A Notorious Love Read online

  He supposed he deserved that, though the thought of helping her undress made his pulse pound madly. “Very well.”

  After setting her down on the edge of the bed, he knelt to pull off her half boots. The sight of her fragile leg reminded him of her astonishing tale about regaining its use. No wonder she was so bitter about the men who condemned her for her lameness. He would’ve felt the same if he’d accomplished a minor miracle through sheer will, only to have it taken for nothing by a lot of arses who saw her leg as a weakness instead of the strength that it was.

  She was more amazing than he’d realized. And if she weren’t so drunk, he’d be tempted to show her exactly what he thought of her. Which would not be wise a’tall.

  Swiftly he quelled the urge to strip off her stockings and kiss his way up from her trim ankle. Instead, he rose to sit on the bed next to her, then turned her so he could work loose her gown’s tiny buttons.

  But the more he uncovered the transparent linen beneath, the more his John Thomas stiffened. Christ, any more of this and he’d explode. Quickly, he shoved the top of her gown off her shoulders.

  Her delicate shoulders were barely veiled by her linen chemise. In a trance, he lifted his hand to cup one, then caught himself. Swearing under his breath, he jerked to his feet. “You can manage the rest yourself. Throw me the gown when you’re done, and I’ll hang it over the screen.”

  It took all his will to cross the room. She’d made it clear that she thought him a conscienceless whoremonger; he wasn’t about to prove her right by taking advantage of her while she was drunk, no matter how tempting the notion.

  Careful to keep his back to her, he dragged off his boots and untied his cravat. But when he shrugged off his coat, the slim volume he’d confiscated from Helena’s bag earlier bumped his hand.

  He extricated it, remembering the peculiar title. Mrs. Nunley’s Guide to Etiquette for Young Ladies. Probably the source of all her notions of propriety. Later he’d have to read it, if only to find out why it took ale to loosen her up.

  For now he shoved it under his discarded coat and took off his waistcoat. Once he was sure she was asleep, he’d remove his breeches. That was as much as he planned to disrobe. Being in the same room with her would be difficult enough without being half-dressed as well.

  Her gown and petticoat came flying at him and he hung them over the screen, then turned, expecting to find her in the bed with the covers dragged up to her chin.

  Instead, she sat on the edge, clad only in her chemise. Sweet Jesus. The flimsy bit of nothing clung greedily to her darling breasts and lithe thighs, firing his own greed to new intensity. His fingers itched to touch every inch of feminine flesh. What in God’s name had he done to deserve this torture?

  To make matters worse, she’d taken her hair down, too. Just as he’d imagined, it was long and thick and bloody gorgeous. Like the rich dark ale she’d drunk all evening, it frothed over her shoulders and down her arms past her waist, where the last bit curled sweetly about her hips.

  It made him almost imagine he could see its echo between her legs beneath the linen. At least she still wore her stockings. Knowing Helena, she probably wore drawers as well. Not that it helped much. Helena with her hair down, in chemise and stockings, looked so damned erotic he wanted to vault across the room and take her like a savage beast.

  She seemed oblivious to his arousal, however. She wore the smile of an innocent as she swung her good leg back and forth, her calf thumping rhythmically against the oak bedstead. “I’m not sleeping in the bed, y’know. You’re to have the bed. I’m sleeping on that.” She pointed to the mattress with her big toe. “See? I’ve already used it.”

  He glanced down at the mattress, startled to find a blanket crumpled on top and a pillow that still held the indentation where her head had been. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you were cross at me. I hate it when you’re cross. You get all grumbly and…and arrogant. You make stern pronouncements and order me about. I don’t like being ordered about.”

  “I’d never guess,” he said dryly.

  “I thought you’d be in a better mood if you had a good night’s sleep. That’s why I’m sleeping on the mattress.”

  He shook his head. The woman never ceased to amaze him. “It would be better if you took the bed.”

  “No!” Her voice retained some of its usual imperious tone. “I told you—you’re to have the bed, and I’m to sleep on the floor. It’s all settled.”

  She rose as if to move in that direction. Only his quick action prevented her from collapsing without her cane for support.

  Unfortunately, that put her in his arms again, every lovely, half-clad inch of her. When he tried to set her aside, she looped her arms about his neck and gazed up at him with a secretive smile that made his head spin.

  “Helena,” he ground out, “let’s not quarrel over who sleeps where. You take the bed.”

  She was already shaking her head. “The bugs will plague you all night.”

  “I daresay they’ll plague us both, no matter which one we take.” Annoyance crept into his voice. “Now for God’s sake, stop all this and let me put you to bed. We both need our sleep.” Not that I’m likely to get any tonight.

  She pouted. “You’re cross at me again.”

  “I am not,” he gritted out.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Helena—”

  “If you’re not cross, then prove it.”

  That flummoxed him. “Prove it? How?”

  “Kiss me, Danny.”

  Hot need slammed into him, and he groaned. Steady now, lad. She doesn’t know what she’s saying and won’t feel the same about it in the morning.

  He pretended he hadn’t heard her. “Time for bed, lass,” he muttered as he started backing her toward it.

  “Kiss me. I know you want to.”

  She’d kill him before the night was done. “As I recall, you vowed not to let me.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  His John Thomas—his infernal John Thomas with a mind of its own—was raring up in his breeches. He practically shoved her toward the bed in his haste to get her out of his arms, but he misjudged her strength. And her determination. As she fell onto the mattress she dragged him down, too, and in seconds, he found himself lying atop her.

  “Oops,” she said with a shaky little laugh. “I fell.”

  He was falling fast himself. It felt so bloody good to have her beneath him, soft and eager. His gaze swept her hungrily. The chemise left little to the imagination, and his weight pressed the linen so tightly to her skin that he could easily make out the rosy tips of her breasts and the sweet valley where he wanted to bury his face. Her hair, silky and sensuous against the pillow, begged for his touch.

  She twined her arms even more tightly about his neck. “Kiss me.” Her eyes shone up at him. “Or I’ll never believe you’ve forgiven me for the mean things I said.”

  He looked at her luscious lips. Her waiting lips. What could it hurt to give her a little kiss? Just a peck to reassure her that all was well between them.

  He quickly brushed her mouth with his. Even that brief contact made his head reel, but it worsened considerably when he felt her tongue dart out to sweep his closed lips. He jerked back, his blood thundering through his veins.

  With the enticing smile of a woman just beginning to guess the depths of her feminine power, she touched her thumb to his lower lip. “This time when you kiss me, open your mouth,” she said, teasing him with his own damned words.

  It was too much. His flimsy restraint broke, and he seized her mouth with near savagery, blindly seeking the pleasures she didn’t even realize she was offering.

  Or did she? She met his kiss with enthusiasm, not only letting him drive his tongue deep inside, but toying with it, drawing it in. She was passion and inexperience combined, need and innocence mingling, a heady brew indeed. She gave far more than he’d hoped to have, and far less than he wanted.

  Tim
e vanished when he kissed her—long, slow kisses that heated his blood until he felt drunk with it, with the ale taste and honey water scent of her. He came up for breath, struggling to regain his control, to find some way to untangle himself from the insanity, but that only made him more aware of her lissome body lying beneath him, willing and supple and tempting.

  “I like it when you kiss me,” she admitted with a kittenish smile, and every muscle in his body responded.

  “I like it myself, lass.” The heavy weight between his thighs said he liked it far too much. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to move off her.

  Her eyes glowed as she gazed up at him. “Danny, will you do something for me?”

  “What?” he growled, though he could imagine what it was. She was banishing him now that she’d got her “proof.” Even if it was for the best, he found himself loath to go.

  “I want you to…” She paused, and a giggle escaped her lips.

  He’d never heard her giggle before. She really was drunk. All the more reason to get off her now, before he did anything he regretted. He started to lift himself away, but she clung more tightly to his neck.

  “Not yet!” Her face lit up with excitement. “First you have to…oh, it’s too naughty of me…”

  Now she’d got him curious. “What is it you want?”

  She seemed to be screwing up her courage. “I want you to…put your hand in my clothes and touch me.”

  “Christ Almighty in heaven,” he swore as images of doing that very thing swirled through his randy mind.

  Releasing his neck, she dropped one hand to her breast. “Here. Touch me here. But inside my chemise.”

  He nearly came off in his drawers at just the sight of her delicate hand touching herself with such innocence. “Have you lost your mind? Is this a joke? Or are you only trying to drive me insane?”

  Her excitement dimmed a bit, but she tipped her chin up stubbornly. “I wager you do it to that Sall woman. Don’t see why you won’t do it to me.”

  “Sall is a lightskirt. You are a respectable lady and a virgin. Not to mention that you’re drunk. I’m damned well not going to touch your breast.”

  “I’m not that drunk,” she protested. “And why are lightskirts the only ones who get to have men touch them? It’s not fair.” Before he could stop her, she yanked the ties of her chemise loose and tugged the neckline down.

  One luscious breast sprang free, and he groaned. It was as tempting as he’d have guessed, pert and taut, the way a virgin’s breast ought to be.

  She scowled down at it. “Isn’t it pretty enough? I know it’s not as big as hers, but—”

  “It’s beautiful, sweetheart—the perfect size.” To fit a man’s hand. To fit my hand, damn it.

  “Beautiful enough to touch?”

  Beautiful enough to eat. And that’s what he wanted to do: taste it and lick it and suck the pretty nipple until she cried out. The woman was a bloody seductress when she was drunk. It was a miracle she hadn’t lost her innocence years ago.

  She grabbed one of his hands and pressed it to her breast. “Here. I want to know what it feels like, Danny. Please?”

  Her nipple puckered up into a sweet kernel beneath his palm, and he swore. It felt so natural to have her breast in his hand. A man could take only so much.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he bent his head to kiss her thoroughly again. He rubbed her breast, kneading and teasing, plumping it up, then smoothing it out. Her hands crept under his shirt to feel their way along his ribs and stroke tentatively over his chest. He shuddered, wanting more. Ah, such gentle fingers, such virginal touches.

  Virginal. It took all his will to tear his mouth from hers, though his fingers continued to play with her breast, ignoring his command to stop.

  The look of delight on her face didn’t help. “That feels so good, Danny. Do it to the other one now.”

  He would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so bloody aroused. “Lass, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

  Her gaze as it met his was surprisingly clear-eyed. “Yes, I do.” She flattened her hands on his chest inside his shirt, and he groaned as they covered his own nipples. “You said I was curious. Well, you’re right. I am. I want to know what all the fuss is about.”

  All hell broke loose in his breeches. He damned well wanted to show her what all the fuss was about. And why was he fighting it? He needn’t take her innocence to show her a bit of pleasure, and he might never have another chance to touch Helena intimately, to know her sweetness.

  Yes, she was drunk, but not as drunk as he’d first thought. Her slur was less pronounced and she had managed to remove her gown, not to mention get him onto the bed.

  Besides, when sober, she followed a lot of creaky rules that made her feel safe but kept her from having any fun. Who was he to tell her she shouldn’t enjoy herself while her conscience was nodding off? Not to mention all her fool notions about her undesirability. He wouldn’t mind showing her that was nonsense.

  His own conscience protested that these were wild rationalizations, but he silenced it ruthlessly. He could taste her and touch her and give her pleasure without ruining her, for God’s sake. Surely he possessed enough strength of will for that.

  “All right, lass,” he murmured. “Just be sure to tell me when you’ve had enough.” He only prayed he could stop when she did.

  This time when he lowered his head, he indulged his urge to taste her. As he obliged her request to fondle her other breast, his mouth seized on the one he’d just been caressing.

  Ah, such lovely breasts—he’d never seen a pair of dearer ones. He fed on them, devoured them, teased them both until he heard Helena moan and felt her hands clutch his shirt, urging him nearer.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered, “like that. Yes, Danny, yes.”

  He’d bedded more women than he could count, yet her innocent “yes” made his heart thunder with pride more than any lavish words of praise. It made him ache to please her, give her something to think on in her bed at night.

  He wanted her thinking of him, damn it, desiring him as badly as he desired her. Once sober she might tell herself he was too low for her, but he’d damned well ensure that she remembered he’d been the one to pleasure her.

  Thankful that he still wore his breeches, he ground his erection into her softness, making her gasp. He stared down at her, one of his hands thumbing her breast. Deliberately, he rubbed his hard ridge against her sweet cunny again, watching as her eyes widened and her face flushed. He waited for her to shove him away in shock.

  Instead she asked, “Is that…is that your man’s thing?” Her eyes were alight with curiosity.

  He laughed. “‘Man’s thing’? Is that what refined ladies call it?”

  “That’s what Rosalind called it. And some other naughty words Griff taught her.”

  “Like what?” He bent to nuzzle her breast.

  She shook her head, her blushes setting her skin aflame. “I could never use them.”

  “You won’t talk about a man’s pego, eh? We’ll see if you’re so missish after you’ve felt the pleasure it can give a woman. Like this.” Smiling, he pressed into her most sensitive spot again. She sucked in a breath and arched into him instinctively. He chuckled. “You see, lass, you don’t have to speak of it to enjoy it.”

  “I shouldn’t speak of it or enjoy it…I mean—” She broke off when he rocked against her rhythmically. “Oh, Lord…that’s…amazing. I never thought it would feel…so good. Rosalind said it did, but I never believed…yes…do that…yes…”

  “Anything to please m’lady,” he teased as he returned to sucking her delicious breasts. She was melting and shimmying beneath him, hot and beautiful, her face flushing pink with her enjoyment. Thank God she still had her chemise on and he still wore his breeches and drawers. Otherwise he didn’t know if he could bear it.

  He ached to be inside her, but he knew better. Once sober, she’d regret all this and hate him for taking advantage of her. If he ruined
her, she’d never forgive him.

  Still, he could give her pleasure without ruining her. He wanted to see her face rapt from the “little death,” see her reach release in his arms. If it killed him, he’d do that. He’d have her dreaming of him for weeks to come.

  Through a delightful haze, Helena saw Daniel slide down the bed between her legs. He lifted her chemise, and shock rocketed through her. What in heaven’s name was he doing? She wasn’t so tipsy that she didn’t realize how terribly wicked this was. Thanks to the slit in her drawers, her most intimate parts were fully exposed to his eager gaze. How mortifying!

  She tried to draw her legs together, but he wouldn’t let her. Instead his large hands held her thighs open, pressed them even wider apart. “Let me look at you, sweetheart. You’re so bloody beautiful.”

  “Th-there?” she stammered.

  He shot her his most devilish grin. “Yes, there. Everywhere. I want to taste you now. Let me taste you, lass.”

  “T-taste me?” She’d barely spoken the words when his mouth covered her there, between her legs, in an intimate kiss. She went utterly still. She’d had no idea…Could a man really…Did men really…

  Clearly, they did. Merciful heavens, how delicious! He was doing to her there what he’d done to her mouth, using his tongue, darting it inside her…inside her, for heaven’s sake!

  Worst of all, she lacked any urge whatsoever to stop him. It was surely the effects of that cursed ale, yet she squirmed beneath him, shamelessly wanting more, and his mouth supplied it with relentless perseverance. His tongue gave no quarter, lapping at the soft folds of skin, then driving deep inside her with quickening strokes until she began to forget where she was, who she was, why she was here.

  Before she knew it, she was clutching his head, crushing his thick, dark blond locks beneath her fingers, straining against his teasing tongue. She felt as if he pushed her ever closer to a secret abyss that might swallow her up if she stepped any nearer.

  “That’s it,” he lifted his head to growl, though the sensations between her legs continued as he used his fingers to pluck at her, rub her, drive into her. “Enjoy it. Just forget everything and enjoy it.”