kissed the end of her nose. "Witch."

She smiled, and lured him back to bed.