He shook himself, then resettled in the bed. In the interests of finding sleep that night, he focused on the positive — of what would come once they married. They’d use Brunswick House when in London, but other than the obligatory times when they would be looked for in the capital, he rather thought they’d spend their days at Baraclough. His father would like that, and so would he.
The truth was he’d like a chance to build a home — not just the house but the family to inhabit it — along the lines of what Richard had here. Richard was patently at peace, and if this life suited Richard, it would suit him. Would satisfy and fulfill him.
He hadn’t thought of it before, but that was what he wanted. What he wanted to achieve — the road he wished to follow for the rest of his life.
The only hurdle, it seemed, was getting Heather to accept that she had to marry him in the absence of any protestations of love. Luckily, in that he would for once have society, and the grandes dames in general, on his side.
Lips curving, he closed his eyes, composed his mind — and tried to find slumber.
It should have been easy; the bed was more than comfortable, and with the stone walls so thick, no sounds disturbed him.
He tossed. And turned.
Sat up, thumped the pillow, lay down again.
In the end he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He was tempted to get up, find his fob-watch, and see how long he’d been lying there, but while it felt like hours and hours, by the distance the moonbeams had traveled across the room, it hadn’t been more than one.
He knew of one activity guaranteed to lead to sleep, but the convoluted tenets of gentlemanly honor forbade him to seek Heather’s bed, not while under Richard’s roof.
Besides, he didn’t even know where her room—
The click of the door latch had him turning his head. Had every muscle in his body snapping taut.
Heather eased the door open as silently as she could, relieved when the hinges remained blessedly silent. She’d guessed which room, which turret, Breckenridge would be in, but she’d had no idea if she was correct.
She’d had to wait until the entire household had retired, wait until her eyes had been well adjusted to the darkness that prevailed in the manor’s corridors, but at no point had she imagined simply passing the night in her room, in her bed, alone.
Tonight, or if she was lucky tomorrow night, would be her last chance to sleep in his arms. She saw no reason to pass up the opportunity. Once he made up his mind to leave. . she was determined she wouldn’t cling but would behave with the sophisticated savoir faire he was no doubt accustomed to in his lovers.
They were lovers, nothing more. Circumstances had brought them together, and circumstances would soon part them. She’d known how it would be when she’d seduced him; she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he’d fallen in love with her in the space of two days.
Through the hours of two richly physical nights.
The door was finally open enough for her to step into the room and peer through the moon-washed dimness at the bed. .
He was there.
Her heart leapt. Literally leapt in her chest, which seemed quite silly of it, but she definitely felt it.
He lay on his back, bathed in soft, silvery light. The sheets rustled as he came up on one elbow to look at her. . the sheet slid down, exposing his chest.
Her mouth went dry. Her lungs slowed.
Then she remembered what she was about — she’d have time for staring later. Whirling, she shut the door as silently as she could, then turned and padded over to the bed.
He watched her draw near, as she halted by the side of the bed asked, “What are you doing here?”
She met his eyes, in answer tugged loose the tie of her robe, then shrugged the garment from her shoulders, let it fall, the silk sliding down her naked body to the floor. “You’re not going to argue, are you?”
His gaze had fallen to her breasts. After an instant’s hesitation, he murmured, “No. Of course not,” even as, his eyes still locked on her, he raised the covers.
She slid under them, scooted closer as he let them fall.
Caught her breath at the delicious sensation of skin meeting skin. His was so much hotter, his body so much harder.
So potently male.
He reached for her, drew her to him, beside him, half under him as he bent his head and she tipped up her face and their lips met.
Curious. . even though his lips met hers, moved over hers until they parted and his tongue slid within, heavily stroking with his customary expertise, she sensed he was holding back, was somehow aloof. . he was thinking.
But then he refocused, intent as well as assured as he pressed closer, closed one hand, knowing and sure, about her breast, and took possession of her senses.
And the dance was different again, a delicious, delightful waltz of the senses as their bodies met, pressed together and parted, as his hands played over her flesh, and his mouth drifted, paying homage before demanding his due.
She rose beneath him, restless and seeking, yet his control never faltered; with faultless execution and experienced command, he orchestrated a consummate performance that, exactly as she wished, educated her senses, opening doors on a different sensual plane, leading her further, leading her on—
Into passion that stole her breath.
Into need so powerful she ached.
Into heat that flowed effortlessly beneath her skin and burned.
Into desire so sharp she felt cut free from the world, cocooned in his arms, in the soft billows of the bed, surrounded by him and the beauty he wrought.
Held, willingly snared, by the pleasure he lavished upon her.
The pleasure built, threatening to sweep her away, but she had her own agenda. She fought, held back the tide, managed to snatch breath enough to gasp, “No. My turn.”
It took several long minutes of heated wrestling to convince him that she was in earnest, that she wouldn’t let him sway her, but, eventually, on a muted groan he consented to roll onto his back, and let her have at him.
Let her caress and have her fill of him.
Let her drench her senses, drown them in him.
She might never have another chance at this, and of all men, she wanted to learn this with him.
To learn what pleasured him, which caresses built his tension in the same way his built hers. Which slow strokes most teased his senses, which pulse points were most sensitive to the pressure of her lips, to the rasp of her tongue, to the soft suction of her mouth.
She learned quickly, learned well. In those heated moments, his body was hers, surrendered to her wishes, to her will. Hers to explore, to know, to delight in.
She drank her fill.
Breckenridge struggled to hold on to any semblance of control. His fingers locked in the silk of her hair, he endured the exquisitely erotic possession, one he rarely allowed.
That he’d allowed her of all women, innocent as she was, to pander to his fantasies in such a way defied all logic. She was one of the few who had ever challenged his control, ever threatened to strip his civilized veneer from the primitive male beneath.
Chest tight, every muscle tensed to rock, he lay back and, jaw clenched, hung on. .
Until, predictably, she went one step too far. The instant he felt her delicate fingers drift to his scrotum alarms sounded in his head — rising to a screech when she torturously slowly drew the hot haven of her mouth from his aching erection, then angled her head—
Before her mouth, her kiss-swollen lips, could make contact he surged up, flipped her over, and had her flat on her back beneath him again, pressing her heavily into the soft mattress as he angled his lips over hers. And took over.
