Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

He’d been so careful to keep the blanket about her, pulling it away only to rub her arms, her feet. He pulled the blanket over her right arm, then away from the left. He massaged that arm, too. Slowly.

“The way it feels,” she said in a dazed voice. “I can’t describe. Magical. How do you do this to me?”

He drew the blanket up, revealing her feet. When his palm slid over her instep, she moaned.

He dragged the pillows up behind her head and shoulders, then pushed her down onto them. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she opened them again, to watch him.

He went back to rubbing her feet. First one, then the other. Then he began to rub her lower legs, pushing the blanket up. His palms shaped to the curve of her calves. Her skin was like velvet under his hands. Warm velvet. Her breathing slowed and deepened. She stopped trembling.

She lay upon the pillows, looking up at him, her blue eyes lit by the firelight, so that stars seemed to dance there. The light glowed on her skin: the fine bones of her cheeks, the curve of her jaw, the stubborn point of her chin. The blanket had slipped from her shoulders, revealing the white column of her neck and the graceful slope of her shoulders.

He dropped the towel and let the back of his hand graze her cheek. Her skin was as smooth as the softest silk, the kind the wealthiest Egyptian women wore, so fine that a length of it easily threaded through a ring. It wasn’t silk though, but her skin, warm and alive. Moments ago he’d thought he’d lose her, and the world had stopped, and everything went empty and black.

He turned his hand to feel the softness and the warmth and the life against his palm.

She turned her face to touch her mouth to his hand.

Don’t don’t don’t.

But that was a lie. That wasn’t what he wanted.

It was so simple. A nothing of a touch. Merely lips to the palm of his hand. But he’d waited forever, and the touch shivered through him, shock after shock, as though he’d touched an electrical rod. It ricocheted in his heart, setting it thumping erratically. It raced downward, and shot heat into his groin. His body tightened and tensed, and his mind narrowed into a kind of tunnel.

He was kneeling at her feet, and all he saw was her, glowing in the firelight. The skin he touched was very warm now. She was alive, hotly alive, her bosom rising and falling under the blanket.

The fire crackled beside them. Otherwise the room was quiet and dark. Shadows danced in the corners.

She held the blanket closed in front of her with one hand. He reached up and tugged at her hand. Her fingers uncurled and she let go. No protest. No sound. She only looked up at him, watching him, her beautiful face somber and studying, as though he were a mystery she needed to penetrate.

There was no mystery to him.

He was merely a man, and he’d merely missed her desperately, and minutes ago he’d glimpsed a world without her.

He’d lived without her, and he’d stayed away from her. He’d missed her, though. If she wasn’t here to come back to, what would his life be like?

A moment ago he’d thought he’d lose her. Now she was here, warm and alive in the firelight. A simple fact. She was here and he wanted her: one simple fact that erased willpower and good intentions and conscience and obligations.

He parted the blanket and drew it down to her waist and simply looked at her, filling his eyes and mind and heart with her.

“Ye gods,” he breathed, and it was hard to breathe. “Ye gods, Olivia.”

Her skin was pearly white, like the moon when it rose high in the night. Her firm breasts—the ones the devil had given her—glowed as smooth and white as moons, too, but tipped with rosy buds that begged to be touched. She took his hand and he gave it to her, unresisting. She laid it over one satiny breast. He felt the bud tighten under his hand. His groin tightened, too.

The tunnel of his mind grew narrower still.

All he could see was her. All he could think was her. All the world was Olivia, glowing in the firelight. He shaped his hand to the smooth globe and she sighed. He filled his hands with her breasts and squeezed, and she laughed so softly, deep in her throat, and closed her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “This is what I wanted.”

Simple words. He heard everything in them: longing and pleasure and he didn’t know what else, all mingled. Or so it seemed, and that was enough for him, because it was the same he could have said.

This is what I wanted.

He eased her legs apart. Still unresisting, she watched him. He crept up and bent over her and touched his tongue to one taut pink bud.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Yes. And that said everything. Yes was the taste of her skin and the sound of her voice and the way her belly rose as her body arched under the flick of his tongue. It was the way she reached up and curled her arms about his neck and held him to her. It was the way she moaned while he suckled and while he slid his tongue over her breast and tasted the pearly skin.

Yes, this is what I wanted.

Then he was pushing the blanket off her, and she was dragging his face to hers and kissing him, her soft mouth parting in quick invitation, and offering up the cherry-sweet sinfulness. Then it was the kiss that swept him away, the wild, deep kiss that seemed to be a hundred kisses stored up over years, so endless it was and so endless was the sensation of falling, deep, into Olivia and into himself and into a wild world where only they existed.

The world narrowed to the taste of her and the scent of her and the feel of her skin and the shape of her body under his hands. The world was the way she writhed under his touch and the way her hands slid over him, until she found the edges of his shirt. She tugged it upward until he broke the kiss to pull the shirt over his head and throw it aside. Then he was as naked as she.

Yes, this is what I wanted.

She dragged her hands down along his shoulders and arms. She traced the shape of his chest, and shocks flickered over his skin and shot under it as her fingers grazed his nipples.

“Ah,” she said. And up she came, quick and smooth, and touched her tongue to the hard nubs. She pulled herself up further, and wrapped her legs about his hips and kissed him, her tongue pushing against his and playing with it, thrusting and retreating, while her breasts rubbed against his chest, and while his cock, hard and hot, shuddered against her belly.

He held her, dragging his hands down her smooth back to the curve of her waist, then down to cup her buttocks.

The fire crackled beside them, and it seemed to crackle inside him, too. Every touch, every kiss, fed the flames.

He pressed her down without breaking the kiss, and she went where he silently guided, her legs still wrapped about his hips. He lifted his head and opened his eyes and let his gaze lock with hers while he drew her legs apart and brought her feet down onto the rug.

He slid his hands along her thighs to her core, where the firelight glowed on soft, coppery threads and made the dewy flesh there glisten. He slid his finger to the narrow cleft and stroked there. She twisted and arched under his hand.

He knew how to please. He wished more than anything to please—but she fired up so quickly, she burned up thought. Only instinct and need remained. It was elemental: two young bodies, flesh and blood calling to each other, and a driving feeling in the blood, as fierce and unstoppable as the simoom.

She touched his cock, her smooth fingers sliding down its length and closing over it, and stroking upward and downward, upward and downward.

He growled and pushed her hand away, and pushed into her. He met tightness and resistance, and she rose up sharply, with a surprised little cry, her body tensing. He covered her mouth, and kissed her deeply, so deeply, stores and stores of wanting saved up for an eternity, it seemed.

Her hands came up and circled his neck, they slid up to cup his face. The tension eased and sh

e kissed him back with ferocious intensity. And while they kissed, that long, long kiss, he pushed into her again, more deeply. She stiffened but she didn’t pull away or push him away.

A voice or memory came from far away, warning.

Stop. Time to stop.

But the warning was far away and he was past heeding, stripped down to simple need. He was inside her, and she was his, and he could only thrust and thrust again, in some primal language whose only word was Mine. And mine. And mine.

Somewhere in the surging madness he felt the tension easing, and she began to push back, against his thrusts. Her nails dug into his back. Her body surged up to meet his, again and again, and faster and faster.

Then it happened, all in a sudden, wild rush: a last frenzied struggle, and a bolt of happiness, of pleasure. Then a feeling of diving into a mad world where stars were falling upward or sinking into the bottom of the sky.

Then it was quiet, but for the frantic pounding of their hearts.

She lay, stunned, beneath him.

The naughty engravings couldn’t begin to convey it.

She could scarcely understand it. Such profound intimacy. Such soaring feelings.

Good God.

She was aware of her heart slowing and the quieting of his breathing. She felt his cock slipping from her, and she felt grieved and madly happy at the same time.

That awful, awful march in the icy, pounding rain, up that endless road. The worst, darkest hour of her life.

Even when Papa died, and her heart broke, at least she had Mama.

This night she’d felt so utterly alone, looking up at the hulking shadow of the castle, offering nothing, not a single lit window to welcome her.

And this was how it ended. In a sort of heaven, but not the good, boring heaven people prated about. In his arms.

Lisle moved his weight off her and rolled onto his side, taking her along. He pulled her rump against his groin, tucked his head into the curve of her shoulder. His hand cupped one breast.

She wanted to die of the pleasure of that intimate, possessive touch. Her heart was turning over on itself. She was afraid to speak, afraid to bring back the world. She clung to this moment, when everything, finally, was right, because at last they’d come together and loved, with their bodies and hearts and minds, freely. For one short, endless time, the rest of the world and the rest of their lives and all the harsh little realities had been set aside.

His voice, low and hoarse, broke the silence. “Are you all right?”