The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

“The little beast didn’t even have a name until you asked me for one.”

      Ash had no idea why she was standing there naked, talking about the cat, but he’d be damned if he was going to complain about it.

       By all means, do go on.

      He drew to a sitting position, the better to see her. All of her. He let his gaze linger on the delectable orbs of her breasts, then the gentle curve of her waist where it flared to her hips. Those tempting handfuls of femininity he’d gripped with fervor in the dark.

      And then his gaze traveled to its logical destination . . . the dark triangle between her legs. All those sweet, secret places he now knew so well with his lips and tongue.

      He could taste her from here.

      “Of all the names that could have come to me,” she said. “Buttons. Boots. Even Pocket would have been better. But no. I had to blurt out Breeches. Do you want to know why?”

      “I don’t know how you expect me to give a damn right now.” He’d moved on to memorizing every contour of her thighs.

      “Because that’s where I’d been looking at the moment, you see. At breeches. More accurately, your breeches. Admiring how you . . .” She cleared her throat. “. . . filled them.”

      He lifted his head. Now he gave a damn.

      “Admiring,” he echoed in disbelief.

      “Yes. Perhaps even lusting.”

      That settled it. None of this was real. He was dreaming.

       Lord, let me never wake.

      “I am wildly attracted to you. Physically attracted to you. I have been from the first. And yes, I’ve done a great deal of staring.” She stepped free of her pooled chemise. “I want you with a keen, carnal passion. I won’t pretend otherwise, and I’m not going to apologize for it. Not anymore.”

      He swallowed hard. “I see.”

      “Good.” She moved toward him.

      Ash leapt to his feet and held her off with an extended arm. “You’ve made your point. Quite vividly. Now you may return to your bed.”

      “Return to my bed? Without us even . . .” She waved her hand to fill the gap in her sentence. “Why?”

      “Because the only activities I can imagine at the moment involve complete and utter depravity. And you”—he waved his hand in imitation—“cannot bring yourself to speak the tamest of them.”

      “We don’t have to do much speaking, do we?”

      Very well, he could demonstrate.

      Wrapping his good arm around her waist, he lifted her against him. He pushed his hard, aching cock against her belly, rubbing her nakedness through the barrier of his trousers. “Do you feel that?”

      Her gasp was more of a squeak. “Yes.”

      “I have a bad side, Emma. One that has nothing to do with my scars. You’ve no idea what I’d like to do to you. Push you against a wall. Drive my cock into your sweet, wet heat. Tup you senseless. Raw. So hard that you wouldn’t walk for days. And that’s only to start.”

      Heat sparked and crackled between them. Her nipples hardened, pressing against his chest like spear points.

      “Was that speech meant to put me off?” Her voice was breathless. “Because if so, I must tell you it backfired.”

      Damn it. Of course it had. He should have never expected anything else.

      Everything in his life backfired.

      First that rocket at Waterloo. Then his engagement. Now this whole blasted arrangement with Emma. Despite the supposedly impersonal nature of their marriage, she was slowly working her way under his skin, under his scars. If not deeper.

      Infatuation was dangerous enough. It must stop here. If he allowed her in, Fate would surely laugh in his face. His own heart would backfire, explode to shrapnel, and he’d be as destroyed inside as he was without.

      She had to leave his room at once. And he must lock her out, in every way.

      He made one last attempt, his voice dark and stern. “Go. Now. Before I use you in ways you don’t want to be used.”

      She swept a gaze over him, biting her bottom lip. “It’s not being used if I want it, too.”

      He gave up. It was over. Brute lust overruled his every emotion, intention, and thought. She’d made her bed, and he meant to take her six different ways on it. Tomorrow the servants could collect what pieces remained.

      “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Chapter Seventeen

      Emma scarcely had time to draw breath before he’d caught her up, backing her against a bedpost. His hands went straight to her bottom, lifting her so that her pelvis was level with his. His eyes locked with hers, too.

      Would he kiss her?

      She closed her eyes, hopeful. She’d been yearning to feel his kiss on her lips again, and to return it with passion.

      She did feel his mouth—not on her lips, but on her neck. He dipped his head, running his tongue downward, tracing a path to her breasts.

      The bedpost at her back was uncomfortable, its carved embellishments digging into her flesh, and his hands had her bottom in a fierce grip . . . but she didn’t care. The pain only sweetened the pleasure as he nuzzled and kissed. He grazed her nipples with his teeth, drawing from her a startled gasp of delight.

      Emboldened, she worked her arm between them, delving into his trousers to find the thick, hard length within. Oh, she’d been dying to touch him there. To explore his maleness and understand how it worked. How it gave her so much pleasure, and how she could give him pleasure in return.

      She let her fingertips wander the full length and breadth of his arousal, tracing each ridge and vein. Caressing, teasing. She circled her thumb around the velvety tip, spreading the drop of moisture that welled there.

      He groaned with pleasure. “Take it in your hand.”

      She curled her fingers, grasping his rigid shaft at the root. He was so thick and hard, the circle formed by her thumb and second finger didn’t quite meet. She dragged her grip slowly upward, sliding his soft, pliant skin over the steely column beneath. As she began the downstroke, he thrust into her hand.

      His eyes closed. “God.”

      He swelled even harder in her hand, and she licked her lips. Her mind was fuzzy. Her skin flushed with roving patches of heat.

      He jerked free of her grip and spun her away from him, positioning her to face the bedpost. He bent her forward at the waist and placed her hands on the tall column of carved wood.

      “Hold it,” he said.

      She gripped the post tight.

      That accomplished, he nudged her legs further apart. Emma felt exposed, almost on display—and apparently that was his aim. He spread her intimate places with his fingers, opening her to his view. Her embarrassment was mollified—somewhat—with the sound of satisfaction he made. His thumb slid over her creases and folds, making them soften and swell.

      “Please,” she said. “Please. I want . . . You know what I want.”

      “If you want my cock, then tell me so.” His length teased her as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “I want to hear you say it.”

      “I can’t.”

      “You can. After all, it’s in Hamlet.”

      It wasn’t Shakespeare’s permission Emma needed. She