and stables and mews at her family’s various holdings. This was not copulation.
She could not think beyond that, for her body was beginning to throb with a low, hot want that connected Vim’s fingers on her nipples with his mouth on hers and with the hard length of his arousal tight against her sex.
She desperately tried to keep the sensations separate, to be catalogued and savored one body part and memory at a time, but her boundaries were collapsing.
“Vim, I can’t… I’m not…” She couldn’t think, couldn’t seize words from the maelstrom Vim’s male body was brewing in hers.
“Let go, Sophie. Fly, soar—I’ll catch you.”
He touched her, used his thumb on a part of her Sophie did not know what to call, a small scrap of flesh at the apex of her sex that abruptly commanded every bit of her attention.
“What are you…?”
“Hush, Sophie, my love. I’ll catch you…”
That simple, knowing caress of his thumb had Sophie catapulting right out of her body into a cataclysm of pleasure and wonder and light that went on and on. She heard herself making some sort of sound—a sigh, a groan, a wordless plea—but Vim did not cease his attentions until she was panting and limp where she hung above him, braced on her arms.
“My… Goodness. Oh, my goodness.”
She had flown, she had soared; in his arms she had broken free of every earthly weight—sorrow, loneliness, propriety, familial expectations, her own body. Past, present, and future had all dissolved in the blinding pleasure of his embrace.
“Hold me tight, Sophie.” The words were a hoarse whisper against her throat.
She mustered wits enough to anchor her arm under his neck, abruptly aware that while she had endured unimaginable pleasure, he had not.
This was still not copulation, but he moved against her as if it were, used the slick friction of her sex on his rigid length to pelt her body with aftershocks of sensation that made clinging to him not merely possible, but as necessary as breath. She felt the same blinding pleasure gathering again even as Vim’s hand at the base of her spine anchored her tightly to him.
“God in heaven, Sophie…”
Damp heat spread between them as Sophie was again seized with convulsions low in her body—shorter, sharper, and if anything, more intense than the previous bout. He kept their bodies seamed tightly until Sophie was panting against his neck, reeling and dizzy even as a part of her still floated in a cloud of pleasure.
“You.” Vim kissed her cheek, leaving Sophie to wonder what exactly she’d heard in his voice: Affection, most definitely, a little wonder, and maybe something else—regret?
She snuggled in closer, wanting nothing except to hold him to her and be held by him.
“You soared for me, Sophie Windham. Soared high, if I’m not mistaken.”
“So high I could no longer see the earth.”
“Good.” His hand trailed over her hair. “That’s good.”
He fell silent, his hand moving on her in a languid caress that had Sophie’s eyes drifting closed.
She did not want to fall asleep. She wanted to treasure these moments, this lovely, warm, undreamt of intimacy with a man who tickled a foundling baby just to see the child smile.
A man who would be leaving in the morning.
Vim’s mind fractured in the haze of sexual satiety, impressions coming to him piecemeal and yet with a certain immediacy: The weight of Sophie’s body pressed to his chest as she fought sleep.
The softening length of his cock amid the heat and carnal mess he’d created between their bellies.
The sheer, sensual pleasure of stroking her hair.
From the morass of emotion and sensory information stewing in his brain, he discerned three reasons why he had not taken fullest advantage of the pleasures Sophie had offered.
First, to assure himself there had been no permanent consequences of such an act necessitating his having to stay in touch with her.
She was different from other women in several regards: he wanted to spend time with her, not just in bed, but in the parlor, in the kitchen, in the stables. He liked simply to watch her, whether she was tending the baby, puttering with her baking, or braiding up her hair by the light of the dying fire. This difference might have borne potential for a broader relationship, except Sophie wasn’t looking for marriage.
And while Vim had to admit marriage to Sophie would be highly problematic—she would want to dwell here in the south, among her family, when just visiting in Kent was a rare act of will for him—her indifference in this regard still rankled.
When a man was best advised to forget a woman, staying in touch with her was not wise.
The second reason he’d denied them both the pleasure of intimate joining had to do with the first: it was going to be hard enough to put these days with Sophie in a memory box without adding to the list the recollection of spending his seed in her sweet female heat. The third reason was purely practical, and the most compelling: if he made love to her truly, fully, without restraint, he was nearly certain leaving her would be impossible.
He’d made a colossal fool of himself over a woman once before, and once was more than enough.
Sophie lifted her head and pushed the remains of her braid over her shoulder. “I should check on the baby.”
“I’ll do that. I need to tidy up, in any case.”
She frowned at him. “I don’t know what comes now with you. Do we roll over and go to sleep? Will you seek your own bed?”
He could sense her trying to make her brain function on the strength of mental determination, but he could also hear the vulnerability lurking in her question.
“I’ll fetch you a cloth and check on Kit, and then we’ll talk.”
Relief registered in the way her mouth curved up. God in heaven, did she think he’d just wander off down the freezing hall and drift away to sleep when she was here, warm and cozy, his seed still scenting her flesh?
He fished at the foot of the bed for his dressing gown but didn’t belt it, letting the cold air blow some sense into his befogged brain. For a woman intent on casual pleasures, Sophie Windham had a certain artlessness, as if it had been a long time between frolics, or as if her previous liaisons hadn’t done much for her confidence.
He knew from experience all it took was a little bad fortune, and confidence could be hard to restore. Man, woman, old, young, it made no difference. Part of him wanted to ask her about it, and part of him refused to entertain the idea lest she pry reciprocal confidences from him.
He let himself into his room, pleased to find Kit was snoring gently in the cradle.
“A pony it is, then. A fat little piebald who’ll jump anything, provided you’ve set a course for the barn. You shall call him something presuming, Bucephalus, or Orion, but he’ll have a pet name when you’re private.”
Vim tidied himself up in a few brisk movements, lifted the cradle, and returned to Sophie’s room.
He built up her fire, wrung out a flannel, and hung it on the screen to warm while trying not to contemplate what his pet names for Sophie would be.
Love.
When he parted the bed curtains, he half expected her to be asleep, but she lay on her back, regarding him solemnly in the shifting firelight. Vim moved the covers off her carefully and started swabbing at the stickiness drying on her belly.
“This is intimate.” She spoke quietly, her gaze following the movements of his hand. “But we could have been more intimate, couldn’t we?”
Vim tossed the cloth in the general direction of the privacy screen. “Women are the braver of the two genders.” He climbed under the covers and settled on his back. “They will discuss anything quite openly, while men go to war to avoid the near occasion of these discussions. Come here.”
She cuddled along his side, her head on his shoulder. “Not all men are such cowards.”
“It isn’t cowardice, exactly. We’re just formed differently. It’s manly reserve.”
Her hand drifted over his abdomen, counting his ribs and threatening his manly reserve. There was a quality to Sophie Windham’s touch he hadn’t encountered before, as if her hand were attached to her thinking brain,
