“No, no, that’s not it.…” His smile wavered and he drew in a breath. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to touch me.”
“Oh…” She closed her fingers around his erection, shocked by the rush of pleasure she felt at the taut, velvety skin. “My lord.”
“Voss, blast it, Angelica. My name is Voss. Say it,” he said in a pained sigh.
“Voss,” she replied. “I love you, Voss.”
He moved quickly at that point, and the next thing she knew, they were skin to skin, length to length. His hands moved everywhere, and his mouth, soft and demanding, his tongue stroking and probing in places she hadn’t even known were sensitive: the hollow of her neck, the soft rise of her belly, the inside of her thigh.
Angelica gasped at that, when he bent between her legs, gently spreading them. She couldn’t have moved if she’d tried, but when his sleek, wicked tongue began to stroke her, his lips nibbling and tasting, she had to pull a pillow over her face to stifle her sighs and groans.
That luscious heat filled her to swelling, and as he taunted and teased, with long, slick strokes, fast, short ones, she grasped blindly at his head, sliding her fingers through his hair until it all exploded and she fell into a shuddering, gasping mass of nothing.
“Voss,” she whispered as he yanked the pillow away, and she saw the fierce expression on his face.
He bent to her, his mouth musky and hot, and his hands sliding down between them. Their bodies, flesh to sleek flesh, curves sliding against firm muscle, slipped and shifted and when he guided himself to her core, he raised his face from the ferocious kiss.
“Angelica,” was all he managed, but she read the question in his eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed, “I trust you.”
His eyes closed momentarily, and then opened again. Looking down at her, something blazing there that had nothing to do with the devil and everything to do with purity, he shifted and pushed…and filled her.
Angelica’s eyes widened at the pure shock of eroticism, a feeling she could never have imagined or described…then with a sharp movement, he went deeper. The pain was lost in a wave of pleasure, and then everything changed from gentle stillness to a hot, fast, building rhythm.
He muffled her mouth with his, or perhaps she was stifling him with hers…she didn’t know, and simply gave herself over.
And when he tensed and stopped, arched over her, his fingers sliding between them, she gave a little gasp of surprise, then tipped over once again, exploding into heat and light as he buried his face in her neck, shuddering above her.
“That,” he murmured into her neck moments later, “was worth every bit of the wait, my love.”
“Shall we do it again?” she asked, finding his lips, loving the taste of herself mingled with his own damp flavor.
Voss smiled against her. “Only if you promise to keep quiet. I don’t wish Corvindale to interrupt.”
Voss considered remaining intertwined with Angelica until someone came in and found them in the morning. Then they’d have to be married. Then even Corvindale couldn’t find a way out of it…and all the explanations would be made.
But in the end he decided there was a better way to do it. A bit more dramatic, and also, he confessed privately, deep in his heart, that he wanted to stick one last pin into Corvindale simply to see the man squirm. To force him to show some emotion, something other than the cold bastard side he showed to the world.
His soul might no longer be cracked and damaged, and he might have found everlasting love, but Voss was still imperfect. Just like every other man in the world.
19
THE EARL OF CORVINDALE AWAITS HIS VISITOR
The Earl of Corvindale was in his study the day after the musicale at the Stubblefield residence, awake at the inconvenient hour of noon. He had managed to avoid attending the event, although, unbeknownst to his wards, he and Cale had put in precautionary measures in the event that Moldavi had already sent a more competent replacement for Belial back to London.
Yet, in truth, neither he nor Woodmore expected Moldavi to act so expediently. Now that the bastard knew the Woodmore sisters wouldn’t be so easily plucked, he’d likely be planning some other way to have his revenge on Woodmore and get Narcise back rather than risking his life and those of his makes by pestering Dimitri. Nevertheless, Dimitri would be prepared in case of such an unlikely event. He was no fool.
Woodmore had gone off again, presumably to ensure Narcise’s safety—or at least, that was the excuse he’d given, along with the fact that Blackmont Hall offered more protection for his sisters than their own home.
That was a fact which Dimitri could not argue, to his dismay. If he didn’t appreciate Woodmore’s years of service and friendship, he would have protested much more loudly long before now.
And now Dimitri had to contend with the flurry of activity around Miss Woodmore’s upcoming nuptials to the long-absent, and lately returned Mr. Alexander Bradington. Dress patterns, menus, guest lists, seating arrangements, table dressings and decor, and flowers. On and on and on they babbled, his so-called sister Mirabella just as wide-eyed as the bride-to-be herself. He felt as if he was being driven out of his own home.
If he weren’t expecting a visitor at noon, Dimitri would have retreated to his club rather than be about during the feminine planning and machinations that accompanied such events.
He frowned, glancing at his watch. It appeared that, very shortly, he would be thrust into the midst of yet another battle plan for another wedding. He’d been informed late last evening that Lord Harrington wished to call on him today in regard to Angelica.
But the man was late.
Dimitri glanced over at the tall windows that lined the wall of his study and noted that, yet again, the curtains weren’t fully drawn. He knew on whom to blame that trespass, and his lips tightened. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon for Miss Woodmore to have her own household to disrupt.
The sun, bright and hot and taunting, shone through the large gaps between the drapes. At least Miss Woodmore had learned to keep the drapes near his desk closed tightly.
And to keep the flowers from the tables.
A knock at his door had Dimitri glancing at his watch. A full ten minutes tardy, Lord Harrington. Just like every other fop in London—inconsiderate of a man’s time.
“Enter,” he called, and stood behind his desk. Dimitri enjoyed projecting a stance of power, especially to mortals.
“Good morning, Dimitri.”