Passion Page 5

  Sweat broke on his brow. His heart hammered in his chest. “I could give you everything right now,” he rasped in her ear. “If I wanted, I could bury my whole cock in you right now. My prick is so bloody hard, and I have the strength to do it.” He couldn’t stop thrusting. “But I want you to come to me, again and again.”

  His hips pumped faster and faster. Passion moaned be­hind his hand. He felt her come dripping down his cods. Her juicy quim was grabbing at him again, and the pres­sure on the head of his cock was like nothing he’d ever felt. He pumped in a feral fury—wild to push farther, yet denying the urge with the last vestiges of his will. He was on fire, and he wanted to burn forever. Forever!

  “Fuck!” he snarled against her shoulder and threw him­self into the flames. His cock erupted. Blinding whiteness flashed before his eyes. With explosive force, floods of hot come spewed out of him. He muffled his cries against the pale curve of Passion’s shoulder as he pumped more and more and more into her. He couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to stop it. It kept coming and coming—roaring up from his swollen sac and spurting out in thick washes that only made way for more. He groaned. His legs shook.

  With each powerful expulsion, euphoric, blinding bliss tore through his body, wracking it with tremors that felt like they might never end.

  Then, just when he thought he’d spent all he had, Pas­sion came again. Her cunt gripped and sucked his half-swollen prick so diligently that she coaxed from it a final glutinous jet of come.

  Mark could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing. He opened his mouth over Passion’s shoulder and tasted her skin. It was salty; with her sweat or his, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. His arms swept around her, and he cupped her luscious breasts.

  This was where he belonged. This was ecstasy.

  And on the other side of the screen, the crowd moved on. How many people had passed them, unknowing?

  After his breathing slowed and he mustered some en­ergy to move, Mark lifted his head and brushed Passion’s long curl back from her face. Her eyes were closed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” The word came on an exhalation of breath. Her eyes stayed closed.

  Mark tightened his arm around her. Brushing his finger across her flushed cheek, he pressed a kiss into the soft place behind her ear. “I’m still inside you.”

  “I know,” she said on the wind of another breath.

  She smelled of vanilla, orange blossoms, and sex. He kissed her again. “I think I filled you to overflowing. When I pull out, it’s going to spill.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Mark smiled. He liked her answer. Women usually didn’t like messes—especially a man’s—and certainly not on their person.

  “Excellent,” he whispered and began to pull out.

  Passion moaned and her shoulder lifted. Mark paused as he noticed a darkening bruise on the pale slope. He re­membered muffling his cries against her, sucking hard to contain them. He ran his finger over the mark, and his cock jerked almost painfully.

  Passion looked back at him.

  He met her gaze and throbbed inside her. “I left a mark on you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.” He bent and kissed the spot, touching it with his tongue, then slowly pulled out of her.

  She gasped softly, and Mark let her skirts fall.

  Still half hard, his prick was slick with come. Passion turned and watched him as he wiped it on his shirttail. He looked at her, leaning against the wall, with her auburn hair falling and one beautiful breast half bared, and thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He pushed his reluctant cock down his pant leg and but­toned up before bracing his hands on either side of her. He studied her upturned face, memorizing the curve of her brow, the slant of her nose, and the curl of her lips.

  She drew a deep, ragged breath and reached to pull her gown back over her shoulders.

  “Let me help you,” Mark murmured, carefully arrang­ing the sapphire silk of her bodice over her shoulders.

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” He let his fingers brush her bare nipple, eliciting a gasp before returning her chemise to its proper place. When she lifted her hands, he brushed them away. “I said, let me.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be good.”

  She smiled at that, and her smile made him smile.

  Mark straightened her corset cover. As he slipped the tiny buttons through their eyes, it occurred to him that he’d never, in his entire life, helped a woman dress. Even for his mistresses, with whom he was generally at leisure, he had never lifted a finger of assistance. He tied the little pink bow above the row of buttons. In fact, once he spent himself, he was completely uninterested in exchanging even polite conversation.

  He closed the front of her bodice and started the but­tons. But then, though paid courtesans all, none of his mistresses had ever given him what Passion had given for free. None had displayed such need. None had given him their tears. And though they all claimed to worship his penis, none had opened their bodies to it. None had wanted to.

  Her soft voice drew his attention. “May I ask you something?”

  “Yes.” He realized he was frowning and eased his brow.

  “You said earlier, you like to put a name to the women you fuck.”

  Christ, that sounded bad even to him.

  She blinked and moistened her lips. “I wonder, do you do this often?”

  Mark closed her last button. “What do you want to know—if 1 fuck often, or if 1 often fuck female strangers in public places?”

  She considered that a moment. “I suppose the latter.”

  Mark held back his smile. His language never seemed to offend her. “No.” He bent to drop a kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Never”—he touched her lower lip with his tongue—“until now, with you.”

  She studied him for a moment, as if gauging the truth of his words. Then: “Thank you for answering.”

  He lifted his brows. “You’re welcome.”

  He felt her soft auburn curl between his fingers before sweeping it back. She touched him as she took it, then twisted the piece around her braided bun. Lifting her other arm, she pulled a pin and quickly tacked down the heavy tress. She smoothed the sides with her fingers and then pressed her palms to the back, feeling for strands out of place.

  He wanted to see her with her hair down.

  Bending, he swept up her bonnet. “I want to see you again,” he said as he slipped it onto her head. “And I don’t like uncertainty.” She lifted her chin, staring at him as he pulled the silk ties into a bow. He set it at the same jaunty angle that she’d had it before. “Will you meet me here to­morrow at ten-thirty?”

  Passion smiled. “Thank you for putting it where I wanted it.”

  Her smile dazzled him, and his cock thumped against his thigh. “Putting what where you wanted it?”

  Her fingers brushed her bonnet ties. “My bow. Thank you for remembering where I had it and returning it there.” Her head tilted to the side. ‘Thank you for notic­ing at all.”

  How could he not notice? “So, will you come?”

  She paused only briefly. “Yes.”

  Mark smiled as he picked up his hat. “Good.” He shoved his fingers through his hair and was about to replace his topper.

  “Wait,” Passion said softly.

  Mark’s breathing slowed as she stepped close. Reach­ing up, she smoothed back the recalcitrant wave that al­ways fell over his brow. Then she combed her fingers through the short hair above his ears and smoothed his nape. She was touching him. He wanted her touch.

  “All right,” she murmured.

  Mark settled his hat on his head. Her nimble fingers slid to his cravat, adjusting the intricate folds just so. Why did it matter so much that her hands were upon him? She smoothed the front of his vest and the lapels of his top­coat. Her long lashes fluttered. He rested his hands on her waist. She brushed her palms down his coat sleeves where she had gripped the
m earlier. He liked the feel of her slim, curving waist.

  ‘There,” she breathed, lifting her golden hazel eyes.

  Staring into her deep gaze, Mark wished he could make the crowd just beyond the screen disappear. He wished her could have her all over again. Now. “Kiss me.”

  Passion moistened her lips and then drew her arms up to his shoulders. When he didn’t move, she paused.

  Mark’s fingers tightened on her waist. He waited.

  Then her hands slid over his shoulders. One slipped be­hind his neck. With gentle pressure, she pulled him down.

  Her body pressed to his. Her head tilted, her eyes closed, and her mouth parted.

  Mark didn’t breathe. His eyes closed.

  Her mouth pressed upon his with the softest, sweetest urgency. Delicate lips nudged his apart, and her tongue tasted him in slow, luxurious swaths. Her hand tightened on his nape, and her tongue moved more deeply. Mark moaned and swept his arms around her. Passion kissed him and kissed him, sucking his tongue into her mouth and stroking it with her own.

  His muscles tightened. A strong pulse throbbed in his groin. A wave of dizziness washed over him. With a low groan, he reluctantly pulled from Passion’s embrace and put a steadying hand on the wall.

  She supported his shoulder, and a worried frown turned her brow. “Are you all right?”

  Mark looked down and expelled a disbelieving snort. His cock was straining, thick and strong against his pant leg, forcing it out at an odd angle. No wonder he felt light­headed. He looked into Passion’s concerned frown and felt a hot surge. “Yes. I’m all too well.”

  Glancing down, her gaze held. “Oh,” she whispered, immediately licking her lips.

  Mark winced as his erection immediately responded with a hard knock against its confines. Damn it! Where the hell was his control? Sudden anger warred with his lust. He tried to contain it.

  Passion lifted her hand toward him.

  He clenched his jaw and growled, “I suggest you leave before I won’t let you.”

  She jerked back. A frown furrowed between her brows, then she turned to go. Mark took a step after her. She paused at the narrow exit. His heart thumped. What if… ? She tipped her head forward cautiously. What if she didn’t return as she had promised? She stepped for­ward.

  “Passion,” he breathed, reaching for her.

  She was gone.

  *

  Chapter Four

  Forced Marriages

  Passion painted. A blue hydrangea was her subject. But deep blue eyes, dark slanting brows, and a sensual mouth hovered in her mind. Mark. Her body hummed, as if a low charge of electricity sparked through her.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the exhibition yesterday,” Charlotte said as she tried to duplicate the pink rose before her.

  “It’s all right.” Passion’s paintbrush swirled on the plate. She could hear his voice, low and urgent—could feel his hands, strong and certain. And his kisses—his deep, hungry kisses, made her weak and breathless.

  “Mother kept pressing me to go, but I truly had the very worst of headaches.”

  “Umm-hmm.” Passion dipped her brush into cerulean blue and remembered the feel of Mark’s head pressed to her breast, drawing upon her nipple. It made her wet with need. The smell of him, the feel of him in her arms, brought both heady desire and enveloping comfort. How could that be?

  “She even had all my clothes laid out. She never does that. I don’t know why she was so insistent.”

  “Hmm, strange.” Passion’s arm floated, guiding the brush. Behind their screen, she had been in another world. A world made only for the two of them. A world where de­sire and fulfillment crossed from the realm of dreams into reality.

  “If I hadn’t begun crying, I think she actually would have forced me to go.”

  “Really?” Passion applied fresh color to her brush. Mark was all too real. The image of his cock, rising thick and hard against his trouser leg, was ingrained in her brain. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost feel the incredible sensation of having him inside her. Pas­sion shifted in her chair as a tingling pulse beat between her legs.

  “You aren’t angry with me, are you? I told Mother you wouldn’t be.”

  “No.” But in the end, he’d been angry. Why? He’d asked her to kiss him and then he’d rejected her touch and told her to go. “Go before I won’t let you,” he’d said. Why would wanting her make him angry? It hadn’t before. Did he still want her? Would he want her tomorrow?

  She frowned. God help her, she still wanted him. Most urgently.

  Charlotte sighed. “You are angry with me. I can tell.”

  Passion finally looked at her cousin. The warm sun­light filtering through Aunt Matty’s sunroom windows il­luminated Charlotte’s chestnut curls. “Charlotte, I’m not angry with you. Your note of apology was here when we arrived home. I wasn’t angry with you then. I’m not angry with you now.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I’m glad.” She put a fresh dollop of white paint on the palette.

  Passion returned to her painting. How different her day would have been if Charlotte had kept their appointment. Was it possible that the road of one’s life could be turned by something as inconsequential as a headache? Surely she walked a different path today than she had two days ago. In most ways, it looked much the same—like now, sitting here painting with Charlotte. But behind the screen at the Crystal Palace, and in the hidden recesses of her body, everything seemed changed.

  How odd that everything else went on as always.

  She paused in her painting. Of course, she wanted everything to go on as always. This was life. What hap­pened behind the screen at the Crystal Palace was rele­gated to a realm of dreams and secrecy. Yes, everything must go on as always.

  Passion glanced down at the paint palette. She frowned at the sight of her steel knife smeared with the white paint. “Charlotte, did you just mix the Lacroix white with the steel knife?”

  Charlotte glanced up from the china plate before her, paintbrush gripped tightly in her hand. “Yes, isn’t that right?”

  Passion pushed down her frustration. Everything as al­ways. “No, darling. The white and yellows are damaged by contact with metal. You must use the horn knife. The steel knife is for the other colors.”

  “Oh, Passion, I’m sorry. Is it ruined then?” Charlotte’s chagrin showed plainly on her pretty face.

  “Well, yes,” Passion handed her cousin the turpentine. “Here. Clean the knife with this.”

  Passion sighed. She had just purchased that pot of white, and now half of it was gone. She scraped the con­taminated paint from the palette and removed the rest with a turpentine-soaked square of muslin.

  When she looked up, she found Charlotte regarding her with a worried frown. “When next we go for supplies, I’ll purchase them.”

  Passion’s tension eased. At sixteen, Charlotte was so sweet-tempered and well meaning that Passion could never stay angry with her for long. She smiled. “Don’t worry, darling. It’s just a little paint. But I’m afraid you’ll have to begin anew on your plate.”

  Charlotte looked dismayed. “And this is the best I’ve ever done.”

  Passion glanced at the rather flat-looking rose posi­tioned in the center of the plate. “You are improving. The next one will be even better.”

  Charlotte glanced at Passion’s plate, and her eyes widened. “Oh, Passion. That’s beautiful. Why, it’s mag­nificent!”

  Passion examined the hydrangea she had painted upon the plain china. Though less exacting and more painterly than her usual work, it was alive. It seemed to lie upon the plate, a fluttering remnant from the garden, waiting to be plucked up and saved by a quenching dip into a vase of water. It was the quality of work she always attempted but never achieved. How, in heaven’s name, had she accom­plished it today, without even thinking?

  “Silver,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “You must gild it in silver.”

  “Yes.” Passion no
dded as she signed P.E.D. beneath the flower. “Silver will be perfect.”

  “Passion, why do you sign everything P.E.D.? Shouldn’t you use your husband’s name?”

  She stared at the initials. She would never put her hus­band’s name on her work. It was hers, not his. “To the world, I am Mrs. Passion Elizabeth Redington. But in my heart and in my art, I am Passion Elizabeth Dare. And until I truly give my heart, so shall I remain.”

  The sound of voices drew their attention.

  “I’m so pleased you were able to pay us a visit, Mr. Swittly.” Aunt Matty’s voice, loud even when she was try­ing to be discreet, drifted into the sunroom from the ad­joining parlor. “Now, when you meet my niece, you mustn’t be alarmed by her name. It is absolutely no re­flection of her temperament, which is as even and refined as you’ll find in a lady. I’ll never know why my dear brother permitted the child to be christened with such a name. It was all her mother’s doing, I assure you.”

  As Charlotte giggled behind her hand, Passion roiled her eyes. She could almost see her aunt shaking her head disapprovingly.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Swittly. I’ll fetch my niece and her cousin.”

  Aunt Matty poked her lace-capped head into the sunroom. “Girls, girls,” she whispered loudly, “come imme­diately.”

  Passion and Charlotte stood and removed their painting smocks.

  “Come along, girls,” Aunt Matty urged, as she looked them both over carefully. “Charlotte, you have paint on your finger. Passion, my dear, well, you’re quite perfect.”

  Passion waited for Charlotte to wipe her finger and then Aunt Matty ushered them into the parlor.

  A tall, corpulent man with a florid complexion and a head of thick, unruly blond hair stood as they entered.

  “Ladies, I have the honor of introducing Mr. Alfred Swittly, the nephew of my dear friends, the Misses Eustacia and Arabella Swittly.”