“You should get out of those clothes.”
The bold statement shook her from reverie.
“You’re trembling,” he pointed out, just as he was stripping off his shirt. “That wet gown needs to come off, if you are to warm yourself properly.”
Now she was really trembling. Slack-jawed and all. And not because of his suggestion; she knew the cold, wet gown clinging to her body was liable to give her a chill, resulting in what would most likely be a cough and sniffles. Or worse.
No, the swarthy mass of muscle and sinew, gleaming raw as sin itself in the firelight, had arrested her full attention.
Sweet merciful heavens. Who knew through all those layers of clothing, that that lay beneath?
He began unbuttoning his breeches, and Sara shot up, stumbled back a couple of steps before, anchoring herself on the stool, she finally found her feet.
“What are you doing?”
One dark eyebrow winged upward. “Only what you should be doing.” Leaving his breeches unfastened, he strode for the oak chest at the foot of the bed and retrieved two quilted blankets. He threw one to her, and it fell in a soft heap at her feet.
Sara gazed at it for a moment, debating. Should she? Shouldn’t she? Was it proper? Did properness really matter at this point?
“I’m turned around,” he called over his shoulder, and she looked up, smothering the moan rising in her throat at the sight of his uncovered torso.
Swallowing her pride, and whatever else it was making her this nervous about being naked in a room with him, Sara untied her robe and nightgown, working as fast as possible with her shaking hands. Heaven only knew when he would turn around, and she couldn’t possibly face him bare and vulnerable. It was humiliating enough having to divest her clothing while he stood, albeit with his back turned, on the other side of the room.
Sara peeled off what was left of her soaked clothing, and let it drop to her feet. Stepping out of the wet pile, she picked up the blanket, and wrapped herself up, tight as she could without cutting off her circulation.
“All right,” she said, and he turned around, not sparing a glance in her direction as he sauntered back for the warmth of the fire.
Slowly she padded to the space beside him, and together they stood in silence, side by side, with only the sound of their breaths and the crackling of the fire to abet the quiet.
“Cavanaugh asked you to marry him.”
It took Sara a moment to answer. “Yes. Yes, he did.”
“I suspected as much. It was the only natural thing to do, enamored as he is of you.”
“But Justin, I--”
“And of course he is the right choice. He will be a good husband. A good father.”
“Yes, I know. But--”
“And you’ll be able to live in Ireland.” His profile was as stone, Sara noticed, gazing up at him. Cut and hard, with a tiny muscle in his cheek pulsing sporadically. “Where you long to be.”
She hesitated. “Yes, that is true. But you do not understand. I--”
“Yes, I do understand.” His eyes flashed down at her, and Sara felt the agony behind them. He wasn’t saying this for her; he was saying it for himself. Announcing it, perhaps, as if by speaking it aloud, so it would be.
“No,” she said. “No, you don’t.”
“How could I not? What is there not to understand? You are marrying Cavanaugh. It could not be any plainer.”
“Justin, I--”
“You don’t have to explain.” He turned to stare at the fire. “There is no need to explain when--”
“You don’t understand.”
“--Cavanaugh’s who you would have chosen from the start--”
“Justin, please listen. I--”
“--and who am I to stand between the two of you now that you--”
“Justin, stop.” Lord, but her patience was wearing thin.
“--can be together as you wanted to before--”
“I said no!” she shrieked. His gaze shot down at her, his heavy brown eyes laden with disbelief. Bristled, she added, “And you whittle my patience by interrupting me over and over as if you hadn’t a care in the world for what I may have to say in response to these accusations!”
“Accusations?” he echoed, once the initial shock had worn off.
“Yes! Accusations! Cav did ask me to marry him, but I refused.”
“Why?”
She stared up at him impatiently. “Don’t you know?” Shaking her head, fighting back tears, she whispered, “Haven’t you known for some time now?”
Later, when she thought about standing in the old cottage, gazing up at Justin with all her emotions splayed there before him like an open wound, Sara wondered how she had mustered the courage to do it. Although she was quite brave when she wanted to be, could hold her own against a man who fancied himself witty, confessing her feelings was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.
Sinking into the wooden floor might’ve been easier. Not to mention Justin had become eerily silent, and that made her wish she’d never said anything at all. That she’d kept her heart-wrenching secret to the grave.
But when his arms came around her, and her body was brought against his, Sara knew.
He loved her. The words may never leave his mouth, but it mattered not. She would say it enough for both of them.
She pressed her cheek to his chest, relishing in the warmth of his skin as he held her close.
Justin. She belonged to him. This beautiful, warm, intelligent man who might’ve been her enemy had they met under different circumstances. He owned every bit of her. Heart, body and soul. And oh, how every one of those fragile pieces longed for him. Even as close as they were now, with only a fragment of soft fabric between them, it wasn’t enough.
She needed him. Wanted him.
“Justin,” she whispered, and he buried his lips in her hair. His breath, warm and inviting, fanned the tiny curls framing her face, tickled her sensitive skin.
“You don’t want Cavanaugh.”
The words sounded almost ridiculous now, the point moot. “No,” she whispered, and when his fingers touched her chin, tipping her face their gazes met, “I only want you.”
Relief. Liberation. Amazing how words, so few, so minute, could change his expression from uncertainty to ... freedom. He pressed his lips to her forehead, and Sara flattened her palms to his chest, waiting.
“Good.” His lips brushed her temple, her cheek, burning every inch of skin lazily traveled, and when his mouth paused over hers, Sara felt every nerve in her body ignite.
His lips touched hers in the softest caress. “Good.”
And before Sara could ask if that’s all he had to say, if her rejection to Cav’s proposal was merely plain, ordinary good, his arms tightened around her and with a fierce growl, he said, “Because he cannot have you.”
The whimper had barely left Sara’s throat before her mouth was covered with his. Desire swept through her, claimed every inch of her body. This is what love felt like, to love and be loved. How could she have even entertained the thought of marrying someone else? She needed this man. As sure as life itself, she needed him. Reaching up, she splayed her hands over the back of his neck, and brought him closer.
Their tongues met, tangled. Justin whispered her name over and over, his breath hot against her cheeks. In the inner depths of her mind, Sara wondered if it would always be this way. If kissing him, feeling his hands spread like irons at the small of her back, would always cause her legs to grow this weak, her insides to burn this hot.
It felt like nothing and everything, all at once.
“Sara.” His lips drifted from her mouth to her cheek to her ear. He nipped gently at the lobe. “I need you.”
“Oh.” Her breath caught in her throat as his mouth meandered down the line of her neck. Gooseflesh covered her delicate skin, soothed only by the gentle strokes of his hands, which had, at some point, stolen underneath her blanket.
“You’re so soft.”
His hand glided down her back, and up her side to cup her breast. “So smooth.” His head bent, and Sara gasped as his mouth closed over her hardened nipple.
The sensation sent darts of pleasure to her core, shot warmth down into her belly and in between her thighs. He’d done this before, only a few days ago to be exact, but this time... this time it was different. She was naked, the quilted coverlet having fallen to her feet, and his hands were everywhere, stroking her, caressing her.
“Mo mhúirnín bán.” The words scorched her skin as he kissed a trail along the underside of her breast.
“My fair darling,” she translated, breath bated, dimly wondering when he’d learned Gaelic.
“Mmm.” His hands curved over her bottom. In a gentle motion, he brought her body flush against his. The hard jut of his erection burned hot against her belly.
Sara swallowed anxiously as he dipped his head and brushed another kiss to her lips. “Ba bhreá liom suirí a dhéanamh leat, Sara,” he murmured, and oh, his voice sounded so alluring, so deliciously male Sara’s body arched into him of its own accord.
“I want ...” Her pulse throbbed madly beneath the weight of his mouth. “I want to ...” Fingers digging into his upper arms, she struggled to maintain equilibrium. His hands were kneading her bottom, rocking her rhythmically, deliberately against his hardness. And it felt wonderful. Sweet. Erotic.
She didn’t think she could bear this much longer, this yearning to be taken by him. To be loved in the most intimate way imaginable. Wildly she scrambled to grip his shoulders, praying he would do something ... anything to end her torment.
“I want,” he repeated, breathlessly as she had. “Tell me, Sara. Tell me what you want.”
She couldn’t. She just couldn’t. Even in her wanton condition, it was too scandalous.
“Shall I say it?” He sucked the tender skin beneath the slant of her jaw, ran his tongue in hot path to her ear. “I want to make love to you, Sara.”
Before she could protest or concede or whatever it was she should’ve said in response to his lascivious admission, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room. She planted kisses on his neck, nibbled playfully beneath his jaw, where the faintest hint of an evening beard roughened the surface. The scent of him, spicy and virile, danced through her nostrils. She wanted him, and as he laid her down on the feather mattress, his eyes meeting hers with the intensity of a prowling lion, she was certain he knew it.
Because his eyes glowed with the same countenance screaming through every vein in her body.
“Justin?” Her cheeks burned; the hairs at the back of her neck prickled. He looked so confident, and yet she was so-- “I don’t ...” Nervous.
“What is it, sweet?” He stretched his long body beside hers, and Sara swallowed convulsively, her gaze wandering from his chest to his taut stomach to...
“I fear I do not know ...” There was no way this was going to work. He was much larger than she, and-- “That is, I know very little about these matters.”
“Did Mrs. Brennan never speak to you about the intimacies between a man and his wife?”
“Of course,” she said at once, and his brows lifted. “That is, she told me a little.” Her eyes drifted down the striated lines of his body once more. I seemed to have missed the part about proportions...
“Ah,” he said after a moment. “You are worried we won’t suit. Is that it?”
Absently, she nodded. But Justin was laughing, a deep masculine sound that made her belly feel warm and her limbs, tingly.
He reached for her, cradled her against his body. Pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “Trust me, kitten.” His hand roamed over her hip, followed the sleek, creamy path to her thigh. “We’ll suit.”
And then he was kissing her, his lips firm and demanding, and Sara lost all coherent thought but for the sensuous spell he masterfully wove. The hand he had resting on her thigh grew restless, exploring her knees, her calves, and up again to the gentle lee between her legs. And all the while his lips moved down, down, worshipping her neck, her breasts, her belly and--
“Justin!” She rose to her elbows.
He lifted his head. His eyes, nearly black with passion, met hers. “My lady?”
“What are you doing?” Her stomach, beaded with tiny droplets of sweat, rose and fell with every labored breath.
A languid smile curved his mouth. He bent his head and brushed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Making love to you, my lady.” His tongue traced a small circle where his lips had been a moment ago.
“But you can’t ... you can’t do that. Not there.”
“No?” Another kiss, another sweep of his tongue.
Sara shook her head frantically.
One last brush of his lips, and he conceded. “Another time, then.”
She opened her mouth to question the reference, but he was moving up her body, dropping kisses to her belly and through the delicate vale between her breasts. Lolling her head back against the pillows, Sara moaned incoherently, reveling in the warmth of his hands as he massaged her breasts, the erotic sensation of his mouth as he kissed her neck. And when Justin settled his body in the feminine cradle between her thighs, her body arched in submissive response.
She was ready.
She had to be.
He slipped a hand between their bodies, and in the next moment, Sara felt the hard pressure of him at her entrance. Uncertain what to do, she held still.
“I’ve been told,” he murmured close to her ear, “this may be uncomfortable for you the first time.”
“I don’t care.” And she didn’t, she realized. This ache had to be satisfied, and if the only way to do it was to bear through a bit of pain, well, she would soldier through.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, arched against him in silent invitation. “Please, Justin,” she breathed. “Love me. Please.”
A cry, followed by a sobbing moan, peeled from Sara’s throat as Justin took her mouth in a hard kiss and thrust forward.
Sara froze, her fingers digging into Justin’s shoulders. Pain ensued. Stinging, pinching. Then liquid warmth. Dutifully she braced herself, feeling her body work and stretch to accommodate his persuasive intrusion.
She couldn’t help it. Tears pricked her eyes. Even as Justin lay perfectly still, whispering tender words against her lips.
“Ah, God, Sara. I am sorry. So sorry.” His lips brushed hers slowly, softly, while the tight place where they were joined clenched and throbbed. “It is only after the first time. I promise it will not hurt like this again.”
“It’s ... it’s not that bad. In fact--” She wriggled a little, adjusted herself beneath him. “Perhaps if you were to move.”
He did. A slow withdraw, followed by an easy, painless thrust. Pleasure, hot and consuming, spread through her, raced into all her extremities. His hands slid under her bottom, closed every last inch of space between them, and Sara moaned.
Instinctively she moved with him, rising to meet his slow, thrusting rhythm. The pain had long since subsided, replaced by an aching need that kept building with every calculated push. Surely no one could make it through this and live. Her insides were on fire, stoked by the weight of his body and the sweet brushes of nuzzling kisses to her neck.
And then all at once, her muscles tightened, and he must’ve sensed it because his rhythm quickened. Waves of pleasure crashed through her body, lapped at her thighs, sent tingles into the oddest places: her toes, her fingertips, her breasts. He pushed forward again, and with a primal groan, his body shuddered and his muscles contracted.
For several seconds they merely lay there, limbs tangled, breaths coming in shallow pants. Sara ran her fingers down his back. Traced tiny circles over the strands of sinewy muscle. She loved the feel of him, adored every curve, every crevice, and when he raised his head, gazing down upon her with passion-dark eyes, she couldn’t help but smile.
“Tá grá agam duit, Sara,” he murmured, and laid a gentle kiss on her lips.
Heart swelling inside her chest, Sara reached up and brushed a lock of silky hair away from his eyes. “And I love you,” she whispered, her added sentiment of always dwindling into an unintelligible moan as his mouth took hers yet again.
TWENTY-FIVE
The irony of it, Justin realized some time later, as he was holding his soon-to-be wife in his arms, was he and Sara had wasted so many years of their lives simply not knowing.
But then, how could they have?
She had been in Ireland, and he had been here, living the debauched life of a man with healthy appetites. They would’ve gotten on well as children, he allowed, as both held affection for sports and horses. But then what? The marriage contract would have eventually imposed a problem when Justin went off to university, where lascivious behavior among gentleman was accepted as standard practice.
So, perhaps the timing really had been right.
Justin raked the back of his knuckles down Sara’s arm, over the creamy curve of her hip. She slept soundly, his lovely lady, her long black lashes resting across the crescents of her cheekbones, her delectably swollen pout parted just enough to make his groin stir. A fan of black silken tresses lay draped over his arm where her head rested, and Justin had to tamp down the urge to plunge his hands through it. To toss her head back and devour her neck as he buried himself inside her again and again.
The thought of it almost made him chuckle.
Almost. Sara would be hard-pressed to keep him at bay once they were married. Even now the burgeoning desire to awaken and take her was damn well killing him.
They had made love twice more, the last exertive union leaving their bodies humming and sweaty in the blissful aftermath. Lovemaking had never felt this good, this complete. Side by side they’d laid, breath heaving in and out of their chests. Even then, Justin couldn’t stop himself from touching her, from running his index finger in soft sweeps up and down her thigh. She was perfect, Sara was. And she was made for him. Of that, he was convinced.
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