Marshall gathered my hand and kissed my knuckles. As he settled back against the chair he spoke with his usual wry humor. “I hope you like gray hair, angel. I’ve gotten used to it now but I must look different to you.”
His hair had grown out past his shoulders, a wavy and snarled mess I’d only just combed through, and remained predominantly the rich, glossy brown of polished walnut; the few silver threads lent him a maturity at which I marveled – all traces of boyishness having vanished since we’d last been together, back in Jalesville in 2014.
“Marsh,” I scolded. “Even if you had no hair, or if it was completely gray, you could never look anything but wonderful to me.” I felt a crooked, teasing smile pull at my mouth. “As wonderful as a double vanilla latte and a stack of peanut butter cups, seriously.”
He released a soft breath, with a hint of his grin. “That good, huh? Oh God, angel, I felt so old last winter. Way down deep in my bones, I felt old. But now that you’re here I feel restored.”
I ran my fingers through his hair. “Besides, the silver is sexy.”
He lowered his dark eyebrows, regarding me with the skeptical look I remembered well.
“I mean it,” I insisted. “It’s sexy and distinguished. And with this Civil War-style beard shaved away, you look more like yourself already.”
“I still can’t get over that we’re here, in 1882. You know how many people alive today actually fought in the Civil War?”
“I know,” I whispered, dunking the shaving brush in the soap and applying it to the right half of his beard, creating a thin layer of foam. I wiped the razor on the towel and began scraping away the thick stubble, starting at the top and pulling downward with small, delicate motions. “I wish I had a can of shave gel, honey, it would be so much easier on your face. But I want you to leave the rest of your hair longer, like it is.” I looked up from my focus on the lower half of his face. “You know how much I love your hair.”
His eyes caught fire. “I do.”
I’ll hurry, I replied with no words, anticipation spiking through my veins.
Marshall shifted the heat of his concentration lower on my body, gliding both hands upward, brushing his thumbs over my nipples, cradling the fullness of my breasts against his broad palms. I wrapped the towel around his jaws, patting away any last stray hairs, feeling the warmth of him beneath the damp cloth. His gaze was steady in its regard, leaving no doubt in my mind what he wanted us to do in short order; dinner in the main house would have to wait. I lifted the towel away and my heart thrashed at the sight of his clean-shaven face. My knees began to tremble as he slipped the underskirt from my otherwise naked body with a slow, caressing motion; it became a soft puddle of linen at my ankles.
“Come here,” he murmured, drawing me forward by the waist, pressing a kiss between my breasts before opening his lips over a nipple. I threw aside the damp towel and dug my fingers in his hair, intending to clutch him to me this way forever. His questing tongue sent heated pleasure straight down the backs of my legs and outward to my fingertips. Teasing my breast with the soft heat of the words, he whispered, “You taste so good…”
“Don’t stop,” I begged, head hanging back. “Oh, Marshall…don’t stop. I can feel that all the way between my legs…”
“I won’t stop,” he promised, as he had long ago, in our old lives. “Not ever, angel.”
He rose and gathered me close; my breasts came up against the hair on his chest, and the lean, hard muscles beneath. I shifted my shoulders, delighting in the textures of his naked body. Marshall moved with purpose, parting my lips with his kiss, carrying me straight to the bed – a feather tick spread over a frame of woven ropes scarcely large enough for an adult – where he deposited me onto my back.
“More,” I whispered, rising to my elbows as he knelt between my legs.
He grinned, his freshly-shaved face so familiar, so handsome and sexy and full of wanting as he eased my thighs farther apart and pressed his chest hair at their juncture, rubbing with a slow, sensual motion. My body pulsed in response.
“You feel so good,” he breathed, licking the inner curve of my knees, one after the other. “The softness of your skin, the wet, sweet silk between your legs. Oh God, my angel-woman. You are so much more than I deserve…”
“Don’t say that,” I whispered, each breath becoming a moaning gasp.
“I mean to bring you joy.” He shifted to bracket my hips, kissing a path ever higher.
“Yes.” My voice was hoarse, neck arched against the rumpled quilt as he traced the flesh between my legs with both his tongue and his long and knowing fingers. “You bring me so much joy, Marsh…oh God…”
He spoke with impassioned reverence, his husky voice at my ear. “You are so beautiful it hurts, angel. I couldn’t write a song to do justice to you. You can’t know how much it means to touch you, when I thought I would never be given this privilege again.”
My hands were all over him, seeking and grasping. “You’re so hard, let me taste you…”
He rolled us to the side, ropes
