It took a moment or so more before he was breathing freely.
He looked again at Caro. His decision had been made—not, or so it seemed, by him. He wouldn’t mention the risk of pregnancy.
He would, however, do whatever it took, give whatever was needed, to make his vision come true.
Caro woke to the feel of Michael’s fingertips lightly tracing her bare skin. She lay still, eyes barely open, registering the sun still shining, the faint shadows playing across the tiles, the airy touch of a breeze drifting through a window he must have opened.
She was lying on her side, facing the fireplace. He was lying stretched out behind her, on his back, the fingers of his right hand idly stroking her hip. Smiling, she let her eyes close, the better to savor the warmth that still enveloped her and his light, repetitive caress.
A change in her breathing, or some tension in her body, must have given her away; a moment later, he shifted, coming up on one elbow, his body rearranging to spoon about hers.
Her smile deepened; he bent his head and nuzzled the spot where her shoulder and throat met, placed a hot, lingering, openmouthed kiss over the pulse point there.
Then he murmured, soft, low, infinitely dangerous, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, to just lie there, and let me make love to you.”
Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened even before he pushed his hand over her side, nudging her arm higher so he could close his hand and knead. Languidly, lazily. As if assessing her anew.
Heat spread beneath her skin, but this time in a gentle wave, not a rushing, tumultuous tide.
He caressed her—all of her—his touch assured yet never hurried, never driven. This, she concluded, was to be a slow engagement, each moment stretching, then sliding effortlessly into the next, each crest of sensation peaking, extending, before he let her fall back, catch her breath, and move on.
Through a landscape she saw only through touch, knew only via tactile sensation. Gentle, repetitive, tactile stimulation.
His hand moved over her bottom, fingers dipped, stroked, caressed. Until her need built, until she shifted her hips, gently moaned.
She started to turn, expecting him to roll her onto her back and part her thighs. Instead, her shoulder met his chest, her hip his groin.
“Other way,” he murmured, pressing her back, his voice deep, murmurously sultry, stirring the thick molten heat inside her.
He edged her upper thigh higher, angled her hips over, then she felt him, hard, hot, rigid, press in.
Sink slowly in.
She shut her eyes tight, clung to the moment, exhaled softly as it ended, leaving him deeply inside her.
Then he moved. As slow and sultry as the sunshine, as openly seductive as the breeze. His body moved against hers in a slow, surging evocative rhythm, a cadence he refused to vary even when she gasped, when her senses coiled tight, and she sank her fingers into his thigh.
He rode her gentle thrust after thrust until she could stand it no more, until a scream broke from her throat and she fractured, and the wonder poured in. It filled her up, and washed through her, leaving her blissfully free on some far distant shore.
And still he filled her, each controlled thrust definite and sure. She was dimly aware when he reached his own limit and release caught him, racked him, then the storm rolled on and he lay beside her on that golden shore.
15
They walked home along the path, through the glory of the late afternoon. They exchanged glances, light touches aplenty, but few words; at that moment, a moment out of time, they needed none.
Caro couldn’t think—couldn’t form any opinion over what had transpired, couldn’t make those glorious moments of sharing conform to any pattern she’d heard of or recognized. What had happened simply was; all she needed to do was accept it.
Beside her, Michael walked steadily, holding back branches so she could pass safely by, ready to grasp her arm and steady her if she slipped, but otherwise not holding her, leaving her free even while in his mind he acknowledged she was not, that he would never let her go. As they tramped through the woods and meadows, he tried to understand, conscious of a change, a realignment, a refinement of his feelings, a more acute defining of his direction.
They passed through the gate in the hedge, and walked up through the gardens. As they stepped onto the stretch of lawn leading to the terrace, they heard voices.
They glanced up and saw Muriel talking to Edward, who was looking faintly harassed.
Edward saw them; Muriel followed his gaze, then drew herself up and waited for them to climb the steps.
As they neared, both smiling easily, effortlessly adopting their social personas, Michael saw Muriel’s eyes fix on Caro’s face, faintly flushed, whether from their earlier exertions or their long walk in the sun that had shone throughout the day he couldn’t say. What Muriel made of the sight he couldn’t guess either; before she could comment, he held out his hand. “Good afternoon, Muriel. I must congratulate you again on the fete—it was a marvelous day and a wonderful turnout. You must be thoroughly gratified.”
Muriel surrendered her hand, allowing him grasp her fingers. “Well, yes. I was indeed most happy with the way things turned out.” Her tone was gracious, faintly condescending.