“Ethan…” His name came out as a pleasure-filled sigh. Before she could say anything else, such as thank you, he scooped her up into his arms. Heedless of the water sluicing from her body, soaking him, for several long seconds he simply held her against him, his gaze so hot upon her, she felt as if she were glowing.
“Hold on,” he said.
After she tightened her arms around his neck, he bent down and snatched up the towel, which he wrapped around her. Snuggled between his warm body and the fire-warmed towel, she pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.
He walked to the bed, then slowly lowered her until her feet touched the floor. Taking the towel, he gently blotted the water from her skin. She reveled in his ministrations, and when he finished, she framed his face between her hands, then rose up on her toes to kiss him. His arms clamped around her, and she felt the heat of his body along the entire length of hers. The hard ridge his arousal pressed against her belly, and her womb clenched in response.
“Ethan,” she murmured, leaning back to look at him, “I’ve never felt that way before.”
His eyes darkened with some emotion she couldn’t decipher. “The pleasure was mine.”
“Not entirely, I assure you.”
A hint of humor whispered over his features, then he raised his hands and slipped the pins from her chignon.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he said, slowly sifting his fingers through the strands. “Just like the rest of you.” He stepped back, and his gaze raked over her with barely suppressed hunger. “So beautiful,” he murmured, cupping her breasts, his fingers lightly tugging her nipples, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from her. She leaned into him, then gasped when he lowered his head to draw one tight nipple into his mouth.
“This is hardly fair,” she said, arching her back, offering more of herself. “I want to see you, touch you as well, Ethan.”
At her words, he gave her nipple one last long lick, then lifted his head. “Very well,” he said, raising her hands to his shirt. “Undress me.”
She immediately applied unsteady fingers to the fastening on his shirt. She fumbled a bit and forced aside her nervousness that she would fail to please him as she’d failed to please her husband. As if he’d read her thoughts, he said, “There is nothing you could do that will displease me, Cassie. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The softest I’ve ever touched. Believe me when I say that it is only by exerting an extreme amount of will that I am keeping myself from devouring you. Even so, my control is severely tested.”
A dark thrill raced through her at his admission, and she pulled his shirt open. “I don’t want you in control,” she said, skimming her hands over the hardened slopes of his chest. His body was that of a laborer, thick with muscle, browned from the sun—strong, masculine, and profoundly arousing. Dark hair dusted the broad expanse of sun-kissed skin, narrowing to a dusky ribbon that bisected his torso, a silken trail her fingers itched to explore.
She breathed in and savored his scent. He smelled of soap and clean linen and, just as he always had, deliciously of adventure. The mere sight of him made her feel daring and reckless, and giddy with a sense of boldness that, despite its unfamiliarity, couldn’t be denied.
Dragging her gaze back up to his, she said, “I want to be devoured. I want to feel. Everything. I want to touch. All of you.”
His eyes darkened, and with her help, he shrugged out of his shirt. Stepping closer to him, she pressed her lips to the center of his chest, then dragged her open mouth to his nipple. She suckled him softly, absorbing the hard beat of his heart against her palm and the growl vibrating from his throat. Her hands moved lower, over his abdomen, her fingers tracing, investigating the captivating ripples of hard muscle and that alluring ribbon of dark hair that cut down the middle of his torso. When her hands reached his breeches, she raised her head. “I want these off, Ethan.”
She stepped back and watched him remove his clothing, first his boots, then his snug breeches. When he finally stood before her naked, her mouth went dry at the sight of him. That enthralling ribbon of hair continued lower, spreading at the apex of his thighs where his arousal jutted forward, thick and fascinating. His legs were long and powerful, and his entire body appeared tensed with expectation.
She walked slowly around him, halting when she stood behind him, her gaze riveted to the scarred skin on his back.
“This is from the fire?” she asked softly, coasting her fingers over the pale, puckered marks.
“Yes.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against the old injury, then sprinkled gentle kisses over every bit of it she could reach. “It must have hurt terribly,” she whispered between kisses, her heart aching for what he’d suffered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
After pressing a last lingering kiss to his back, she moved to stand in front of him once again. Reaching out, she brushed her fingers over the head of his erection, and he sucked in a harsh breath. “You are extremely well made, Ethan. So very strong.”
He swallowed, hard, and she basked in the hunger that darkened his eyes, flushed his skin.
“I’m not feeling very strong right now,” he said, his voice resembling a low growl.
“Oh? How do you feel?”
“Conquered.”
She wrapped her fingers around his arousal and gently squeezed. His eyes slammed shut. “Vanquished,” he whispered.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, repeating his earlier question.
“No. God, no. Don’t stop.”
She couldn’t suppress the smile of pure feminine satisfaction that curved her lips at his rough tone. “If you insist,” she murmured, and stroked her fingers down his length, exploring every inch of the taut flesh, first with one hand, then two, cupping and stroking him, becoming bolder and more confident with each of his increasingly ragged breaths.
A long groan escaped him, and he tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. “You cannot possibly know how incredible that feels.”
When she dragged a single fingertip through the pearly drop glistening at the tip of his erection, spreading the warm wetness over the swollen head, he made a strangled sound, then scooped her up in his arms.
“Can’t take anymore,” he muttered, his eyes all but breathing fire. He laid her down on the counterpane, then climbed onto the bed. He urged her knees apart and knelt between her splayed thighs. Breathing harshly, he reached out and teased her swollen folds, which felt wet and heavy and ached with need. His gaze tracked up her body until their eyes met, then he lowered his body onto hers.
His first stroke was a long, delicious glide that elicited a wordless gasp of wonder, from both the glorious friction and the profound intimacy of his body sliding into hers. When he was buried to the hilt, he stilled for several seconds, and she absorbed the indescribable sensation of him filling her, stretching her. Wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, she pulled him tighter against her.
“So this is what passion feels like,” she whispered.
“Yes.” He withdrew nearly all the way, then slowly sank deep once again, a silken caress that ignited the same fire inside her he’d lit earlier. “And this…” Another long, slow stroke, another wet, satiny slide of his body into hers. His smooth thrusts quickened, deepened into driving jolts, each one edging her nearer to release. Her fingers bit into his shoulders, then with a startled cry, she arched beneath him as sweet, hot pulses of pleasure washed through her. She felt his entire body tighten, then, gathering her close, he buried his face in the crook where her neck and shoulders met and he poured himself into her.
When his shudders subsided, he drew in several shaky breaths, then raised his head. Cassandra’s eyes fluttered open. He looked as dazed and sated as she felt, and an aching tenderness pervaded her system.
She rested one hand against his cheek. “So that is what making love feels like.”
He t
urned his head to kiss her palm. “I’d have to say yes, but in truth I’ve never known it to be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Exquisite.”
He moved, as if he intended to roll off her, and she tightened her arms and legs around him. “Don’t go. The feel of you on me, in me, is, to use your word, exquisite.” Her gaze searched his, then she said softly, “My…relations with Westmore were very…impersonal. He never made love to me as you just did. He considered coming to my bed a chore and merely spilled his seed in me as quickly as he could get it over with in order to beget his heir.”
Unmistakable anger flared in his eyes. “Any man lucky enough to have you who would do less than worship you is an ass,” he stated in an emphatic voice.
Her bottom lip trembled, and he leaned down to lightly run his tongue over it. She gasped softly and pulled his head down for a slow, deep kiss. When he lifted his head, she said in a tentative voice, “The skill with which you touched me…clearly you’ve had…much experience.”
For the space of several heartbeats, he regarded her through serious eyes, then said quietly, “No one, ever, has touched my heart as you have, Cassie.”
Her fingers lightly traced his scar. “Jealousy is not an emotion I’ve had cause to experience for a very long time, but I find I’m jealous of every woman who’s ever touched you. Of every woman who will touch you in the future.” Indeed, the thought of him being with another woman like this, buried inside her, sharing confidences, cramped her insides and dulled her vision with a red haze.
“Cassie…let’s not waste what little time we have thinking of any future beyond the next few hours.”
He was right, of course. “Very well.” She stretched sinuously beneath him and smiled when he skimmed one hand down her torso. “I find the inexhaustible nature of your interest in my body very enjoyable,” she said.
“Excellent, because my interest is far from slaked.”
“I was just thinking something similar with regard to you.”
He brushed a light kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know when I’ve ever heard better news.”
She drew a long, deep, contented breath, and caught the faint whiff of roses, which prompted her to ask, “What else do you have in that satchel?”
“A blanket, a bottle of wine, and some strawberries—to combine with your dinner tray to make a picnic for us.”
Moisture dampened her eyes at his thoughtfulness. “The picnics we used to share were some of the happiest days of my life.”
“Mine as well. Then, after I feed you, I intend to make love to you—properly now that the edge is off.” He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Next time will be even better. Less rushed. And the third time better still.”
“Show me,” she said, seeking his lips for another open-mouthed kiss. “Show me everything.”
He did. Until she finally fell asleep in his arms just as the mauve of dawn broke through the window. And when she awoke, he was gone, a single slip of paper resting on the pillow that still bore the indent from where he’d lain. With shaking fingers, she picked up the missive and read the brief message.
I will never forget last night. Forgive me for leaving this way, but I cannot bear to say good-bye.
Her vision blurred, and a tear plopped onto the paper. Ethan was gone. And the empty loneliness was back.
Chapter Seven
Ethan reined in Rose, and after giving his winded, sweaty mare an affectionate pat on the neck, he stared across the beach at the glittering blue expanse of St. Ives Bay. He’d been riding hard since the muted shades of dawn lit the sky, trying in vain to exorcise the memories of last night from his mind. Now, several hours later, bright sunshine gleamed, without a cloud in sight to break the endless azure. Yet how could the sun possibly be shining? Cassie was gone. Surely the weather should have been gray and gloomy, topped off with a cold drizzle—to match his mood.
His gaze slowly tracked down the beach, along the route they’d walked yesterday, pausing for a long moment at the outcropping of rocks where they’d kissed. An emptiness and longing such as he’d never known twisted inside him, one that intertwined with fingers of anger. At himself—for allowing her to stay. For sampling that which he would never have again. For inflicting upon himself this gut-wrenching agony. Maybe it was better to never experience paradise than to do so and know in your soul that nothing would ever again be that good.
He’d missed her before yesterday—with a deep ache that never completely subsided—yet it was an ache he’d learned to live with.
But now, now that he’d held her, tasted her, laughed with her, made love with her, held her while she slept, how could he hope to learn to live with this ache? This debilitating pain that made it feel as if his heart had disintegrated into dust and blown away. That left a hollow space in his chest that nothing could ever hope to fill.
He withdrew her handkerchief from his pocket and stared at the embroidered initials, dark blue letters that matched her eyes. His fingers curled, crushing the material in his fist, and he squeezed his eyes closed. How the bloody hell was it possible to feel so numb, yet hurt so badly?
How could he ever hope to erase her from his memory now? She used to live only in his mind. His heart. His soul. But now the scent of her, the taste and feel of her, were all branded under his skin. So deeply that no other woman would ever be able to erase the imprint—not that any other woman ever had, but at least part of him had always held out hope that perhaps someday he’d find someone who could. Who’d be able to offer more than a fleeting encounter that only served to temporarily ease his loneliness.
Yet now that hope had been trampled. Because he’d discovered the difference between having sex to relieve a physical need and making love to the woman who owned his heart. And soul.
Even worse, all the places that he used to consider his sanctuaries were now steeped in recollections of Cassie. His inn. His stables. This stretch of beach he frequented nearly every day. There was now nowhere to go to escape the memories.
After a final look at the white-capped water, he turned Rose—named for Cassie’s favorite scent—back toward the stables. After currying the mare, he returned to the tack room. He’d just finished putting away his supplies when a voice behind him asked, “May I have a word with ye, Ethan?”
He turned and saw Delia regarding him from the doorway with an indecipherable expression. Based on her pale face and the way her fingers pleated her gray work gown, he suspected something was amiss.
“Of course. Is something wrong at the inn?”
She shook her head and stepped into the room. “Not at the inn.” She pressed her lips into a tight line, then said, “I want to talk about Lady Westmore.”
Ethan’s hands involuntarily clenched at the sound of her name. “What about her?”
Delia’s gaze skittered away for several seconds, then returned to his. “I suspected there was someone who held yer heart. Someone from yer past. Figured that were the reason ye pretended not to notice the broad hints I tossed in yer direction.” She lifted her chin. “It’s her. Lady Westmore. She’s the one who holds yer heart.”
Bloody hell. Was his lovesick yearning scrawled across his face for everyone to see?
When he didn’t reply, Delia jerked her head in a tight nod. “Well, at least yer not denyin’ it. No point in doin’ so. I saw the way ye looked at her.”
“And how did I look at her?”
“The way I’d hoped ye’d look at me someday.”
Ethan expelled a long breath and dragged his hands down his face. “Delia, I’m sorry.”
“Ye’ve nothin’ to apologize for. Ye never gave me false hope that we’d be more than friends.” She dipped her chin and stared at the floor. “Yer a good man, Ethan. Honorable. Not yer fault that I wish ye were my man.”
He crossed to her and gently clasped her upper arms. “You know I care about you, Delia.”
She looked up, and he saw the sheen of moistu
re in her eyes. “I know, Ethan. But not in the same way I care about you. I knew it, but I convinced myself that the woman who held yer heart was either gone from yer life or dead. And that one day ye’d wake up and be ready to move on. And I’d be waitin’.”
She drew a deep breath and stepped back, and his hands fell to his sides. “But knowin’ she exists and actually meetin’ her are two different things. I’d never be able to look at you and believe ye were thinkin’ of me. Ye’d be thinkin’ of her, and I’d know it. She’s not some phantom ghost in my mind anymore. I met her. Saw you lookin’ at her. Smilin’ at her. Laughin’ with her. Second place is one thing, but with you, there’d never be a first place. There’s only room for her.”
Bloody hell, he wished he could deny her words. Wished he could transfer his feelings from Cassie to Delia—a woman of his own class with whom he could share a future. Unfortunately, his love for Cassie lived in his bones. Always had. He knew it, and Delia knew it. And he wouldn’t dishonor her by telling her anything less than the truth.
“I never meant to hurt you, Delia.”
She shrugged. “I hurt myself. But now it’s time I stop. I’m leavin’, Ethan. Leavin’ the Blue Seas, leavin’ St. Ives. Plannin’ to go stay with my sister in Dorset. She had twin babies a few months back and could use the help.” She twisted her hands together, and what looked like a combination of confusion, pity, and anger flashed in her eyes. “Ye know yer feelin’s for her are hopeless. Grand ladies don’t take up with folks like us.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I know.”
“Well, yer feelin’s for her won’t keep ye warm at night. Any more than my feelin’s for you will keep me warm. And I’m tired of being cold. And alone. I miss havin’ a husband. I want someone to share my life with. I wish ye luck, Ethan. I hope ye find happiness. And love.”
He stood rooted in place and watched her walk away. Half of him wanted to go after her, beg her to stay, tell her he’d try to forget Cassie—at least enough to attempt making a life with someone else. But the other half knew it wouldn’t happen. The last ten years—and last night—proved that.
It Happened One Night Page 23