An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 11.1. Surge Of Uncontrollable Lust

   Charlotte dreamed that night that a man was stroking her face with a feather-light touch. His caress made her shiver with longing, and he whispered her name. She moaned, fighting the power of his voice, fighting to stay asleep. His tapered fingers circled the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast, teasing her nipple through her nightrail.

   Her body responded to her seductor with a surge of uncontrollable lust. Without the inhibitions of her waking self to interrupt, she arched shamelessly against him. She could not see his face in the darkness of the dream. She could only feel the heat and hunger in him.

   She wanted to beg him for more. To ask him to touch her in other ways. Her dream self could not stop him anyway. She could only respond to the power he wielded, the needs he had awakened. Her senses answered his unspoken demands without hesitation.

   "You have the body of a goddess, Charlotte," his faraway voice whispered against her neck. "I could worship you. I could show you pleasure you would never forget."

   Her dreamy intellect whispered he was right. When his hands drifted down her belly and nestled in the warm folds of her sex, she felt herself gripped by a desire so all-consuming she could have wept for it. Her body did weep; in the hollow of her thighs a moist heat seeped, flooding her with longing. A spiraling pleasure spread into the very depths of her. She needed release, a reprieve from the aching inside.

   His elegant fingers had found the secret place where no one had ever touched her before. The steady stroking against her mons made her pulsates all the way to the soles of her feet. If not for the frail barrier of her nightdress, she would be completely exposed and open to him. It was the most erotic dream of her life. The blood in her veins thickened as he brought her to a powerful climax. Heat flooded her from head to toe, and her hips lifted; her heart raced as pleasure throbbed in her belly.

   She trembled, helpless and yet enjoying every moment of it. Benedic. His dark image pervaded her dream. She stirred and tried to speak his name, to ask him why he had returned. She wanted to tell him that she had seen his uncle tonight at the play, and that she did not like the looks of him. She needed to warn Benedic, to hold him. She arched to feel his strength, to demand an explanation of why he had invaded her sleep.

   A sensation of chillies suddenly replaced the intimate warmth she had been savoring. She opened her eyes in reluctance and waited as the pulsations in her belly began to subside. A sensual lassitude throbbed in their aftermath to torment her.

   Her dream had seemed so real, and yet she was alone, her body cooling and wide awake—had Damon left the door to the dressing closet open? Hadn't she made sure to shut it securely for the night?

   She sat up and fought a shiver as she slipped off the bed.

   "Who is it?" She whispered. "You devil, Benedic, is that you?"

   No answer. A cursory search proved the dressing closet was empty, the window was closed, and the curtains were drawn. With a troubled frown she returned to her bed, pulling the pillow against her as if she willed the warmth to return to her body.

   The note was gone. A single white rose occupied its place under the pillow. Its petals were lightly bruised and fragrant.

   She stared down at the bed, her heart in her throat. It could not be. The outrageous fiend couldn't have returned to steal it while she slept. He could not possibly have been here, touching her.

   "Oh," she whispered, on fire again, though for a very different reason. "He wouldn't dare."

   He had. Frantic, she searched the room, the closet, the floor, still feeling as though she were in a dream.

   "And the telescope is gone," she muttered as she wrenched open the window to gaze out into the thin tangle of woods that separated the two houses. "I know you are out there somewhere, probably laughing at me, Strathmere, you—you ungrateful ghost. Is this the thanks I get for helping you?"

   Feeling foolish, she backed toward the door to her room. And her dream? How much had been real and how much imagined? How much of her arousal could she attribute to his wickedness as opposed to her own hidden desire?

   Well, here was another scandal in the making.

   The Strathmere Ghost had struck again, and Lady Charlotte Brumidge was his latest victim.

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