If I had any lingering concerns about my husband’s complete recovery from the wounds he suffered, they’re quickly banished. With no hint of effort, he carries me up the massive, curving staircase and down a lushly carpeted hallway. Setting me down finally, Ian opens double doors set with inlays of rosewood, mahogany, and walnut in the fan shape of seashells. He stands aside for me to enter.
The bedroom is large and gracious. High doors lead out onto a balcony above the garden. The walls are pleated in golden silk below a frescoed ceiling. But all I can really see is the bed. It is immense, not so much a piece of furniture as a structure that dominates its surroundings.
At each of its four corners, Corinthian columns rise to a domed and gilded canopy that must be fifteen feet high and looks uncannily like a crown meant to be set on the head of an empress. The canopy and columns are lavishly covered in gold ormolu and the deep red of vermilion glaze. Vermilion velvet and silk hangings shot through with gold fall gracefully from tasseled valences heavily embroidered in gilt thread. Between those hangings, the flat surface of the bed with its white damask sheets looks like an altar for sacrifice to the goddess of love whose temple this must surely be.
Ian and I have certainly treated it as such. My entire body flushes as I remember the unbridled lust and passion we have shared in that bed.
“Is this all right?” Ian says quietly. “If you’d prefer a different room--”
“No, it’s fine.” I hasten to reassure him. Despite how far we’ve come, I know that he still feels remorse for not treating me with greater gentleness and restraint when we first met. For my part, I have no such regrets and can only hope that this time we have alone together will put his to rest once and for all.
“Do you want to freshen up?” he asks.
The golden bedroom suite includes a well-appointed bath beside the dressing room that, I see with a glance, still contains a full wardrobe for me but now shares space with Ian’s clothing. We didn’t bother to bring any luggage with us because everything we could possibly need is already here. Besides, I don’t intend to spend much time more than partially dressed, if that.
“A shower would be nice,” I say. “Provided that I don’t have to take it alone.”
He laughs, a carefree sound that I long to hear more often. “Let’s get you out of that dress.”
I’m only too happy to comply but long moments later, Ian groans. “You chose this deliberately, didn’t you?” His hands move along the curve of my spine as he struggles to undo the remaining buttons. The backs of his fingers brush my skin, sending irresistible tingles of pleasure through me.
I shrug with considerably more casualness than I’m feeling. “I thought you approved of self-restraint.”
His breath is suddenly warm against the hollow between my neck and shoulder. I feel his lips, his tongue…a shiver runs through me. Abruptly, his teeth graze my skin, biting sharply enough to make me start.
“What I approve of, Mrs. Slade, is getting you naked, right now.”
Yet despite that, he refrains from the obvious solution. Rather than simply tear the dress, Ian persists, slowly undoing each and every button until I’m squirming under his touch, longing for him to be done. When at last the dress falls open, I pull it off and step out of it quickly. With my panties gone, I’m left in a silk-and-lace ecru bustier that scarcely covers my nipples, the thigh-highs and my heels. Apart from that, I’m naked.
“Turn around,” my husband says. His voice is low and husky.
I obey and dare a peek at him through the fringe of my lashes. His beautiful features are taut, his eyes so dilated as to be almost black. As I watch, he quickly removes his shoes and socks.
Straightening, he meets my frankly carnal stare and smiles. “Undress me.”
My hands are shaking a little but I manage. As I unbutton his shirt and spread it open, the sight of his powerful chest--lithe, muscular, rippling with strength--makes me clench deep inside. He’s so perfectly formed from the broad sweep of his shoulders to the tapering V of muscle that inevitably draws my eyes to the trail of dark, silky hair below his naval.
I’m scarcely breathing as I undo his belt and unfasten his trousers. Slowly I tug them down along with his briefs. As I do so, I lower myself in front of him until I’m kneeling. Really, his recuperative powers are amazing. He’s already hard again.
Giving into overwhelming temptation, I lean forward, flatten my tongue, and slowly stroke first up, then down his full length before swirling the tip around his crest. I can taste the traces of us both mingling on him.
Abruptly, Ian’s hands close on my shoulders. “Keep that up and in two minutes you’ll be bent over the foot of that bed being fucked harder than you ever have been.”
Still licking, I look up at him through my lashes and murmur, “Sounds like a plan.”
“Maybe for later,” he says with a low groan and hauls me upright. The back of his knuckles skim my breasts where they swell above the edge of the bustier.
“I like this,” he says before turning me so that my back is pressed to his chest. His arms reach around me, his fingers slipping beneath the rim of lace and silk, first stroking, then pinching my nipples.
A soft, needy cry breaks from me.
“You’re so responsive,” Ian says as he swiftly undoes the row of hooks holding the bustier in place. As it falls forward, I catch it in my hands and turn again to face him.
“Let it go,” he says.
A wave of self-consciousness sweeps over me. On the face of it, that’s absurd. This is my husband, the man with whom I have experienced not only the most intense physical intimacy but true emotional closeness. We’ve shared our deepest secrets and fears, and helped each other move past them.
Yet I have a sense in this moment, surrounded by the golden bedroom and the memories it holds, that I am baring myself to him in a way I have never done before. Because the distractions of the outside world are absent? Because we are embarking on a new life, our life together? I don’t know the answer but the sensation is inescapable.
He raises an eyebrow and I realize that I’m still holding the bustier, a frilly and entirely ridiculous shield, before me. I take a breath and let the garment go.
My shoulders straighten. Not for a moment will I let him see how abashed I suddenly feel.
Ian’s eyes move over me and return to meet my own. The heat in his is scorching.
“You are so beautiful,” he says with a note of awe. It fills me with pride even as I’m humbled by the effect I have on this astonishing man.
Softly, he adds, “I can hardly dare to believe that you’re mine.” His fingers trail a path down the curve of my cheek, along my throat, and lightly over my breast, brushing my nipple.
“You present something of a problem, Mrs. Slade.”
“A problem? Why--?” My voice catches.
His finger continues circling my nipple, the touch is almost leisurely yet so potent that I feel it at the core of my being.
“Because,” he says, “I’m caught between wanting to cherish and protect you versus…”
His eyes go smoky, hinting at wildfires raging behind them.
“Versus what?” I murmur.
“Let’s just say that you have the starring role in every one of my fantasies.” He leans closer, his breath brushing the shell of my ear. “And I think some of them would shock you, even now.”
“T-they would?” I stutter in surprise. Just what does he have in mind? I’m not sure that my imagination can stretch that far. Although it’s certainly more than willing to try.
But for the moment…
“Take off your shoes,” he says.
I obey and am rewarded when he drops a light kiss on my lips before slowly moving down the length of my body until finally he is kneeling at my feet. The sight of this proud, indomitable man in that position takes my breath away.
I’m shaking with need, afraid that my legs won’t hold, as he tucks his fingers beneath the lacy edge of one of
my thigh highs, kisses the tender flesh just above it, and carefully peels the stocking down my leg and off. The other follows slowly enough that before he’s done, I’m quaking all over.
Looking up at me with blazing amber eyes, he says, “I want to taste every inch of you.” The tip of his tongue glides over his lips in anticipation.
With agile grace, he gets to his feet, his hands skimming over my body from my ankles upward as though he can’t bear to interrupt our skin-to-skin contact. His fingers splay over my thighs, his thumbs pushing between them to part my sex and stroke me.
A ripple of almost unbearable pleasure begins just above where he is touching and blossoms outward into every cell of my body. Incredibly despite my recent orgasm, I already feel as though I’m about to come again.
The experience of being so acutely sensitive to him makes me feel stripped bare not merely physically but in every possible way. Instinctively, I grasp at a little space for myself, a moment in which to recover some scrap of equilibrium.
I turn quickly toward the bathroom. Ian is bigger, faster, and far more used to asserting himself physically than I am. That being the case, I’m not above getting any edge that I can, including a head start.
“Race you to the shower,” I say and sprint for it.
I reach the spacious ivory-and-vermilion bathroom first. Bypassing the sunken tub where I’m looking forward to a long, hot soak later, I open the glass door to the large shower. Steaming water gushes instantly from half-a-dozen strategically placed jets. I step under them and groan softly as muscles I hadn’t realized were knotted begin to unclench.
Ian saunters in a moment later and joins me. He tilts his face up to one of the jets and closes his eyes as the water runs over him. I stare at him unabashedly, still marveling that after everything we have been through, he is here with me.
At the thought of how close all of this came to not happening, my throat tightens. He came so close to dying… That the man responsible for that is now dead himself doesn’t erase the terror and dread that etched themselves into my soul. I still blame myself for Ian being in such danger to start with.
The combination of painful memory and lingering guilt proves to be too much. Tears mingle suddenly with the water on my cheeks. I turn my head away, struggling to get myself under control before Ian sees. But it’s already too late.
“Amelia, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
His concern is instant and intense. Before I can search for an answer that I don’t really have, he gathers me to him. Nestled against his chest, within the protective circle of his arms, I give into the emotions that I have held at bay for too long. Finally, I’m safe and secure enough to confront them.
I haven’t cried in weeks, not since the darkest days when I feared that he wouldn’t survive the attack that almost took his life. Even after the nightmarish events at our engagement party, I didn’t shed a tear.
In their aftermath, I remained perfectly calm, at least outwardly, as my grandmother, and Ian’s mother and sister hurried me away from the shocked eyes of our guests. In the privacy of my bedroom, they removed my blood-soaked dress and washed the blood from my exposed skin. Through it all, I didn’t experience a flicker of remorse or sorrow for what I had done. I still don’t.
Yet now the tears won’t stop. “It’s all right,” Ian croons softly as he strokes my back. “Let it out. You’ve been so strong, so brave but you can’t keep it bottled up inside forever.”
Says the man who kept his own demons repressed for years until he finally found the means to confront and defeat them. The means I provided simply by accepting and loving him. But then who would know better than Ian the cost of such self-repression.
I’ve had my own nightmares to deal with and the truth is that I’ve been able to do so only thanks to him. We’ve helped each other through the worst. I know he can help me now and I have a sense of how much he wants to.
It’s there in every gentle, soothing touch of his hands. In his quiet, patient strength. In the way he murmurs my name again and again as he kisses away my tears. Until finally they stop.
I wipe away the last of them myself and look up at him. “I’m sorry.”
His face changes, going from concerned to something much darker. “Don’t ever say that. Never apologize for your feelings and above all, never withhold them from me.”
From another man, or any person, I would find that unbearably intrusive. But I accept it from Ian without reservation. We’re where we are today because we’ve had the courage to be honest with each other. No sense of personal privacy is worth putting that at risk.
“I won’t,” I say, looking up at him. The words are a promise as binding as the vows I spoke a few hours ago.
His expression softens but that’s the only part of him that does so. His erection brushes against my thigh, hard, firm, tantalizing.
I move against him, unabashed in my need. “I want you, husband.”
In the aftermath of my storm of tears, his eyes are watchful. “And you’ll have me but not quite yet. First--”
He puts his hand under a sensor embedded in the marble wall of the shower and collects a palm-full of jasmine scented body wash.
“First,” he says as he spreads the fragrant gel between his hands, “I’m going to wash every inch of you.” His fingers trail over both sides of my throat, down along my collarbones toward my swollen, aching breasts. The tips swirl around my hardened nipples before tugging lightly.
Leaning closer, he says, “Then I’m going to make you come on my hand. After that…we’ll see.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
After that, when I’m slumped limp and dazed against the wall of the shower, Ian washes himself. He takes his time, enjoying watching me watching him. When his hand closes around the length of his cock and moves back and forth with leisurely strokes, I moan. I realize that he’s fully recovered from his injuries, in peak condition, and that our libidos are extremely compatible. But still, his stamina is astounding.
It lasts until we’re out of the shower, toweled dry, and back in the bedroom. I eye the foot of the bed and remember what he said earlier. But Ian has other ideas.
“It’s our wedding night,” he says. “I want to take my time and savor my beloved wife.”
I have some experience being savored by Ian. Memories tumble through my mind, including the night during Carnival when he set out to discover how many times he could make me come. As I recall, he insisted on feeding me first, before subjecting me to the most wildly erotic experience of my life.
Or one of them at least. So far.
“I love the sound of that,” I say, just a little nervously. “But maybe we should have supper first? To keep up our strength?” Still, I can’t resist another quick look toward the foot of the bed.
He laughs and glances down at his cock straining from the nest of dark curls at his groin. “Well, in that case--”
He moves so swiftly--an arm wrapped around my waist, a quick step forward, turning me at the same time, a hand on the nape of my neck and another on my belly, positioning me and suddenly--
“Purely in the interest of us both being comfortable enough to actually eat,” he says.
I’m bent over the foot of the bed, just as he promised. Smooth, cool silk cushions my cheek. His heavily muscled thigh pushes between mine, widening my stance until my legs are spread far enough to satisfy him. The tip of his cock nudges my sex open.
I might resent his easy, even sometimes arrogant handling of my body if I weren’t honest enough to admit how much I enjoy it.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, his chest brushing against my back. “Otherwise we stop right now and just have supper.”
“Don’t stop,” I murmur, my hands gripping the damask sheets. Even after my tears in the shower, the tension and stress of the weeks before our wedding still linger, coiled painfully within me. I’m desperate to exorcise them.
“Please, don’t stop!”
He grunts low in his th
roat but instead of surging into me, he still goes slowly, feeding me his cock inch by inch. My pussy spasms, trying to grasp him and draw him in more quickly but he’s having none of that.
A sharp, stinging slap to my ass makes me gasp. “Patience, I want this to be good for you.”
Good? Is he insane? It’s never been anything other than beyond great. If I could manage to speak, I’d tell him that. But all I can do is moan as he thrusts a little way farther into me, withdraws almost completely, and does the same again, over and over, until I’m writhing in carnal, animalistic need. My sex is swollen, so slick that I can feel my own juices running down the inside of my thighs. I’ve reached a peak of arousal so great that pain and pleasure are becoming indistinguishable.
Finally, I only just manage to draw a breath and cry out, “Harder!”
He grunts again and arches over me, his teeth grazing the nape of my neck. “Is that how you want it? Are you sure?”
“Yes! Oh, god, yes!”
“Promise me something,” he demands.
He wants to bargain? Now! “Anything, only please--!”
His cock drives deep, stretching and filling me, and almost at once is gone again. I sob with emptiness.
“Later, anything I want, anyway I want it. Yes?” he asks.
Anything? Anyway? My mind reels. With Ian, there’s no telling what that could mean.
“Yes, yes, please!”
His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging in hard. I revel in his strength and power as my own rises in response, meeting every thrust of his body with my own, drawing him ever deeper until finally the pleasure becomes unbearable and I let go, unraveling in an explosion of incandescent release.
Ian follows quickly, his cock pulsing deep inside me again and again until, finally, he
slumps over me, driving us both down onto the bed. We lie there sprawled, our hearts pounding together. His weight holds me trapped under him but I don’t care. I love how he feels, how he makes me feel, how we are together.
Anew: The Epilogue Page 2