Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

Belladonna rose, but then swayed on her feet. Instantly, Desmond was beside her, catching her, leading her to the chair where she could sit. The incantation she had used was old and very powerful. She'd learned it in her youth, committed to memory with a keenness that wasn't truly surprising. Amarantha had seemed to have an instinctual understanding of precisely what sort of knowledge Bella would need in her life. Those lessons had been heavily focused upon.

Still, it had taken quite a bit out of her. Peeling through the layers of his hatred and seemingly unending anger to get to the heart of his plan had been difficult. Far more difficult than she would have initially thought.

"Let me get you some water," he said. "Or would you prefer tea."

"Wine," she said. "There is a bottle of wine in the larder." It had been given to her as payment for providing a remedy. It was hardly the sort of vintage he would be accustomed to, but a bit of homemade elderberry wine was always a treat.

He returned a moment later, having fetched the bottle from the small hatch that opened beneath the kitchen floor. He carried a basket with him, with a note tucked into the side of it. "It's from Edwina," he said. "She no doubt had one of the servants bring it over last night… Wine, cheese, bread, a bit of smoked ham and some teacakes."

"A feast," she remarked with a smile.

"Indeed. And you must be half starved. I know I did not break my fast this morning. I am relatively sure you did not either."

"No," she said shaking her head. "I wouldn't have been able to eat a bite. Not until now."

"Then let's have a bite, get ourselves in a better frame of mind and decide then how we move forward."

"I know how I want to move forward," she said. "And I think I'd rather not eat just yet."

"Then what is it you wish to do?"

With a boldness that shocked her, Belladonna said, "I want you to make love to me. Here. In this house."

He placed the basket on the table and held out his hand to her. Placing hers in his, Belladonna allowed him to raise her to her feet. But he didn't guide her toward the stairs. Instead, he led her across the room to the narrow bed that had been his while he recovered. Instantly, she was grateful for that. Stalker's presence was heavy in the house, but heavier in her bedchamber.

When they were standing beside the bed, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. As with every kiss they had shared, it simply took her breath away. The entire world ceased to exist but for the points of contact between them. The way his lips moved over hers, the slight rasp of his whiskers on her skin, the strength and curious gentleness of his hands as he touched her—all of those things combined to simply rob her of reason and caution. There was no hesitation, no fear, as she reached for his neatly tied cravat and slipped the knot free. Tugging the fabric from his neck, she tossed it aside and then slid her hands beneath his coat to push it off his shoulders.

Within seconds, he was stripped to the waist, his bronzed skin appearing even darker in the dimly lit interior of the cottage. The swirls of dark hair that covered his chest were soft and springy beneath her questing fingertips. In truth, his body was a marvel to her.

"You are an enigma," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Entirely innocent and yet boldly seductive. I am the most fortunate of men."

"I want to seduce you," she admitted. "But I confess that I'm entirely certain how."

His lips quirked in a half smile. "You're doing well enough without any help. But if we mean for this to be a pleasurable experience for us both, I think perhaps you should refrain from touching me… at least for a bit."

"That hardly seems fair."

"The accounts will settle in the end," he insisted. "And as for now, your pleasure will only heighten my own."

Before Bella could ask what he meant by that, he had spun her around and was deftly releasing the ties at the back of her borrowed gown. When they were freed, he slipped the garment from her shoulders and let it pool on the floor at her feet. Next came her petticoat. When she stepped out of them he picked both up and placed them on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Then she was facing him once more and his adept fingers were making short work of her stays. He paused there for a moment, his gaze roaming freely over her.

Bella didn't try to hide herself. It was quite pointless really. The chemise, like every other garment she owned, was terribly worn. Worn, she thought, to the point of transparency. To affect modesty now, when everything had already been fully viewable, would have been disingenuous.

"Do witches really cavort naked in the moonlight?" He asked her.

She didn't take offense. There was amusement in his voice, but genuine interest, as well.

"From time to time," she answered. "Does that bother you?"

"No. I find myself quite jealous of the moon, however."

"You could join me next time," she offered. "I think I would like to share that with you."

The breath shuddered from him and his eyes darkened in that very telling way. Then the chemise, the last barrier between them, simply fell away. Nude save for her stockings and garters, she let out a small sound of protest when he lifted her in his arms. But it was only momentarily. He placed her on the narrow bed and then delicately undid the laces of her kid boots, also borrowed from Genie.

When he joined her on that bed, his body coming down atop hers, as that was the only way they could both lie there, it creaked in protest. Neither of them paid it heed. They were far more focused on one another. And as his lips claimed hers yet again, they were pressed together—naked flesh to naked flesh. It was more glorious than she could ever have imagined. And it was only the beginning.

Desmond watched her intently. Every slight sigh. Every man. Every time she closed her eyes and arched beneath him, he committed those moments to memory. He was building a collection of knowledge to use at leisure, a catalogue of all that she found pleasurable.

When he lowered his head, placing his lips at the turgid peak of one breast and then the other, she moaned. It sounded like the sweetest of songs to his ears. Teasing, tasting, taunting the tender buds with his tongue, he stoked the fire that was raging inside her as surely as he stoked the one burning within himself. He'd never been driven by such need, by such painful urgency.

Beneath him, she parted her thighs, cradling him against her intimately. It was a blatant invitation and one that he longed to accept. But first, he had to know that she was ready for him. He had to know that it would be an experience that would bring her the same degree of pleasure it would afford him.

Sliding his hand along her inner thigh, he cupped the mound of her sex. Instantly, her hips flexed, rising up, pressing herself more fully against him, eager for his touch. He slipped one finger between the soft folds, finding her flesh already slick with desire. Still, he was in no hurry. He had the entire night for his own pleasure. He had the entirety of their lives for it. So he took his time, stroking and teasing, pressing into her more deeply until she gasped and cried out his name, only to pull back. Again and again, he did this, bringing her to that precipice and stopping.

"Desmond, for the love of God, do not stop," she implored him, even as she reached for the fall of his breeches, the buttons giving way beneath her questing hand. "Not now. Not this time. I can't wait any longer."

It was what he'd been waiting to hear. Pulling her hand away, he shifted slightly, just enough to free himself from the constraining fabric. And then he was poised at her entrance, eager to feel the heat of her around him. But even in his eagerness, he hesitated. Because he hated the very idea of causing her pain.

"Please," she murmured again, breathless with need.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm hurting already. I ache for you," she admitted. "I need you. Now."

It would take a man far stronger than he was to resist such a plea. With a single thrust, he buried his rigid length inside her. Her nails dug into his shoulders and her legs locked firmly about his hips. As if he had any intention of leaving her.

It was a wild spiral then. Their movements grew rapid and more forceful. Their breathing grew more labored. And finally, when she tumbled over the edge, her soft pleasured cries carried him with her.