Gracefully, he drew her to her feet and then onto his lap, astraddle his thighs. Lydia's breath quickened as he brought down her bodice again.
“So beautiful,” he said, meeting her eyes. While she stared back at him, mesmerized, he reached out, dipped a finger in the sauce topping the remains of their brandy cake. He touched the sugary substance to her nipple, then bent to lick it away at his leisure.
Lydia tried to wait—she always tried to wait—but this new game sent fire rushing through her veins. She cried out, flinging back her head like a mare calling to her stallion, and clutched Brigham's shoulders. Her legs stiffened on either side of his lap. “Brigham,” she whimpered.
He put sauce on her other breast, enjoyed it slowly and thoroughly.
By then Lydia was bouncing shamelessly against his thighs. Brigham slid his hands beneath her gown, grasping her bottom with one, stroking the inside of her thigh with the other. When, without warning, he gave her his finger in a sudden, fiery thrust, she came unwrapped like wire wound too tightly around the spool. Brigham sucked noisily at her breast while she convulsed around his finger, knowing all the while that the night's lovemaking had just begun.
He held her close when the first bout was over, his arms tight around her, his shoulder strong and warm under her cheek. He stroked her and spoke to her soothingly until she was calm again, until her breathing had evened out and her heartbeat had slowed to its normal pace.
She sighed when he carried her to the bed and arranged her there, trembled as he spread her legs wide apart and burrowed in between them to tease her with his tongue. As always, she begged for appeasement; as always, he granted her requests, though he took her through every note of a grand symphony before letting her soar on the crescendo.
Brigham quieted Lydia again, when she'd ceased trembling and the heat of the fire had dried the perspiration from her skin. She cherished those tender times, just as she did the peaks of ecstasy, and wished the night would never end.
He gave her a long, searching kiss when he was ready to put her through the last sweet paces of passion—at some point, he'd gotten rid of his own clothes—then turned her onto her hands and knees in front of him. Lydia gasped in weary delight; the pleasure was always keenest when Brigham took her like this, his hands cupping her breasts while he delved deep into the caressing warmth of her femininity.
The first long, slow stroke was Lydia's undoing. She shuddered violently against Brigham, sobbing with the splendor of her release, only to find that each subsequent sheathing of Brigham's sword set her off all over again. Finally, mercifully, when she was certain she would swoon if her body responded even once more, Brigham lunged deep and stiffened, moaning her name as he spilled his seed into her.
They collapsed, entwined, struggling for breath, and lay spent, watching the snow waft past the windows. It would be a cold night, but within that room, there was only warmth for Brigham Quade and his Yankee wife.
Yankee Wife Page 35