She sighed with pleasure when he joined her in their marriage bed and proceeded to fulfill his prom ise to make love to her.
His hands were gentle on her body, yet urgent as well. Damon kissed his way along her jaw and downward, his stubble abrading her sensitized skin while his fingers played over her feminine curves. He made a feast of her throat and breasts, showering her with tender touches and arousing kisses as he searched out the secrets between her thighs. And when she was trembling uncontrollably, he positioned himself at the heart of her and slid his hands under her hips, guiding her sweetly up to meet him as his hardness slowly thrust into her.
She was slick and eager for him, so he slid home easily. Then Damon stilled, his eyes hazed with a possessive look as he stared down at her.
When Eleanor contracted her inner muscles around him, though, he shuddered and his lips came down upon hers with hot, wet heat.
His searching kiss reached deep, as did his flesh. Her breath grew ragged as he went on kissing and stroking and moving, controlling their rhythm with his mouth, his hands, his body. But soon her whimpers turned to soft, helpless moans.
She was near the breaking point when he ended his kisses and lifted his head again so he could watch her climax.
“Elle,” he rasped. His voice was soft, thick with passion, his eyes fierce and vulnerable with love.
Eleanor found herself caught in the magnetic heat of his gaze-those beautiful eyes that were rich and dark and deep enough to drown in. Then Damon drove into her once more, hard, setting off a firestorm between them.
“Elle,” he ground out again, the single word an oath, a prayer, a plea, even as she cried out his name.
They shattered together, erupting into bright sparks of bliss.
In the aftermath, Damon made no effort to unbury himself from deep inside her. Instead they lay there holding on to each other, boneless, sated, content.
Eleanor closed her eyes, relishing the incredible elation she felt, the sheer happiness, and counted herself blessed for her tremendous good fortune. She knew in her heart that she and Damon had always been meant for each other. But they had fulfilled their destiny only after a long separation, overcoming their fears and hurts to find true love. She'd helped to banish the bleak emptiness inside him, while he had healed parts of her that had always felt cold and lonely.
She could not ask for more.
When she pressed a grateful kiss against his bare shoulder, Damon stirred enough to ease his weight onto the bed beside her, then gathered her close again. Her eyelids growing even heavier, Eleanor dozed off in his arms.
When she awoke, she judged it was at least two hours later. Damon was lying on his side, his head propped on one hand.
He had been watching her sleep, Eleanor realized.
Stifling a yawn, she offered him a sheepish glance. “I suppose we should not be lazing abed this slothful way,” she murmured. “Cornby will be eager to perform his valet duties for you.”
“Cornby will forgive you for making me so indolent,” Damon observed. “He adores you almost as much as I do. But he takes your side far too often,” he added in an aggrieved tone.
Eleanor smiled. At every opportunity the elderly manservant had abetted her efforts in persuading Damon to relinquish the pain and sorrow of his past. “Cornby is simply concerned for your welfare.”
“That is not the half of it. He highly approves of you, you know very well.” Damon's mouth quirked. “I cannot say that your aunt holds a similar lofty opinion of me, although she does appear to be granting me grudging acceptance these days.”
“Aunt Beatrix will grow quite fond of you in time,” Eleanor predicted with conviction.
“I think perhaps her experience with Vecchi softened her.”
“That, and the prospect of being presented with a great niece or nephew next year. You read her latest letter. She is in alt that Marcus and Arabella are expecting their first child. And Marcus is overjoyed that he is to be a father.”
“Your aunt seemed none too pleased for her friend, the Countess Haviland.”
“No. Lady Haviland is livid at her grandson's choice of a bride. Arabella and her sisters were aiding Lord Haviland in his search, but he surprised them all by preferring a lady whom his grandmother greatly disapproves of.”
Damon brushed back a curl from Eleanor's temple. “I trust you don't intend to involve yourself in any matchmaking schemes, sweetheart.”
“I won't have the opportunity to become involved since we won't even be here in England.” Eleanor paused. “I think it unfortunate that Roslyn and Lily have returned from their wedding journeys to the Continent just as we are about to embark on ours. But I am glad Mr. Geary will be accompanying us on our voyage. It is only fitting. Didn't you say he has only visited your sanitorium once, when you first began construction?”
“Yes. But he deserves acclaim for making the entire endeavor possible.”
“It is remarkable that Lydia Newling's sister is already reported to be making some progress toward recovery.” Eleanor sighed with contentment. “Now it only remains for Fanny Irwin to find happiness. I hope she will be able to earn a sufficient living as an author so that she can wed her childhood sweetheart.”
“I think she stands a good chance,” Damon mused. “Her novel was intriguing enough to hold my complete attention.”
Eleanor nodded in agreement, pleased that after reading the manuscript, Damon held a view similar to hers: Fanny's Gothic novel was sure to be a success.
“And the sales,” Eleanor added, “of her manual on capturing a husband are still brisk since it contains so much valuable advice. Even my aunt is making use of my copy, since I no longer need it. ‘Tether him tightly but not too tightly,’ ” she quoted from Fanny's book.
Damon gazed back at her tenderly. “You may tether me as tightly as you wish, love.”
Reaching up, Eleanor looped her arms around his neck. “I am in favor of disappointing Cornby a while longer, my lord. What do you say?”
As she hoped, Damon laughed softly and bent to take her mouth in a heart-stirring kiss.
A kiss which, Eleanor knew, was only a prelude to the soul-deep passion to come.
