breath.
“I will not hurt you,” he said quietly.
“I know.” It was barely a whisper. “You won’t?”
He kissed her brow, beside her mouth, her throat, then her lips so beautifully. “Never again.”
“But—”
He touched her with his fingers, deftly, intimately. She froze. Then he stroked again, his caress certain, and skillful. Her body seemed to remember him inside her, wanted it, and opened with a shudder. Upon that shudder he entered her.
He went still, his breaths heavy and fast. “My God.” His voice sounded strange, at once rough and tight. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I think so.” Oddly stretched, not entirely comfortable, but boggled that her body could do this with his. She let her hand slip across his shoulder, taut male strength beneath her fingertips. He was all around her, his arms holding her even as her body held him. She had never imagined this sort of thorough intimacy. For all she had dreamed of his embraces, she had never imagined this. “There is no pain. Not really. Shouldn’t there be pain the first time?”
He threaded his fingers through her hair. “We may have taken care of that in Knighton.”
“I thought you didn’t remember Knighton,” she whispered.
He kissed her mouth softly. “I could not forget that.”
“There is more to this.” She tilted her head back, accepting his kisses on her throat, sliding her toes along the counterpane, feeling him so solid inside her, so attached. “Isn’t there?”
“Considerably more.” His eyes glimmered like diamonds. “Let me show you.”
“Yes.”
He showed her. Rather—gentleman that he was—in response to her many questions, he taught her.
He was very patient. But he was a very good teacher. She learned quickly. And as he touched her and made her body hunger then fed her hunger with his, she learned most of all that her flesh could be teased, it could be tormented to the point of desperation. But it could not, after all, be divorced from her heart. Because amidst the caresses and kisses, when he whispered her name, that was when she lost all control.
Then the pleasure that she did not expect came, tightly wound, seizing her, tumbling through her so that she groaned quite uncontrollably, then whimpered, then actually shouted.
“Oh, no.” She dug her fingertips into his waist, pulling him tighter, harder, and wanting it to go on and on. “Kiss me so that I will cease making these noises.”
He kissed her. With a strong hand he pulled her knee up beside his hip, and she loved this intimacy amidst intimacy, the brush of skin against skin, her thighs cradling him, the heat of their bodies as he moved in her. His thrusts came faster, his muscles like rock beneath her hands. He delved to the very center of her it seemed and everything inside her opened again.
“Ohh!”
Eyes closed, abruptly he gripped her hard and did not move except within her. “My God,” he growled, then upon a hard breath, “Diantha.”
She gulped in air, her lips and brow damp and his skin beneath her hands. He lowered himself to his elbows, his chest brushing the tips of her breasts, and kissed her anew. They were kisses of satisfaction and tasted different, salt clinging to her lips and the flavor of him. He passed his thumb across her lower lip, then stroked down her throat and shoulder, her entire body skimming upon the surface of unbearable sensitivity.
He drew away from her, his hand trailing across her waist. Falling onto the mattress at her side, he closed his eyes and released a long breath that sounded no steadier than her erratic heartbeats.
She turned to look at him, at the angle of his cheek and jaw, the strength in his shoulders and arms that had held her. Her lungs felt astoundingly tight. She had tried and succeeded at many remarkable endeavors of late. It was strange how in this most natural endeavor—simple breathing—she now failed.
Chapter 20
Wyn listened to the soft, stuttered breathing of the maiden who had given him her body with generous passion, and a purely foreign sensation paralyzed him. For a minute he remained still, then another, and another, allowing the chill of the chamber to stave off sleep so that he could think, reason, understand. He opened his eyes, stared at the canopy above, seeing the details in the wood with the aid of moonlight.
He could see the imperfections in the wood grain, the knothole in the third board, a dark whorl of a blemish that brought character to the plain adornment. He could focus on those details. He thought of focusing on them. His mind was clear. Perfectly clear. And yet he was content.
Considerably more than content. His body was satisfied as it had not been in memory. No thirst lingered close to the surface, no craving simmered in his veins, no anger that the craving could not be assuaged. He craved nothing. It had been so long since he’d felt anything stronger than the sensation of desperate need, peace was foreign to him.
“To be honest,” the sweet beauty beside him murmured, “Teresa’s stories did not entirely prepare me for that.”
He turned his head, beginning to smile, but only stared. She had shifted onto her side, her knees tucked up, rounding the curve of her hip. Her hands were folded beneath her cheek, and soft chestnut curls tumbled about. Thick lashes shaded rich, sleepy eyes.
He still craved. Dear God, did he crave.
“Miss Finch-Freeworth seems a knowledgeable lady.”
“Not as knowledgeable as I’d thought.” She spoke as though falling asleep, but her berry lips twitched. Then her eyes shot open fully. “I only mentioned Teresa’s surname that first day, before I realized belatedly that I was not a friend for bandying it about in such a fashion. How is it that you remember it?”
He reached for a blanket and drew it over her, allowing himself to caress again her silken skin. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to touch a woman in this manner. For too long he had not believed he deserved such simple, honest pleasure.
“I’ve told you, minx.” He stroked the back of his fingers across her cheek, soft as dew and mobile as rain. “I have an uncanny memory.”
“Wyn,” she whispered, tilting her face into his touch. “Will you tell me now about rescuing girls?”
“It is not my tale to tell. It belongs to those whom I serve.”
She looked up at him. “Are you a spy?”
“No.”
She pushed up to sit, the coverlet spilling onto her lap and leaving bare her generous breasts, the tips lushly pink and soft now. “But if you were a spy you would not be permitted to tell anyone. You would simply go about doing secret deeds that if anyone else did them would be considered nefarious.” Her eyes twinkled and he tried to concentrate on them, but the cold of the bedchamber was turning the soft tips of her breasts into peaks he wanted in his mouth.
“More stories from Miss Finch-Freeworth?” he managed.
She dimpled and lifted a playful brow. “Her brothers.”
“Ah. There are brothers with whom you spent your sojourn at Brennon Manor?” The dimples held his gaze above her neck, but they only spiked his craving. He would explore each with his tongue, then elsewhere. Everywhere. He would know all of her. “Have I reason to be jealous?”
“Of Teresa’s horrid bro—” Her lips snapped shut. “Would you be?”
He snared her around the waist and looked down into her sparkling eyes. “Yes.” She deserved more than scandal and a widow’s veil. For five years he’d had one goal: the duke must die. At present he could not remember why.
He pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder and breathed in her scent. It intoxicated him, thoroughly fresh air and her. But it more than intoxicated. It made him whole. She made him whole.
“You are mine, minx,” he whispered against her skin. “Mine, for good or ill.”
