Anticipation struck her like lightning; in an instant, her body heated anew. Tensed, tightened-quivering with expectation.
Above her, she heard a hoarse chuckle. His hands clamped about her hips. The next instant, she felt his lips.
On her navel.
From there, things only got more heated.
When, endless panting, gasping, shatteringly intimate minutes later, he finally joined with her, she was hoarse, too. Hoarse from her muted cries, from her desperate attempts to breathe. He'd driven her into a state of endless delight, her body awash with exquisite sensation, sensitive to every touch, every unerringly intimate caress.
Now he drove into her, and drove her still further, into the heart of the sun, into the realm of glory. Patience blindly urged him on, let her body speak for her, caress him and hold him and love him as he was loving her.
Wholeheartedly. Unreservedly. Unrestrainedly.
The truth broke on her in the instant their sun imploded and shattered into a million shards. Glory rained about her-about them. Locked together, she felt his ecstasy as deeply as she felt hers.
Together they rose, buoyed on the final rapturous wave; together they fell, into deeply sated release. Wrapped in each other's arms, they floated in the realm reserved for lovers, where no mind was allowed to go.
"Hmm-hmm." Patience burrowed deeper into her warm bed and ignored the hand shaking her shoulder. She was in heaven, a heaven she couldn't remember being in before, and she wasn't interested in cutting short her stay. Even for him-he who had brought her here. There was a time for everything, especially for talking, and this was definitely not it. A warm glow lapped about her. Gratefully, she sank into it.
Vane tried again. Fully dressed, he leaned over, and shook Patience as hard as he dared. "Patience."
A disgruntled noise that sounded like "glumph" was all he got out of her. Exasperated, Vane sat back, and stared at the golden brown curls showing above the coverlet, all he could see of his wife-to-be.
As soon as he'd woken, and realized he'd have to leave, he'd tried to wake her-to tell her, simply and clearly, what he'd failed to tell her earlier. Before her passions had run away with them.
>
Unfortunately, he'd come to her late, and had stretched the time out as far as he'd been able. The result was that, only two hours later, she was still deeply sunk in bliss and highly resistant to being roused.
Vane sighed. He knew from experience that insisting on rousing her would result in an atmosphere totally inimical to the declaration he wanted to make. Which meant waking her was useless-worse than useless.
He'd have to wait. Until…
Muttering a curse, he stood, and headed for the door. He had to leave now or he'd trip over the maids. He would call and see Patience later-he'd have to do what he'd sworn he never would. Never expected he ever would.
Lay his heart on a platter-and calmly hand it to a woman.
Whether he was up to it no longer mattered. Securing Patience as his wife was the only thing that did.
Chapter 20
Was she imagining it?
Seated at the breakfast table the next morning, Patience carefully buttered a slice of toast. About her, the household chattered and clattered. Since breakfast was served later, in keeping with town hours, all the household attended, even Minnie and Timms. Even Edith. Even Alice.
Patience glanced about-and ignored the conversations wafting up and down the board. She was too distracted by her inner musings to waste time on less-urgent affairs.
She picked up her knife and reached for the butter.
And started to spread butter. On butter. She focused on the toast-then, very precisely, laid the knife aside and picked up her teacup. And sipped.
Langorous lassitude dragged at her limbs. Sweetly salacious thoughts dragged at her mind. Pleasured exhaustion had her in its grip; it was difficult to concentrate, but, again and again, she drew her mind back to the unexpected revelation of the night before. It required supreme effort to focus on the undercurrents that had run beneath their love-making, rather than on the lovemaking itself, but she was certain she wasn't inventing, that the underlying intensity she'd sensed had been real. The intensity of Vane's need, the intensity he'd brought to the act of loving her.
Loving her.
He'd used the words in the physical sense. For herself, she thought first in terms of the emotion, with the act the physical outpouring. Until last night, she'd assumed Vane's meaning was strictly physical-after last night, she wasn't so sure.
Last night, the physical had reached new heights, intensified by some force too powerful to be confined within limbs and flesh. She'd felt it, tasted it, gloried in it-she'd come to know it in herself. Last night, she'd recognized it in him.