The Virtuoso

“Loneliness and lust are two different things. I still want to kiss you.”

“I did not come out here for that.” She carefully set Val’s hand on his own thigh and sat up.

“Neither did I.” And he wasn’t pleased to admit it. “But you’ll have to be the one to stop me, as I think we need to get this taken care of.”

As introductions to dalliance went, that had to be the worst tone of voice and the worst line of speech Val had ever heard himself compose. He gave her all the time in the world to call him on it and laugh or slap his face or make an abrupt, indignant run for the house. She simply held his gaze, and when he lifted his right hand to brush her hair back, she closed her eyes.

So Val started there, setting his lips on her eyelid, letting the floral scent of her hair tease his nose, then drawing back to kiss the other eye. When he heard her sigh, he shifted to graze his mouth over her cheek and brow and temple, taking his time, learning the contour of each feature with his lips.

When he’d inventoried her face, he paused and switched tactics, bringing the fingers of his right hand up to caress her neck then her jaw. He closed his eyes and traced her bones with his index and middle fingers, reveling in the softness of her skin. It occurred to him he was doing as he’d thought he might when he’d been close to her in the darkness before: He was learning her by touch.

“Valentine,” Ellen whispered, “kiss me, please.”

“Hush.” He bussed her cheek. “I am kissing you.” But he wasn’t done orienting himself with his fingers or nuzzling at her neck or burying his hand in her hair. She moved toward him, her hands slipping up his chest to link at his nape.

“Please.”

She sounded as if she’d put five years of longing and loneliness in that one word, and Val gathered his focus to bring his mouth to hers. He paused again, his lips a quarter inch from hers, then closed his eyes and joined their mouths. Ellen’s mouth clung to his, her hands winnowed through his hair, and her body arched closer to his.

Oh, God, he hadn’t dreamed this. In his mind, Val had referred repeatedly to their sharing one kiss as if it had been some polite little gesture stolen in a moment under the rose arbor.

In truth, a year ago, in the waning light of the overgrown woods, he’d kissed her forever, like he was kissing her now. Lips were just the start of it, as Ellen’s fingers drifted through his hair, around his neck, over his ears—his surprisingly sensitive ears—and down along his chest. She pressed forward, her very body burrowing closer to him, and she conveyed both eagerness and a kind of shy wonder in her touch and posture.

And her mouth, Jesus in the manger, her mouth…

“Sweetheart,” Val whispered, “slow down, easy…” But Ellen took advantage of his lapse to seam his lips with her tongue and cradle his jaw with her hands. He tasted her in return and she groaned, a soft, sweet sound of longing and encouragement.

Val shifted and hoisted her to straddle his lap. He hadn’t planned to do such a thing, but when Ellen looked down at him, dazed, her lips glistening in the moonlight, he had to approve of the impulse.

“You kiss me,” he urged, his hand running down her arm and back up to her collarbone. “Please.”

She framed his face with her hands and bent to the task, tasting him first with her tongue then sealing her mouth to his. Val’s palm moved to the base of her spine, to urge her down, down onto the rising ridge of flesh at his groin. His left hand remained at his side and never had it felt more useless.

“Give me your weight,” he whispered between kisses. “Let me feel your body over mine.”

When he pressed down this time, she let him guide her into his lap. She stopped abruptly when she met his erection then cautiously continued her descent until Val had the gratification of her weight resting on his cock.

“Better,” he murmured, laying his cheek against her sternum. His hand found her calf next, and Ellen went still.

Around them, the sounds and scents of the summer night went into high relief: The pause between breezes and the lift in the air when the lightest wind resumed, the subtle shift in the moon shadows as the air stirred, the blending of fragrances in the warm night.

Val knew what came next. He’d ease her skirts up, diddle her until she either came or was begging him to make her come, then he’d penetrate that sweet heat of hers, and spend—or, if he were going to be a gentleman, he’d withdraw before he spent, cuddle her for a bit, lend her his hankie, and see her back to the house.

It didn’t seem like enough. Not with her.

“Just let me hold you,” he murmured, leaving his hand on the firm muscle of her calf. She relaxed against him, and he felt her lips against his neck. He shifted, enjoying the rub of his cock against her weight but for some reason not repeating the movement. His hand settled on her back, and she relaxed further.

For long moments, she stayed draped over him, letting him rub her back, smooth his hand over her hair, and just pet her. His erection subsided some, but the desire to hold her and touch her did not.

It occurred to him the weakness in his hand might be spreading to his cock, but it was just a passing, insecure thought. It felt right to hold her, and while it didn’t feel wrong to desire her, it didn’t feel desperately necessary to have her sexually, either.

Not just yet.

* * *

“Let me have the reins,” Ellen said quietly. They’d made their good-byes to the Belmonts, the savages were asleep in the back of the wagon, and yet she’d waited only until to the foot of Candlewick lane to state her demand.

Val glanced over at her in consternation. “You?”

“Me.” She reached for the reins, and Val saw she was wearing riding gloves. They weren’t as heavy as the driving gloves he sported, but they’d do.

He passed her the reins. “Why?”

“Because these are very sweet beasts and well trained,” Ellen said, shifting a little closer to Val, “and yet they are big fellows and will pull on that hand of yours.”

Amusement fled, leaving Val to frown at his gloved hand then at his companion.

“Did resting it and taking care of it this weekend help?” she asked.

“Maybe. A little. It certainly didn’t hurt.”

“Well, then.” Ellen nodded, apparently feeling her point had been made.

“Ellen, I’ve been resting it for weeks now, and sometimes it’s better and sometimes it’s worse, but it never heals.”

“Take off your glove.” She gestured with her chin. “The left one.”

He complied and inspected his hand. He tried not to look at it, usually—the results were invariably disappointing. Besides, he could feel the differences, between the good days and the other days. Friday had been a bad day.

“See.” Ellen nodded at his hand. “Your third finger is losing its redness, and even your thumb and first finger look a little better. Rest helps, Valentine, real rest.”

“How am I to rebuild an entire estate and rest my hand, Ellen?” Even to his own ears, Val’s voice was petulant. He was surprised she answered him.

“You admit you need to, for starters,” she chided softly. “Of course you will have to use it some, but you hardly give yourself any consideration at all. I see you, sir, up on that roof, tossing slates, or on the lane hacking at the weeds, or hefting stones the size of a five-gallon bucket. Even were you completely hale, you’d be sorely trying that hand.”

She didn’t know the half of it, so Val kept his silence, feeling resentment and frustration build in the soft morning air.

“I didn’t play a single note this weekend,” he said at length, but he said it so quietly, Ellen cocked her head and leaned a little closer.

“On the piano,” Val clarified. “I peeked, though, and it’s a lovely instrument. Belmont plays the violin, and Abby is a passable pianist, or she must be. She has a deal of Beethoven, and you don’t merely dabble, if he’s to your taste.”

“You are musical?”

Val exhaled a world of loss. “Until this summer, I was nothing but musical. Now I am forbidden to play.”

Ellen glanced at his hand. “So you work?”

“So I work.” He scowled at his hand, wanting to hide it. “I keep hoping that one day I’ll wake up and it will be