Little Red Writing (6 page)

Something glinted in his eyes. “You’re right. I’m not interested in reading a book of love poems.” He sauntered around the desk. She watched his approach, heat flaring in her belly. He stopped beside her, his body all but touching hers, and handed her the book. “I’d like you to read it to me.”

Anne forced her gaze down to the book in her hands—a completely futile attempt to divert her attention and collect her wits. Maddeningly, she didn’t have to look at Nicolas to know he was there. Every fiber of her being was acutely aware of him.

And what he was doing to her . . .

Her pulse raced. Her breasts felt achy, and her sex was slick. She was a mortifying mess. What irony—for a woman who wrote the stories she did. Who tried to embolden women and discourage this very sort of vulnerability.

With his exceptional looks and charismatic comportment, Nicolas was just the kind of man who could sweep a woman off her feet, into his bed. And shatter her heart.

She’d already been down that road.

She’d never venture there again.

And yet, as he stood close to her, all the warnings, all her good reasoning, were being drowned by the powerful urges flooding her body. He tempted her. Sorely.

She wasn’t naïve. She knew he was trying to seduce her. From the moment they met, all the signs were there. It was in his every look, every well-timed touch and well-practiced tone. Other men had attempted to stir her desire with similar tactics, but none had invoked her interest. Until Nicolas.

She had no idea why this man called to her on such a carnal level. Especially since she’d been so dead inside for so long.

Nicolas moved behind her. She felt his unmistakable erection against her bottom. Briefly, she closed her eyes. The light pulsing between her legs had just turned into a hungry throb.

He slid his arms forward, brushing along the sides of her waist, and opened the book in her hands. Flipping a few pages, he then murmured against her ear, “Read this one.”

He removed his arms but the sensations remained in the wake of his touch.

Anne scanned her verses, quickly realizing he’d selected one of the most provocative, amorously suggestive poems in the book. She’d forgotten just how passionate her words were. Emotional and physical yearnings were in every line.

She felt a twinge of sadness as she realized how much she’d changed, dismayed that she was revisiting old wounds—thanks to Nicolas. Her intuition told her he’d read some of her work and selected this very evocative poem intentionally. A purposeful strike at her pathetic weakened state. He might be a master of seduction, but she would not be played.

But you want this
 . . . She shoved the thought away, trying to mute her base needs.

It was time to put an end to this. She’d tried being polite. She’d tried keeping a distance. She’d even tried diverting his attention to keep him otherwise occupied by sending him his grandmother’s books. All to no avail.

He might be her patroness’s grandson but he was overstepping his bounds and she was going to rein him in.

Anne shut the book, tossed it onto the desk and spun around to face him. “I know what you’re trying to do.” Her tone was firm, yet her ire hadn’t diminished her fever.

His face was unreadable, giving nothing away. “Oh? What am I trying to do?”

Jamming her fists into her hips, she rose onto the balls of her feet so that she was closer to eye level when she responded, “Bed me!”

One dark brow rose, then his lips twitched as he held back a smile. He leaned in so that his mouth was mere inches from hers. “I know what you’re trying to do, Anne. Avoid me.” His warm breath made her lips tingle. “You’re afraid.”

She dropped back down onto her heels. “Afraid? Of you? You jest.”

“No, not of me. Of you. You want me and it frightens you. Admit it.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Good Lord, you are conceited.”

A slow knee-weakening smile spread across his mouth. “No. Just observant. Your body betrays you,” he said with far too much smugness.

She hated it that he was right. Her body was betraying her. This tormenting need and the moisture between her legs were the last things she wanted.

No, the last thing you want is for him to “know” that you desire him
.

“If it’s bed sport you seek, I suggest you look elsewhere. I am not looking for a lover.” Her body railed at her words.

“Why not? Do you already have one?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I’ll assume that means
no
.” He shook his head. “I am amazed.”

“At what?”

“That such a beautiful woman has a cold empty bed, and no one to fulfill the carnal yearnings her body craves”—her sex contracted, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through her—“especially when it is obvious that she’s so naturally drawn to sexual pleasures. I’ve read some of your work, Anne,” he said. “Those poems were written by a woman of passion.”

“I told you, I wrote those poems a long time ago. I’m not the same woman.”

“Yes, you are. Now that the mask of propriety has dropped, the real Anne de Vignon finally appears. Spirited and fiery—just as your writing suggests. At last I get to see the real you.”

“And why do you care to
see the real me
?” No one had ever expressed such an interest. Certainly no man. And only after Roland had left had she finally seen that he didn’t care to know her either. “Why would it matter to you who I am?”

He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I find you as intriguing as you are desirable.”

“Really,” she responded blandly, though her fever spiked at his touch. “Please spare me your flowery words.” She’d heard enough of them from Roland to last three lifetimes. “You are wasting your efforts.”

Anne turned to leave. He caught her wrist. She snapped her head around, ready to deliver up some hot words, when he stunned her into silence by pressing her palm to the bulge in his breeches. “You make me hard every time you walk into the room. I’m willing to admit how much I want you,” he said, his voice low, intoxicating. Anne fought back the strong urge to tighten her fingers around him. Even through his breeches she could tell he was thick and lusciously large, bringing to sharp focus the void between her thighs aching to be filled, and that a very lonely bed was waiting for her upstairs. “I’m not wasting my efforts as long as the desire is mutual. Your nipples are hard, begging for attention. Your pulse is racing and you’re wet for me, aren’t you?”

Wet? She’d soaked her
caleçons
.

He grazed her palm up his length and squeezed her hand hard against him. She lost her breath.

“Why not give in to the sexual pull between us?” he asked, releasing his hold of her hand. “Neither of us can seem to tame it. A carnal encounter between us is inevitable.”

Her body burned for him . . . Could she really do this? “You’re my patroness’s grandson.” She knew she was grasping for reasons. Dear God, she was still grasping his erection after he'd taken his hand away.

She released him.

In a quick fluid motion he picked her up and set her bottom down on the desk. She gasped and grabbed his shoulders. His hips were now suddenly wedged between her spread thighs. “That is no deterrence. She has nothing to do with this. She doesn’t own your body. You do. You’re a grown woman, Anne. It’s your decision to make. It’s just sex. Some shared physical pleasures.”

He was right. Love was one thing. Physical pleasure quite another. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been any more successful with sex than she’d been with love.

Nicolas could tell she wanted to surrender to him. She wanted to give in to the demands of her body and this stunning attraction between them that was only growing stronger by the moment. He was so close . . .

Her procrastination was killing him.

Slipping his hands around her, he gripped her soft derrière and pulled her up against his cock. A small sound escaped her throat the instant he’d come in contact with her sensitized clit. There were too many damn clothes between them. “Are you a virgin, Anne?” He could tell that her sexual experience was rather limited, but how limited, he didn’t know. “It’s all right if you are. I’ll leave you intact until you say otherwise,” he assured her. “There are still decadent delights we can enjoy.” He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. “Say yes, and we’ll begin right now.”

The tip of his cock was wet with pre-come. His sac was tight. His body screamed for release. This woman had him so completely undone.

Her hands slid down from his shoulders and fisted his justacorps at his chest, still indecisive.

He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth and lightly bit her bottom lip. “Say it, and I’ll make it worth your while.” Rolling his hips, he stroked his length along the soft folds of her sex, this time with enough pressure to make her moan for him—a long sultry sound.
Oh, yes
.
That’s it
. Mentally, he willed her to acquiesce. “Say yes . . . Do it, Anne . . . and we can indulge in some mutual gratification,” he added.
Seigneur Dieu
, he was practically begging.

He’d never begged anyone for anything.

She pulled back slightly. “Mutual gratification?” She was breathless and flushed. “That’s . . .” She swallowed. “That’s what men say, but . . . in truth . . . in the boudoir they take their pleasure. Then they take their leave.”

Merde
. What was Henriette filling her head with? “Not all men are the same. Some of us enjoy giving pleasure as well as receiving it. There’s nothing sweeter than a woman’s release.” Those spine-melting ripples along his thrusting prick when a woman came were exquisite, and something he’d never forgo. “It is a heady rush—empowering—to have someone desperate for you. Desperate for what you can give.”

His words hit their mark. He saw curiosity spark in her eyes. She was intrigued. Clearly, she liked the idea of feeling empowered. It occurred to him just then,
She doesn’t want to feel vulnerable
.

It was a barrier for her—one he intended to knock down.

To that end, Nicolas yanked her up against him harder and said, “You have me desperate for you. For what you can give—yourself.” It was no lie. “So desperate, in fact, that I’ve got to have your mouth right now.”

He crushed her lips, unsure whether she was going to protest. His kiss was hard and hungry, wanting to be inside her more than he wanted his next breath. She parted her lips and pressed her soft form against him. His arousal spiked, hurling him into a feral state, like none he’d known before. Voracious, he drove his tongue into her mouth. She tasted so good. He needed more.

His practiced fingers pulled at the ties on her bodice, impatiently separating it and yanking down her clothing until at last he uncovered her breasts.

Nicolas broke the kiss, his breaths harsh and rapid. He devoured the vision before him. Her breasts weren’t large or small, but perfect. His mouth watered.

The gold locket dangled between the soft tempting mounds. It was suddenly an annoying distraction. He didn’t want to think about the key inside. Or his mission. Right now, all he wanted to concentrate on was showing her just how good sex could be, knowing instinctively from the first moment their gazes had met that any carnal encounter between them was sure to be hot and intense.

Nicolas pulled the locket off. She made a small sound in protest.

“Shhhh. It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s in the way.”

Pressing his palm against the nape of her neck, he pulled her forward and kissed her again, slow and deep, dropping the locket with a
clunk
onto the desk, so that she knew it was nearby.

She returned his kiss, her hands still clutching the lapels of his knee-length coat. He cupped her breast and grazed his thumb over one hardened nipple. She shivered.

Nicolas pinched, then lightly pulled on the pretty pink tip. Breaking the kiss, she tipped her head back with a soft cry, her glorious red hair spilling over her shoulders.

Good God, she was so sensuous.

Hot urgency thundered through him. His sac was so full of come, he could barely stand it. “Anne . . .” His voice was gruff with desire.

She opened her eyes, her gaze deliciously heated.

“You want more, don’t you?” He rolled her nipple between his fingers. She whimpered.

He rolled the pebbled tip a little harder and was instantly rewarded with a stronger mew. “You like that? You want more?” he repeated.

She trembled. “Yes . . .”

He released her nipple, pushed her onto her back, then pinned her wrists against the desk. She stared up at him, her sweet breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath. “Good, because I’m going to give you more.”

He lowered his head and sucked her nipple into his hungry mouth.

Anne arched off the desk with a strangled cry, lost to the wet heat drawing on the sensitive tip, each luscious pull of his mouth making her writhe and her sex leak. She’d never known such keen sensations, such engulfing need.

She’d never known a man like Nicolas de Savignac. There were many reasons she shouldn’t be doing what she was doing, but with each silky suck of his mouth, her reasons eluded her and she couldn’t think of one. For once, she didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel. Anne closed her eyes . . . And this felt so sublime.

He turned to her other breast, lavishing upon it the same wicked torment—teasing licks, hard sucks, and light bites. He had her squirming, moaning, panting, starved for more.

He was giving, not taking. Yet in giving, he was getting something in return—the pleasure of her pleasure. This was all so new. She’d never heard any man refer to sex the way he did. This was the kind of passion she’d imagined when she wrote those poems years ago. This was the kind of passion she had envisioned experiencing one day. This was the kind of passion she’d convinced herself she’d never know.

With a growl, he tore his mouth off her. Her eyes flew open, her breathing sharp and shallow.

Releasing her wrists, he yanked her skirts up, layer by layer, his handsome face etched with heated determination. Her heart pounded away the moments until she felt him untie her drawers and pull them off with a fierce tug.