As Dougless stood and watched, Nicholas just lay there, not moving, just looking at her across the pillows. One second he was in bed, the next he was on her and they were on the floor. Dougless never saw him move, she just felt his body against hers, felt his mouth on her skin, his hands holding her shoulders, then moving quickly and firmly out to her hands.
“Nicholas,” she whispered, “Nicholas.”
He was on her, his mouth and hands everywhere, as she kissed whatever part of him came near her mouth. His hands tore at her gown and Dougless heard it ripping away. When his hot, wet mouth fastened onto her breast, she moaned in ecstasy.
This was Nicholas, the man she’d wanted, desired, and craved for hundreds of hours. His big, hard hands moved down the side of her, his thumb toying with her navel as his lips and tongue played with her breasts.
Her fingers buried into his hair. “Let me,” she whispered. She had always chosen men who needed her, men who thought no one could give them enough. Dougless’s experience with sex had been with men who expected her to give to them.
“Nicholas?” she said as his lips began moving down her belly. “Nicholas, I don’t think—” His hands caressed her thighs, his thumb kneading the soft white flesh there; then he moved downward, downward.
Dougless arched her body against the carpet. No man had ever done this to her before. Passion built in her as his tongue . . . Oh, God, his tongue.
“Nicholas,” she moaned, and began to pull his hair as her body moved under him. He nibbled at the inside of her thighs, caressing the back of her knees, until she didn’t think she could stand it any more.
Taking her left leg in his hand, he bent it up as he moved on top of her and entered her so hard and big she tried to push him away. But her body closed around him, her free leg wrapping about his leg, as he pounded into her with hard, deep thrusts that pushed her across the carpet. She put up her hands to brace herself against the wall.
When Nicholas released her bent leg, she clasped him about the waist, and her hips rose to meet his thrusts as his hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her to him. Higher, higher.
When at last she felt him arch into her for a final blinding thrust, Dougless felt her own body shuddering in answer.
It was a while before she came to herself to remember where she was, or even who she was. Her head was almost against the wall; the bedside table and lamp loomed over her.
“Nicholas,” she murmured, touching his sweaty hair. “No wonder Arabella risked all for you.”
Lifting himself on one elbow, he looked down at her. “Do you sleep?” he asked, chuckling.
“Nicholas, that was wonderful,” she whispered. “No man—”
He didn’t allow her to finish, but took her hand and lifted her to stand by him. Gently, sweetly, deeply, he kissed her, then took her hand and led her into the bathroom. He got the shower water hot, then pulled her in with him. Pinning her to the wall, he kissed her, his big, hard body pressing against hers.
“I have dreamed of this,” he murmured. “This water fountain was made for love.”
Dougless was too absorbed in the way he was moving down to her breasts to be able to answer him. With the hot water beating on them, Nicholas began kissing her body, his mouth on her breasts, on her stomach and her neck. Dougless had her head back, her hands on his shoulders, shoulders so broad they nearly reached from one side to the other of the shower stall.
He came up to face her. When Dougless opened her eyes, she saw he was smiling at her. “Perhaps some things in this modern world do not change,” he said. “I seem to be your teacher now.”
“Oh?” she said as she began kissing his neck, then across his shoulder and down his muscular chest, her hands kneading his back muscles. Fat, she thought. She’d said he was going to get fat, but all of him was muscle, thick, hard, sculptured muscle.
The hot water beat down on her head, and she went lower, her hands on his buttocks. When her mouth closed over him, it was his turn to gasp. His hands buried themselves in her wet hair as she heard his soft moans of pleasure.
He nearly pulled her up by her hair as he slammed her against the slick wall, pulled her legs about his waist, and rammed into her almost brutally. Dougless held on to his passion, fastening herself to him as his mouth took hers, his tongue thrusting just as his body did.
When the final moment came, Dougless would have screamed except that Ni
cholas covered her mouth with his.
She clung to him, trembling, her body limp. She was sure that if Nicholas hadn’t been holding her, she would have gone down the drain.
He kissed her neck. “Now I will wash you,” he said softly as he set her on her own feet, then caught her when she nearly fell.
As though he had an electric switch in his body, he seemed to turn his passion off as he turned her to face the showerhead and began to shampoo her hair. His big, strong hands and his big body made her feel small and fragile—and protected. When he was done with her hair, he lathered his hands and began soaping her body.
Dougless leaned back against the wall as Nicholas’s hands slid over her, up and down, around, in and out. Before she forgot herself, she took the soap and began to caress him with her soapy hands. He had the most beautiful body she’d ever seen on a human. Heavens! she thought, even his feet were beautiful.
She turned off the water and soaped him. She loved looking at him, touching him. There was a birthmark on his left hip, shaped like a figure eight. There was a scar on his right calf. “Fell off a horse,” he murmured, eyes closed. There was a long scar on his left forearm. “Sword practice the day . . .” Dougless knew that the rest of the sentence was, “the day Kit died.” There was an odd oval scar on his shoulder. Nicholas smiled, his eyes closed. “A fight with Kit. I won,” he said.
She came back to his head. “I’m glad to see no woman has left a mark on you.”