Chapter 12

12

‘A knife…’ he repeated, seeming a little dazed.

‘A very sharp knife, in a sheath, in my garter,’ she explained reasonably.

He hadn’t pulled away, she had to give him that, and his voice was tolerably steady. ‘And do you intend to use it on me?’ he asked with a fair assumption of simple curiosity.

‘I might, if you don’t stop talking. No, of course I don’t. I thought I might require it tonight, for protection – not from you. But I only had to threaten that horrible man in the purple coat that I’d stab him in the leg with a fork. I didn’t need the knife at all.’

‘A fork. You would have done so.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘ You looked as though you wanted to knock him down. Would you have done so?’

They were still embracing tightly, and one strong, warm hand was still on her breast, the other on her bottom. She still caressed his muscled back. Their faces were very close, and they were both breathing hard. She wanted his hands, his mouth, to continue their exploration, and she wanted to touch him as well, to kiss and taste him, without the barrier of their clothes. But there was something undeniably erotic, too, about this pause, about the intimacy of their low voices, their stilled hands, their racing hearts – she had a dangerous sense that anything might happen, and it was heady, exciting. Perhaps it wasn’t touching each other like this that was most perilous – perhaps the real danger came from talking, from the illusion of sharing an intimate moment across the gulf that separated them. If you didn’t speak, you couldn’t lie. Or be lied to…

He said, the whisper of his breath caressing her and threatening to drive all rational thought from her mind, ‘I was filled with rage towards him when I saw him manhandling you, and shame that such a thing should happen in my father’s house, so, yes, I think I would. And,’ he said very low, ‘what’s more, I would probably have enjoyed it.’

‘So would I,’ she said. ‘It seems we are the same.’ He was still hard against her belly, and she pressed against him, her desire equal to his, the last vestiges of caution slipping away from her. What was she doing?

‘Perhaps we are. Sophie…’

‘Mmm?’

‘Will you show me the knife? I don’t mean just take it out of its sheath… I mean show me, now.’ And as he spoke, he sank to his knees in front of her, and looked up, expectant, in the moonlight in a way that utterly disarmed her.

She did not hesitate. She bent and took up the hem of her gown, making sure she gathered up all the draped layers and petticoats too. Slowly, she edged them up, over her ankles, calves and knees, until her pale thighs were exposed. Her stockings were black, and so were her garters, and so too was the wickedly narrow leather sheath that sat in one of them. ‘Ah,’ he sighed. There was a lot of feeling in the single exhalation of breath. And then, ‘You’ve shown me this much, and I am honoured. Will you show me more?’

Deep inside her Sophie had known, in truth had hoped, that he would say that. She was still holding the edge of her gown, and pulled it higher, uncovering herself fearlessly to him until the fabric sat around her waist, and she was naked below it save for her stockings.

‘You could take your very sharp knife,’ he said, and now his voice was unsteady where it had not been before, ‘and cut me off a curl that I could treasure. And I would treasure it, I promise, Sophie.’

‘I could,’ she said, ‘or I could let you do it.’ She was on fire now, with no intention of turning back, intensely aroused by the sight of him at her feet in what felt like worship, and his hot gaze on her, and the anticipation of his touch. Some part of her still knew that he was a Wyverne and an enemy, but the faint little voice that called out a warning had no power over her just now.

‘You trust me with your blade?’

‘I do. Take it.’

He was still kneeling. His left hand held her thigh steady while his right pulled out the stiletto, bright and deadly in the moonlight. She was leaning back against the roof, which rose at an angle behind her, and she spread her thighs a little, settling herself more comfortably, offering herself to him. With his left hand he reached out and chose a curl, twirling it around his fingers, brushing her skin with his fingertips as he did so. A tiny moan escaped her. Then he took the blade and with infinite care sliced off the lock, and tucked it securely away in his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You did not lie when you said it was sharp. I could shave you with it, I should think.’

‘I’m not entirely opposed to the idea,’ she whispered. ‘But I think I might prefer you to do it when the light was a little better.’

‘You doubt my steadiness of hand?’ As he spoke, he sheathed the blade again, holding her once more for safety as he did so, lest the wickedly sharp thing should slip and wound her. But he did not remove his hand when he had done. It lay on her thigh, warm against her bare skin, just above the leather and the lace.

‘Anyone’s hand may tremble,’ she said. ‘I myself… might move.’ She could hardly prevent herself from squirming as she spoke. He would claim her soon, and she was more than ready.

‘It’s true, you easily might,’ he agreed, and he leant forward a little, and pressed an intense kiss on the place from which he had taken the curl. His lips were warm against her, and he was so tantalisingly close to where she needed him to be, his breath feathering across her sensitive skin, making her shiver with anticipation. Her nipples were hard pebbles, aching with desire, and she was wet for him. She could call a halt, even now, but God, she didn’t want to. Then he groaned and buried his face in her, edging forward on his knees and pressing the length of his chest against her legs.

‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped in welcome. ‘Yes.’ With hands that shook, she bunched up the fabric of her gown and petticoats, pulling it up further and pushing it behind her body where her weight would hold it, freeing herself so that she could touch him too, her fingers tight on his head, in his dark locks.

He had a big hand on each thigh now, caressing her tender flesh with his thumbs, spreading her more, and she moaned deep in her throat and moved, so that he could reach her better. He pulled his head back and teased her with his tongue, the very tip of it upon her pearl of Venus. ‘God, so good,’ he moaned, and then, before she had to urge him, he fell to devouring her in earnest, kissing each of her lower lips as he had kissed her mouth, nibbling on them, drawing them in, sucking on her, tonguing up and down between her engorged nub and her entrance. His hands still gripped her thighs but had slid out and round to hold her more tightly, and the sheath of her knife must be pressing into him again, but if he noticed it he didn’t seem to mind.

She’d thrown back her head and neck, and could feel the lead of the roof cool beneath her. She felt fierce and primitive and glorious. ‘I could pull out my knife…’ she gasped, very close to losing control, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

His tongue slipped from her, to be replaced by his finger, by two fingers. She arched her back and her legs almost buckled at the strength of the sensations he was evoking in her. ‘Do it,’ he whispered against her core, and then he drew her nub into his mouth and sucked on her hard. ‘Do it!’ he repeated close against her, his clever fingers still working her ruin. ‘In this moment I can’t think of a better way to die.’

She cried out as she came, and he held her and tongued her, prolonging the waves of ecstasy and then burying his face in her once more until the last tiny little spasm had faded. She still cradled his head between her thighs, and after a while she said, ‘If you let go of me, or if I let go of you, I will slide to the floor, and possibly off the roof. You have killed me.’

She could feel him smiling against her skin. ‘Despite your threats, though, I am still very much alive. I’m not the man I was – I may never be – but I live.’

‘Can you stand up?’

‘I doubt it. I should think I’m frozen in this position forever. It has its advantages, there’s no denying it.’ His wicked tongue crept out and licked her long and slow where her thigh met her body, and he whispered, ‘Who needs to stand up and walk about, after all? These things are overrated. I could…’

Sophie tugged sharply on his hair. ‘I’m not asking you to walk about. I had another form of exercise in mind. Just lean against the parapet.’

It was astonishing, how quickly he scrambled to his feet, holding her about the waist so that she did not fall when he released her thighs. She subsided to her knees, still a little dizzy, probably not very graceful but he didn’t seem to care, and sat back and looked up at him. He was enormously dishevelled and grinning down at her, his hair in wild disorder, his cravat a wreck, his shirt hanging loose and his knee-breeches a disgrace. Well – not entirely a disgrace. Not where it counted. ‘My lord…’ she said.

‘You won’t be needing the knife now, I hope.’

‘Nor the fork,’ she murmured wickedly, reaching up and working intently at the buttons that closed his breeches fall. ‘But it’s true, I am still hungry.’

‘In that case, how can I deny you?’ he said shakily, and then he said nothing more. He sprang free into her waiting hand, and she looked at him, caressed him, felt the silky skin and hard hotness of him, and liked it all, and bent her head to show him exactly how much.

It was a long while before either of them spoke again, though there were soft, urgent sounds, sighs and gasps, there on the roof, as the moon sailed across the sky and Sophie’s candle, forgotten, guttered and went out.