Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

Faith had never wished to be with another person for any length of time. Her body had never reacted to another human being as it did now. Conscious thought disappeared; instinct took over, and it was the most fulfilling, liberating moment of her life when he rolled her beneath him, and his mouth found her breast.

“Oh!” she cried, desperate for what she did not know. Only that the suckling of her nipple was the most delicious torment she’d ever experienced. Meanwhile, her seeking hands liked what they found. His young body was strong, hard and…responsive.

She pushed back the hair that flopped over his forehead, and her eyes caught his as he positioned himself at her entrance.

Oh, she was more than ready. She was more than wanting.

She sucked in a breath, and a small smile was all he needed to continue with what could never have been stopped with all the will in the world.

He slid into her, eliciting a brief jerk of surprised pain that was quickly subsumed by all the delicious sensations that followed.

This was nothing like she’d expected. And so much more than she’d ever hoped for, when hope was something that seemed reserved for other people.

She clung to him and moved with him, loving the knowledge that he was in another sphere, and that she’d taken him to pleasures unknown. It’s what it felt like, and what else mattered than what she felt now?

Especially when it only felt more incredible with every thrust.

His body spoke to hers. It was as if they were made for one another. Sweat slicked her once-icy skin. Sizzling sensation tore across her nerve endings. Inside, her body was experiencing a firestorm of its own; a raging conflagration divorced from the pleasure that flooded her mind.

With a cry, he thrust into her one final time, flinging his arm about her and pulling her tightly against his chest as, panting, he lay on his back, eyes closed, face raised to the ceiling.

Faith curled into him; her free hand stroking his chest, lingering over his nipples, making him jerk and smile as she toyed with him.

“My darling,” he muttered, opening one eye and staring down at her.

She didn’t pretend to be coy or shy away from him. She had bled, and thank God he need have no doubts that he had indeed taken a virgin.

But that was academic. Faith wasn’t going to let him go.

Not now, not ever.

It was as if his brush were infused with magic. A life of its own. In the early morning, with the light as sharp as would be achieved on another gloomy day, he painted the glorious creature who floated in the bath and who gazed up at him through lazy, half-lidded eyes.

The water was warm, and the candles would continue to be refreshed. He wasn’t about to lose her to some foolish preoccupation with his art though, lord, he wasn’t sorry by what had precipitated this descent into madness.

It was madness, but he wasn’t about to call it out for what it was and deny the possibilities that lie before them.

Them. He was not a young man to downplay what was real. Denial had been hard won during the drawn-out process accepting her as the helpmate of his future.

She’d arrived too early in his life, but he recognised her for what she was—the wife he’d spend his life looking for if he didn’t claim her now.

And he’d claimed her as surely and effectively as a man of his moral code could.

“Are you comfortable, Miss Montague?” he said above the clicking of Lady Vernon’s knitting needles.

“Quite, thank you, Mr Westaway.” She flicked a covert, meaning-laden smile at him, managed through half an open eye, and he was satisfied. Their communication was as subtle as needed to be with a chaperone on standby, and as satisfying as any lust-craven gentleman could want.

Having sinned once, there would be no impediments to strengthening the precious, fragile bond through further sinning.

He would

wed her, there was no doubt of that, and in the process, restore her immortal soul.

The precious enigma that she was would be in no doubt that his intentions, when all was said and done, were honourable. And by making that clear, she’d dispense with the inhibitions that, extraordinarily, had not been in evidence when they’d sinned the first time.

No, she was pure, that was not in doubt, yet he’d unleashed in her a primal desire that surely every man would ache to have as the essential makeup of the woman to whom God had joined and no man must put asunder.

“The water is not too cool for you, Miss Montague?”