Wife by Agreement

'That's for me?'

'Always,' she agreed fervently, her back arching as he came over her. She tensed her body, half expecting to feel the thrust of him within her. The tantalising brush of his silky hardness against her soft belly made her cry out in exquisite frustration. She couldn't bear this any more; she needed him—she needed all of him!

This had to be special, careful; he had to stay in control. She was so delicate and small, yet the supple strength in her body was a revelation to him. To resist the impatient, erotic undulations of the body beneath him took every ounce of his will-power.

When his lips moved over the silky inner aspect of her parted thighs it was only his hands anchoring her hips that stopped her twisting away from him.

'Ethan, please!' she begged, unable to articulate the elemental needs his erotic caresses were building up. He ignored her soft cries and continued the relentless torment of her senses. The heat pooling in her lower body spread to her limbs, which felt so heavy she didn't think she could move them from the bed.

When he eventually pulled himself up the bed until they lay shoulder to shoulder she was half panting, half sobbing. His own features were taut and strained; his cheekbones seemed to be jutting sharply through the tightly stretched skin and beads of sweat stood out across his brow.

'I needed to taste you.' Apology, confession, challenge, it was all three.

Sensing he needed reassurance, she took his face in her hands and pressed her lips against his. 'I just need you—right now!' she added, her voice low and urgent.

Her back instinctively arched as she rose to meet the thrust of his body. Eyes tight closed, she waited, and when he did move she gave a shuddering sigh of relief as, by slow, sensual inches, he let her absorb all of him.

'Perfect, perfect, perfect,' she said as she pressed her open mouth against the damp skin of his corded neck. Her fingers kneaded the flesh of his shoulders as her body twisted experimentally.

"The rhythm was slow, slick and smooth; it fed the fire inside along with the frustration. Her hoarse, urgent appeals had a rather dramatic affect. One second he was careful, measured co-ordination and the next he was rampant, elemental urgency.

'You waited for me,' she said, some time later.

Ethan stroked her damp hair as she lay curled up, her face nestled on his chest. 'You noticed.'

'It wasn't the sort of thing a person misses,' she said with a sleepy yawn. 'You know, I've never woken up with someone in the morning. I wonder what it's like?' she mused.

'I'd imagine it rather depends on who you went to sleep with the night before,' he responded drily. 'Are you glad about this, Hannah?' His stroking hand hovered above her head as he waited tensely for her reply. The silence stretched, punctuated by the soft sound of her regular breathing. 'Are you asleep, Hannah?' he said sharply.

'I think so,' came the distinct response.

Ethan began to laugh softly.

'What's wrong?' She half raised her head but he pushed her back down.

'Nothing. Go to sleep,' he urged.

CHAPTER FIVE

'ISN'T this cosy?' Faith Kemp spooned some more sugar into her tea and looked around the table with warm approval.

Ethan, too experienced in his mother's brand of dry humour to be misled by the artless innocence of her comment, frowned.

'"Cosy" isn't a term I'd have thought appropriate for this room, Mother.'

A small frown pleated Hannah's smooth brow at his words; they carried a definite hint of wry criticism. Mrs Turner, on finding they had guests, had moved breakfast to the formal dining room. It was a charming room, and, with the French windows flung open onto the south-facing lawn, a person would have been hard-pressed to find a more elegant spot in which to dine, but Ethan was right: cosy it was not.

'I see your influence hasn't extended this far, Hannah,' Faith agreed. Her eyes went to the vases crammed with wallflowers on either end of the mantelpiece and she regarded her daughter-in-law with a shrewd expression that reminded Hannah uncomfortably of her son.

'You can't improve on perfection,' Hannah said quietly. And I can't compete with it or Catherine.

There was no doubt that Catherine had had perfect taste. Perfect taste, perfect body, perfect husband, and she, Hannah, was a visitor. It was a feeling she couldn't get rid of—she was a visitor in her own home. 'Is that why you haven't changed the decor? I was wondering—it was the first thing Catherine did when she ousted me.' Faith smiled at Drew and patted his hand familiarly. Hannah could see Ethan's knuckles grow white as he lifted his coffee cup. 'Personally I've never seen what's so tasteful about employing someone else to decide how your home should look. I always had a more hands-on approach myself. Could you be an angel, Drew, and pass me some of that honey?'