A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)
Finding his trousers and shirt, he slipped into the sitting room and closed the door. He swiftly dressed, then tugged the bellpull. When the sleepy night footman tapped on the door, he sent him to fetch the box he’d left with the concierge.
“Boadicea, Boadicea, open your eyes.”
Clarice woke to the whispered words, and the sensati
on of fairy kisses pattering like rain on her skin. A shower of silken softness, of caresses almost intangible.
Even before she opened her eyes, she caught the scent, in a flash of evocative memory was transported back to Avening, to the folly, to the nights of passion they’d enjoyed there, free of the world, free of all care.
Opening her eyes, she saw Jack leaning over her, one hand moving above her as he rained apple blossom over her bare breasts. She turned toward him, onto her back, glanced around.
Discovered they were lying in a sea of apple blossom.
She looked up at him, caught his eyes as he shifted back, viewing her.
His lips curved. “This is how I see you—how I want to see you. My warrior-queen naked on a bed of apple blossom.”
The covers were down by their feet. The pink-and-white petals were everywhere, over her, under her; they clung to her skin, but not so much to his, the light dusting of hair keeping them at bay. But as he touched her, caressed her, sculpted her flesh, and heat rose beneath her skin, the evocative scent wafted from the petals, until, closing her eyes, she could almost believe they were back at Avening.
She sighed as his hands drifted over her.
Then she opened her eyes, parted her lips—he dipped his head and kissed her. Filled her mouth with a long, sure, confident invasion. Shifted farther over her, parted her thighs, and touched her, caressed her, until she simply sighed into the kiss and let go.
Let him have his way.
Let him lift her legs and wind them about his hips, then thrust deep into her welcoming softness. Let him fill her intimately, possess her completely.
For once, she made no move to take the reins, but let him do as he would, show her what he would. Without hesitation, she placed herself in his hands and let him take her where he wished. How he wished, as he wished.
Dawn broke, and poured its soft light down upon them.
Head back, spine bowed as he rode her, as he drove her ever higher, ever harder toward the beckoning crest of their sensual wave, she clung, sobbed, gasped through their kiss, and gave him all he wished, and took all he offered in return.
And felt, deep within, hope well and bloom, saw opening before her a landscape new and fresh, filled with possibilities, with promise.
With love.
It was a land they could have if they wished, if they would.
The wave broke; they clung as ecstasy crashed through them, caught them up, spun them into the heavens, shattered them, then re-formed them.
Welded them anew into something they hadn’t been before. She didn’t have words to acknowledge it, but she knew it in her heart.
Knew neither she nor he would ever be the same.
The wave of sensual joy receded, sighed away and left them, sated and boneless, wrapped in each other’s arms in the tumbled jumble of her bed.
Amid the sea of apple blossom.
Cocooned in love.
She floated, but didn’t truly sleep again, too delighted, too energized, too aware.
How could apple blossoms mean so much?
How could the simple act of coming together be so meaningful? So earth-shatteringly powerful?
She knew the answers. It wasn’t the physical, nor the sensual, not even the emotional connections made, but what those arose from, what the item or the act represented, what it acknowledged.