Chapter Twelve

Within seconds of his lips touching her flesh, Ophelia knew that Caleb had been holding back before.

Whether because he wasn’t sure if he wanted her or if she wanted him, she didn’t know.

All she knew was that the passion that had flared between them now became almost savage in its intensity.

His mouth moved to hers, his tongue demanding entrance, which she gladly gave, his hand plunging into her hair, sending the pins to the floor and her sable locks tumbling to her waist.

Ophelia’s head began to spin until she remembered to breathe.

The hand that had been holding her cheek moved down her neck toward her suddenly aching breast, and she gasped then moaned as he boldly cupped her. She felt the impact of his touch even through the coarse material of her gown, but it somehow wasn’t enough. She wanted to feel his skin on her own.

As though he’d read her mind, his hand moved again to delve inside the neckline of the gown.

She tried to stifle her moans, but it was impossible.

“Christ, you’ll be the death of me,” Caleb rasped against her lips.

She didn’t know what he meant, exactly, but the feeling was very much mutual.

He removed his hand from inside her gown but before she could object, it moved along with the other to the back of her gown.

The sound of tearing fabric was followed by the scattering of the tiny pearl buttons from the back of her gown as he rent the material.

Ophelia found she didn’t care that he’d ruined her dress. It only served to fuel the heat of her desire.

Caleb made short work of pulling the gown down her body.

The speed with which he removed her petticoats and stays shocked her, though it shouldn’t have.

Within minutes, she was standing before him in only her stockings and chemise.

And she felt woefully underdressed.

She moved her arms to cover herself.

“Don’t.”

The coarsely spoken instruction stopped her movements, and she dropped her hands back to her sides.

His gaze travelled slowly over her but to Ophelia’s surprise, rather than increase her discomfort, it made her feel wanton and desired.

So much so that it gave her the courage to reach out and slowly unbutton his waistcoat before reaching up and pulling it from his shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor.

“We’re getting very close to the point of no return, Siren,” he drawled hoarsely. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

Ophelia swallowed as she ran her eyes greedily over him.

Though his shirt was loose, she could see the muscles that she’d felt pressed against her. Without conscious thought, she reached out a hand and pressed it against his flat stomach, feeling the heat of his skin scorch her.

He hissed at the contact, and she looked up, fascinated by the blatant desire stamped across his face.

Ridding herself of the last vestiges of fear and doubt, Ophelia pulled her hand back and straightened her spine.

Then, drawing on a courage she hadn’t even known she possessed, she reached down and grabbed the hem of her shift and pulled the garment over her head, dropping it at her feet.

She stood before him, naked, save for her stockings.

He didn’t move for what felt like eons, and she wondered if she’d done the wrong thing, been too forward, moved too quickly.

But before her thoughts could spiral too far, he reached out and pulled her to him once more, kissing her with an ardour that took her breath away.

Ophelia had lost all sense of reason, all sense of time and place. This, he, was more than she’d ever imagined.

Caleb had complete control of her, and she gladly handed it over. She was too new to this to do anything other than put herself in his wickedly capable hands.

“It looks like the Aubusson will do, after all,” he growled, pulling back from her to lift the lawn shirt from his body and toss it aside.

Ophelia’s stomach clenched at the sight of him, bronzed and sinewy, the firelight dancing over the solid planes of his chest, the prominent muscles of his stomach.

He was an Adonis. The embodiment of the Greek statues she’d admired in museums.

Ophelia remembered thinking it impossible that any human being could look so perfect.

Now, she knew that the great sculptors whose work she’d so admired must have been in the presence of men such as the marquess.

How lucky they were.

How lucky she was.

His quip about the rug barely registered until he lifted her to place her carefully on its softness.

It was warm from the fire, but she didn’t need it. Her entire body felt as though it were going up in flames.

Ophelia didn’t know what to expect next, so when Caleb lowered himself along her length, his thickness pressing against the ache that would not subside, she could only helplessly whimper at the impact.

“I know, love,” he whispered before biting gently on her earlobe.

And then his lips were gloriously, torturously on the move.

Every inch of her exposed skin was worshipped.

While his mouth paid homage first to one breast then the other, causing her to writhe helplessly beneath him, his hands moved to divest her of her stockings.

She was completely exposed.

Caleb stopped his ministrations to rake his eyes over her.

Ophelia had a vague idea that she should feel ashamed, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything other than desperation.

“Please,” she uttered hoarsely, not even sure what she was asking.

His slow, wicked grin made her heart stop dead.

“You don’t have to ask me twice, Siren,” he drawled.

He slowly climbed to his feet, and she watched with rapt attention as his hands moved to the buttons of his breeches.

Ophelia couldn’t tear her eyes away as he stood confidently and unashamedly naked before her.

For the first time in her life, she was looking at the body of a naked, flesh-and-bone man.

Her jaw dropped of its own volition, and a sudden trepidation held her perfectly still.

“Um –“

She was a woman grown so wasn’t completely na?ve about how this worked, but looking at him, all of him – frankly, she wasn’t sure it would work.

“I’m not sure you – I mean, that I can – well, that we’ll be able to –“

She was worried that he’d laugh at her or be disappointed and tell her to leave. But really, how on earth were they supposed to be able to do this?

His answering smile wasn’t mocking though as he move over her once more.

“Sweetheart, I am more than ‘able to’,” he assured her, rather smugly to Ophelia’s mind. “Do you trust me?”

She stared into the cobalt blue depths of his eyes.

Bizarrely and likely foolishly, she did.

And so, she told him.

“I do trust you, but I don’t think I’m the type of lady wh-who can do this.”

“You are the most beautiful and passionate woman I’ve ever met, Siren,” he said so confidently that she was on the verge of believing him.

The heat of his skin scorched her. The feeling of his naked flesh against her own was exquisite, and that neediness that her concerns had kept at bay flared to life once more.

Steeling herself for what was to come, Ophelia was surprised when he dipped his head and kissed her more tenderly than he had before.

It was touching, but it wasn’t enough.

She knew he was keeping himself in check, controlling his ardour by sheer force of will.

But she didn’t want that.

She did trust him. And wanted all of him – his passion, and his expertise.

She was scared, but if this was to be her only experience of relations with a man, then she wanted it all. No holding back.

“I’m ready,” she whispered boldly against his lips. “ Make love [JS16] to me.”