by Mia Vincy
His arms encircled her, as he pressed his palms onto her thighs, searing her through the thin cotton of her shift. She leaned back into him, her hands finding his powerful thighs, by her side. Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back against his shoulder.
“Oh my,” she breathed.
His mouth was at her ear. “Everywhere.”
The throbbing in her quim must be like a call, calling to his hands, for he slid them relentlessly up her thighs, pushing her chemise before him. He did not pause, and she lifted her hips so that he could slide the fabric up her body, and when he murmured, “Raise your arms,” she complied.
Thea opened her eyes to see her chemise land on the grass in front of them, followed by his shirt. His bare arms circled her again, and she pressed her naked back to his naked chest, his heat melding with hers. She looked down at her body, exposed for the first time to a man, to the air. Rafe’s weathered hands were stark against the creaminess of her skin, one hand on her thigh, the other on her belly, and both sliding upward, to where all their kisses pooled and bounced impatiently beneath her skin.
Once more, she let her eyes close, dropped her head against his shoulder, entrusted herself to him. He cupped one breast, assured and demanding and delicious, and then pressed his fingers firmly between her legs.
Pleasure spiraled through her. A high startled cry flew from her mouth. She dug her fingers into his thighs and drew ragged breaths. Not for a heartbeat did those fingers pause in their magic, as they coaxed sweet, hot sensations into wild cartwheels under her skin.
When he spoke, his breath was hot and his voice was rough.
“There is only one person in my world right now, and that is you. And only one thing, and that one thing is bringing you such pleasure, through your body and all the way to your soul, that you will never forget my touch.”
“Never,” she whispered in agreement.
She would remember every detail, remember how she much she craved him, his heat, his voice, his fingers doing whatever they were doing. How pleasure pooled and swelled in this relentless, transcendent torment. She felt her own wetness, caught her own scent, breathed him in, and let out the breath on a moan.
“Well?” His voice vibrated through her, and she tried to focus on what he was doing but her mind could hold onto nothing but the sensations shimmering through her like sunlight on the waves. “Better than syllabub?”
“Um.” She fought for breath, caught a straggling wit. “I don’t know.”
Rafe’s laughing groan rumbled through his chest, rumbled through her, but she regretted her answer when the next moment found her alone. But he had left her only to arrange their discarded clothing into a makeshift bed, and he gently tugged her down onto it. He leaned over her, face and hair silhouetted against the willows: another image to remember.
He lowered his head and once more she surrendered to his hot mouth and his promise to kiss her everywhere. His slow, burning kisses reached her breasts, his hair feathering over her skin; his lips trapped one nipple, that his teeth and tongue could tease it. Sensation tore through her, possessing her body so she arched and moaned and yanked at his hair. But, oh thank heaven, nothing stopped those lips of his from sliding onward, branding an inexorable trail down her writhing body.
Then she lost her grip on his hair, and lifted her head to watch, amazed, as he parted her legs with those implacable hands and settled between them. Air danced up her inner thighs to the desperately sweet pulse at her core. He met her astonished gaze, mischief and desire sparkling in those intent brandy eyes. Those unforgettable eyes did not leave hers, not for a single throb of her wayward pulse, as he pressed his hot, merciless mouth to her quim.
Intense pleasure coiled through her, making her cry out, and she caught the wicked gleam of triumph in his gaze before she collapsed back onto the ground. Her dazzled eyes blinked at the streaks of blue sky peeping through the green willows, her aroused skin sensing every playful current of air. Thea gripped the grass, as Rafe’s commanding hands pinned her hips to the ground and his talented mouth teased and tasted and tormented her. Breathing eluded her; all she had were moans, and each one he answered with a growl. Blades of grass came away in her fingers, and she fumbled for something to grip, or else she would fly away, borne away by the kisses clamoring under her skin, those kisses that pulsed in her blood and supplanted her flesh, a million kisses thronging and rioting under his mouth, threatening to break free.
Then something he did triggered their release. Bliss rippled over her, from her toes to her hair, as those million riotous kisses burst out of her, exploding into the air. She imagined them soaring through the sky, scattering in the breeze, and raining down on the world below. Still Rafe anchored her, so she did not fly away too, but remained with him, where she belonged, pulsing with bliss and hope and love.
Dazzled, she opened her eyes and met his. His expression was one of awe, and she lifted her languid fingers to touch that expression.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered hoarsely.
“No, you are,” she said, and he grinned.
Her body was molten, but she did not need to move, for he stretched out beside her and pulled her against him, his generous, assured hands roaming absently over her newly sensitive skin. She spread her fingers over the hairs of his chest, and wondered how it had happened, that his body had become hers too.
“Well?” he murmured. “Better than syllabub?”
“Um. Why choose?”
With a groan of laughter, Rafe collapsed onto his back, bearing her with him. She stretched to kiss to his lips: How marvelous that she could do that so easily now. That somehow, in giving her pleasure, he had given her himself.
And yet, not.
Lifting her head, Thea studied Rafe’s face. His eyes were closed. The thick, dark lashes quivered against his skin, and his jaw was tense. His pulse hammered in his throat, under the last tapering lines of his scars. She understood his tension, now.
So she trailed her hand over his broad chest, the ridge of his ribcage, the muscled flat of his belly, and—
With a slap of his hand over hers, he halted her advance. His eyes were uncommonly dark, his mouth tight.
“I thought we were doing this together,” she complained.
“You don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”
“I know enough. I know that I want it. That I want more of you. All of you.”
Tautness hummed through him. “You want to make love with me? Now?”
“Yes. I want it all.”
She wanted him. All of him, no holding back. This was her only chance, and such chances did not come traipsing along every day; she must seize them when she could.
Nothing lasted: She could not pick the flowers or net the butterflies or hold onto this man, or settle in his house and call it her home.
But she could have this—one perfect afternoon with the most wonderful man she had ever known.
The rules demanded that she protect her virtue, but her virtue had never protected her; she cared nothing for it now. She wanted to feel the sun on her face and the grass beneath her feet and she wanted—no, she longed to know how it felt to be engulfed by him.
Nearby, birds were chattering. Thea basked in the luscious wantonness of being naked, by the lake, with him.
“The way I feel when I’m with you, I want to feel it more,” she said. “I want to be close to you, as close as I can get. Because I have so many pictures of you in my head, and so many memories of your touch, but I want more.” She brushed her fingers over his lips. “I want to make love with you because I am greedy and I like sweet things.”
“Thea.” He breathed her name, as he wound his fingers in her hair and rose up beside her. “If we make love…”
“Hush. You grumble about me talking too much, but now you are talking too much.”
A new light entered his eyes. “Then what would you have me do?”
She answered him with a kiss. It was
slow and promising at first, but as their tongues caressed each other, a new fever seized her, breeding a desperate, insatiable hunger, a craving to press against him so completely that they became one. Rational thought took flight, freeing her hands and mouth to roam wildly over him, yearning to touch and taste every inch of him, before her only chance escaped.
In no time at all, he caught her fever, his hunger as fierce as her own. They made short work of the last of his clothes, and she was lying back, inviting his embrace, his body hovering over her. Her hand slid over his hips, brazen and reckless as she curled her ravenous fingers around his hard, satiny length.
“Thea, sweet Thea, I need you now.”
Thea gripped him harder; he groaned and said, “Time for that later,” and her confused mind tried to find when this “later” would be, for there was only now, and now he replaced her hand with his own and guided himself into her, pushing firmly, confidently, knowing she would welcome him. His powerful presence inside her startled her, spiked through her, then new sensations rippled outward, and she settled into rightness, because finally—at least for this brief, heavenly moment—finally, he was hers.
Finally, finally, she was his.
Rafe paused, to give her time, to give himself time too—time to savor this moment, this precious, sacred moment, of their bodies joined, his cock deep inside her, her face telling him her thoughts, telling him of her discomfort, her surprise, and then— So help him! Her pleasure. Her intrigue. Her wonder. Her eyes flew open, and he lost himself in their divine perfection, lost himself in her generous smile, as she shifted and tightened around him. Pleasure coursed through him, conquered him, possessed him. Thea wrapped her legs around him, took him deeper. Her fingers kneaded his back as she kissed him passionately. He gathered her close—he could not hold this position; he was not that strong—but for now, they were melded together, anchored to each other, as one.
Everything in the world was right.
Then his control failed him. He should go slowly; it was her first time, but it might as well be his first time too. Desire tore at him, overwhelming him, and he lowered her to the grass. It was their first time, but soon they would marry, and they had decades of times ahead. He would explain, she would understand, they would laugh and tease and he’d do right by her next time. The next time they made love, she would be his wife.
Rafe kept his eyes on hers and surrendered to his need, and each time he discovered her anew, he told her with his eyes that now he had found her, he would hold her fast. That now she had found him, he had come home.
Through the haze of his passion, he was aware of her crying out, of her body shuddering again and her muscles squeezing him, and he let himself go too, and filled her with his pleasure and his hope and his love.
Thea’s body was languid against his. A cool breeze danced over them and she shifted.
“Are you cold?” Rafe murmured. They should get dressed and go inside to plan their life together, but he liked the feel of her.
“It is a deliciously wicked sort of thrill, isn’t it?” she said. “Being naked, outside. I cannot think why everyone doesn’t do it all the time.”
“Can you not.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Actually, yes,” she revised. “I can think of one or two very good reasons why not.”
Rafe laughed and hugged her. Now was the time for talking, but not here under the willows, amid the disarray that followed the giddy heights of sex. He stood and helped her to her feet. Abruptly, modesty snared her: She snatched up her crumpled chemise and held it over her, her cheeks pink, her expression distressed.
He caught her face in his hands. “That was beautiful and right. Even when it is over, it is still beautiful and right.”
She nodded, half smiling, but it was a wistful sort of smile, and something like confusion entered her eyes. It was the first time she’d ever made love, he reminded himself, and not to be taken lightly; the changes of the day were even more momentous for her.
He dropped a light kiss on her lips. “Come, let us dress.”
They washed and helped each other dress, although their clothes were a mess.
Thea gathered her loose hair and laughed. “Oh my, we look like a pair of urchins. Will everyone know? All the staff, and Sally and… Um.”
For these blessed moments, Rafe had forgotten everything and everyone but them. “Most of the staff do not work today, but the bishop and the others will be back. Wash, dress, and meet in the drawing room. We have much to discuss.”
Nicholas would advise on how quickly they could marry; he would find a way to put the paperwork right. Unless Thea wanted a big church wedding; later, Rafe would ask her what she preferred.
When they were both attired properly, and behaving properly, he would propose properly. This time, she would have no cause to complain about his proposal. He would find the words to ask again, and this time, she’d say “yes.”
Yet that wistful expression was in her eyes again, and before he could question it, she rose on her toes, planted a swift kiss on his lips, then dashed off toward the house.
Rafe hunted down the clothing they had left scattered through the garden, so it did not frighten any unsuspecting gardener the following day, and let his mind wander free, full of Thea and the possibilities of their life together. Hope swooped through him. Pessimist, was he? He laughed, thankful that he was, indeed, a different man after all.
Chapter 23
Even after she had washed and dressed in a fresh gown, even when her nakedness was once more buttoned away and her hair restrained, Thea’s body felt new and strange to her, yet newly and strangely right. Still, she felt Rafe’s hands sliding over her body, their limbs tangled. Still, she felt herself engulfed in him. It was beautiful and right, he’d said. Indeed, it had been beautiful, and it had felt right.
Even when it is over, it is still beautiful and right, he had added.
Even when it was over. He, too, knew it could not last.
She indulged in sorrow for a few minutes, then pulled herself together. She had wanted memories, and now she had them. No complaining. Whatever happened next, she hoped that Rafe would not hide away from her. They could enjoy this last evening together, before she left.
Thus fortified, yet oddly nervous, Thea made her way to the drawing room. She was almost relieved that Rafe was not yet there, for she was not sure how to face him, and she jumped when someone came in. It was Gilbert, bearing a letter. He chattered out an explanation as to how he had come by it—something about the messenger and church and the bishop—but Thea hardly heard, for her name (“Miss D. Knight”) was written in Ma’s hand and her blood was rushing in her ears. Dimly, she was aware of thanking him and then, mercifully, he left her alone.
Ma had written! Finally! Helen must have told Ma everything. Perhaps they would say they believed her and ask her to come home now.
She would still publish the pamphlet, of course; it was only what Percy Russell deserved.
Allowing herself a small laugh, Thea stood by the French windows looking into the courtyard garden. Her heart pounding, hands shaking, Thea fumbled the letter open and began to read.
Thea was standing in the same spot when Rafe came in. He was fresh and clean-shaven, dressed well enough for dinner with a duke, in his snowy-white cravat and the wine-red waistcoat under his dark coat. She liked that waistcoat, she decided.
She would like to press her face against it, press herself against that body made for hugging, feel his arms envelop her. She lowered her hand, let the letter dangle from her fingers. How she longed for Rafe to hold her.
Until he let go of her too.
He stopped in the middle of the room and frowned. “Thea?”
“I’ve had a letter from Ma.” Listen to her. Her voice was so bright it could serve as a chandelier. It might shatter like one too. “Lord Ventnor told her what he saw. Us together in the lake, I mean. His version of it, anyway. The version in which I am your harlot.”
“You and I both know the truth,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
She hardly heard him. “Ma is pleased to report that Lord Ventnor has resigned himself to his son’s marriage and accepted them as his in-laws. Ma and Pa dined at Ventnor House. Where it was impressed upon them that, as Ma and Pa are now part of a viscount’s family, it is important for the sake of the entire family that they have nothing to do with me. They say my behavior has gone too far. I thought I was so clever, thinking no one would ever learn I was here. So much for restoring my reputation.”
He shrugged impatiently and started pacing the room. “Sod them. You don’t need them.”
“Oh, and Pa intended to give you my ‘dowry’ in person, but he will not do that now.” What a marvel, the way she made it sound like a colossal joke. Well, it was a colossal joke, and any moment now she would begin to laugh. She glanced at the letter, all loops and lines and utterly illegible. Funny. She’d read it only a moment ago, but now she could not make out a single word. “I cannot even demand they believe me, this time. After all, this time, Ventnor’s lies have turned into truth.”
She let the letter drift away from her, watched it float over the room for a few feet then land on the blue carpet.
In a rough, swift movement, Rafe scooped up the letter, screwed it into a ball, and hurled it toward the empty fireplace. It flew neatly into the gap between the ornamental fire screen and the cold grate within.
“Sod your family. Sod Ventnor and the whole blasted lot of them. You don’t need any of them. We’ll get married, properly, and it won’t matter what anyone thinks.”
Thea stared at the place where the letter had flown, then back at him. “Get married?” she repeated. She had lost her wits, it seemed; perhaps they had run away with her virtue.
Rafe certainly seemed to think so, if his incredulous expression was anything to judge by. “Of course we’ll get married. We made love. An hour ago. Or had you already forgotten?”