He hadn’t said the words, but she hadn’t, and still didn’t, expect him to. He wasn’t the sort of gentleman given to flowery phrases, to poetry and the like; passionately declaring “I love you” aloud just wasn’t him.
She’d known and accepted that, so she’d looked for other, more certain signs—actions, his reactions—and found them. Or so she’d thought.
Over the last days, away from his presence and plagued by uncertainty, she’d relived all the moments they’d shared in the summerhouse and elsewhere, all she’d seen and learned of him, and still wasn’t sure; she’d ended with a headache and an upset stomach.
But she couldn’t step back from the altar, not now. She’d accepted his proposal, agreed to be his wife, and the whole world knew it.
And marrying him might be the right thing to do. Perhaps seeing her decision through was the aspect Madame Garnaut had referred to as “complicated”?
The manor came into sight; Sarah looked at the house, and sighed. From tomorrow it would no longer be her home.
Perhaps all brides felt this unsure?
10
Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t sleep. Donning her old gown, Sarah slipped out of the house, reflecting that this time, her prepared excuse—that, unable to sleep, she’d decided on a walk in the gardens—was true. She and Charlie had made no arrangements to meet to night; tradition held that they shouldn’t meet again until they came together before the altar.
Tomorrow, at noon, she’d become his wife. A suffocating sense of uncertainty swamped her. She tried to put the entire subject from her mind, tried to focus on the here and now, on the gardens in the dark, on the still chill of the night, on the shadows that appeared denser and more encroaching in the weak illumination of the waning moon, yet her feet took her, unresisting, to the path along the stream, to the weir and the summer house.
The white structure appeared solid and stark against the dark backdrop of the trees. Perhaps there she would find reassurance, some lingering trace of what her memories insisted had been present, would still be present, between her and Charlie.
Walking to the steps, she went up, stepped into the dimness, and saw him. Seated on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, hands loosely clasped between his knees, he looked at her through the shadows; she felt his gaze, hot and wanting, instantaneously heating.
She paused, then slowly, deliberately, walked to him.
Charlie straightened as she neared. He hadn’t expected her; for one instant when she’d stood on the threshold limned in faint moonlight, he’d wondered whether his mind was playing tricks and she was a phantom, a figment of his dreams.
But it was no specter who halted before him. His gaze on her face, he reached and took her hand, felt the delicate bones between his fingers.
Through the dimness, she met his gaze. He tensed to rise, but, moving with steady deliberation, she placed her free hand on his shoulder and held him back, then she stooped and kissed him.
He kissed her back, not as ravenously as he wished but as he sensed she wanted. Hungrily yet not hurriedly, taking time to explore anew, to taste, to savor. For long moments they communed with lips and mouths and stroking tongues, with wanting and heated yearning on display, openly acknowledged, yet for the moment held at bay.
Familiar, yet different. The desire, the hunger, the passion were there, ready to flare at their call, yet, it seemed, that wasn’t all they had to share.
Her hand on his shoulder gripped, pushed; obediently he leaned back until his shoulders met the back of the sofa. She followed, not ready to break their kiss, then she released his shoulder and raised her skirts so she could place first one knee, then the other, alongside his thighs, nudging them closer together. Then she sat, flicked her fingers free of his as she slid slowly, languorously, closer, and brazenly straddled him.
As she had once before, but again, this time was different. This time, as he raised his hands and closed them on her sides, long fingers flexing over her supple back, feeling her body between his hands again, so alive, so much his, he felt that other emotion, the one he couldn’t name, rise through him, effortlessly claiming him, submersing him in need of a different sort, a need wholly and completely focused on her.
On her wants, which she made abundantly clear through her slow, thorough and determined kiss. He sat back, content to let her lead, not passive—he could never be that—but prepared to let her script the scene; she was no longer truly innocent, and it was patently clear, as her hands rose between them and she undid the buttons closing his shirt, that this time she knew what she wanted.
As she spread the halves of his shirt wide, then laid her hands on his chest, small feminine palms to his heated skin, the only thought in his brain was to appease her, to give her all she wanted, every last little thing.
So he let her play as she wished, let her explore his chest, held his reaction, powerful and primitive though it was, in check, even when she discovered his nipples under the light pelt of hair, and tweaked.
He jerked; it felt as if she’d twanged every sexual tendon he possessed. Even through the kiss he sensed her smile, sensed the warm glow of her satisfaction. Mentally gritting his teeth, he suppressed the instinctive urge to react, to pay her back and take control, and waited.
Her hands skated over his chest, then lower. Through the kiss, he tracked her responses; focused wholly on her, he sensed she was filling her mind with him, and some dark part of his being exulted.
He followed the slow, inexorable rise of her passion; for once he made no move to drive it, to actively evoke it. Instead, fascinated, he watched it burgeon and grow of its own accord, simply because she was there, in his arms, and he was in hers.
Only when she grew restless and needy did he let his hands slide up and around and close them over her breasts. She gasped, lightly arched, and it was her turn to actively encourage—one of her hands rose to close over the back of one of his, urging him on. Smiling, knowing she would sense it with her lips on his, he complied, deftly undoing the now very familiar buttons, opening her bodice enough to slide his hand beneath, with a quick tug and a sliding caress to dispense with the barrier of her chemise, and close his hand about her swollen breast.
Just the touch made him ache.
It made Sarah burn. Made her feel not frantic as it had before, but fully aware of the fierceness of her desire. Of its strength, of the passion that flowed from it, of the flames of need that now burned steadily in her veins.
His fingers shifted, both hands now cradling her breasts, fingertips finding and tightening about the aching peaks. She broke the kiss on a gasp, grabbed his shoulders for balance as she tipped her head back, struggling to breathe while simultaneously absorbing, savoring, and reveling in the plea sure he gave her.
Unstintingly gave her; she let her senses whirl, deliberately letting go and glorying in the delicious delight as he bent his head and set his lips to her sensitive flesh. She shuddered when he licked, then tortured one tightly furled nipple; when he drew it deep and suckled, she moaned.
Her hands closed about his head, fingers splayed and spread in his hair as he pandered to her senses. As she wanted, as she wished.
Until she was burning so strongly, so passionately, her inner self would no longer be denied. She grasped his face and drew his head up, leaned into him and kissed him, met his lips, found his tongue with hers and stroked.
And felt the ripple of pure desire that coursed beneath his skin, the tensing, the readiness, the eagerness, the hunger locked in muscles that had turned to rigid steel. Beneath the heat, the licking, tantalizing flames, she sensed just how potent, how powerful was the passion he held leashed, at her command. His control was there, unwavering and complete, but it wasn’t her he was controlling. And it was she who held his reins.
Joy flooded her, an emotional exultation that had her mentally gasping, that had her heart singing. Her lips on his, his mouth all hers, she reached between them and grappled with the buttons cl
osing his breeches. He helped, shifting beneath her, but didn’t take over. He let her free his staff, let her close her hand about it and stroke.
And make him shudder.
Her fingers curled about him, she did as she wished, and sought for the ways in which to plea sure him. Experimented, not in a rush, a few seconds seized before he took control, but deliberately and wantonly held him in her palm, and caressed, and learned…and felt his control quake.
She didn’t stop but pressed on, pressed him on until she sensed he was struggling to hold on to that control, fighting, his breathing ragged. Wrapping her fingers about his rigid length, hot silk stretched over iron, she shuffled closer still, pushing her knees deep into the cushions past his hips, plucking her skirts from between them, positioning herself over him, guiding him…she thought it would work.
Mentally reeling, driven beyond any point of sensual desperation he’d previously reached, Charlie released her breasts, closed his hands about her knees, then swept up the line of her quivering thighs to seize her hips. Felt her scalding slickness brush the engorged head of his erection.
Felt the pent-up passions within him roar.
He drew her down, nudged into her tight sheath, tightened his grip on her hips—
She broke from the kiss on a gasp, head rising, spine instinctively arching. “No—let me!”
It was a cry from the heart; soft, intensely female, it rocked him to his core. His fingers tensed, bit into her flesh; his jaw clenched, ached as he battled to halt the all but ungovernable urge to pull her down and thrust upward and impale her.
He was entirely certain he was no longer in this world. He couldn’t focus, not on anything beyond the need to be inside her…but then she touched his cheek, leaned in and kissed him softly, gently. Her other hand was locked around one of his wrists; using that to steady herself, she lowered herself upon him.
And he discovered there was so much more to lovemaking than he’d experienced before.
That her giving, rather than him taking, was the true mea sure of earthly bliss.
Bit by bit, inch by inch, she enclosed him, sank lower and engulfed him in her body, and showed him a new road to paradise.
His chest was locked; breathing was beyond him as on a tight exhalation she sank the last inch. And paused. Carefully, experimentally, he eased the taut leash he’d jerked so ruthlessly to harness his baser self, and discovered that self swooning.
With plea sure.
Ready to lie down and let her ravish him.
She was monitoring, discovering, learning as he did; through their kiss, she seemed to sense both his wonder and his unformed wish. As his grip on her eased, she relaxed a fraction, then rose a little way before sinking down again.
He let her set the pace for long enough to catch his breath, then when she sank down again, he thrust upward and filled her.
Sarah gasped, stilled for a moment to savor the fullness of him, the physical reality of having him so deep inside her, then she rose again, again used the intimate slide of their bodies to plea sure him, and herself.
The link between them had grown stronger. She felt it now in every touch of his hands, investing every kiss be it driven or gentle. It was there in the way he forced himself to accept the slow pace she set, so that she could savor every step of the way, savor every nuance not just of their joining but of his commitment to her plea sure, to her need. There in the way he stood firm against his own desires, with every muscle in his body screaming for a much more active and immediate release.
He fought, and held to that line, to give her what she wished.
Charlie was conscious of every second of that battle; he knew she was, too. Knew she saw and followed, that she was aware of his devotion to her needs, that she appreciated every iota of the strength he wielded for her.
That alone made it worthwhile. Made the moment shimmer with emotion, and gave him the strength to hold to that road when his passions rose to near ungovernable heights.
It was worth the battle to restrain them to hear her increasingly ragged gasps, to feel the desperation mount within her and know it wasn’t him driving, wasn’t him orchestrating and controlling her that made her so.
As they moved together, her riding him, him thrusting just enough to appease them both, to let passion flow unimpeded on its course, as the familiar landscape of sexual delight flowered around them, as passion wound through them and tightened its snare, he was distantly aware of how different the familiar was.
How much more layered with feeling, with meaning. With emotion.
The end, when it came, was an implosion of sensation, finer, sharper, reaching more deeply than any such moment before.
With a cry, high, triumphant, and primally female, she shattered in his arms; the contractions of her sheath caught him, drew him on. Release swept him, and he cried her name, held her down, his grip unforgiving as he shuddered beneath her.
She collapsed upon him, into his arms. He closed them around her; eyes shut, he rested his cheek against her hair. And gave thanks that he’d lived to experience the glory she’d shown him, and the wonder they’d just shared.
Different. With her it was always so different, so familiar yet so rarely what he expected.
Slumped on the sofa with Sarah a warm and deeply sated bundle of female limbs and curves in his arms, Charlie stared at the dim ceiling of the summer house and let his mind find its way back to the world.
A world wherein, thanks to her, the landscape was changing. Again.
He puzzled over what had made this time so different from the last. Perhaps it was simply that she’d made her decision and had already agreed to be his, so having gotten what he’d wanted he hadn’t had any driving motive other than to enjoy her.
That was true enough. He hadn’t come to the summer house expecting to meet her; he’d been driven here purely by a nebulous feeling that, as he couldn’t sleep, this was the place he should be. Here, waiting, in case…
In case she’d needed him. In case she’d come, searching, for what he didn’t know, but she had come. And she had needed.
Him. Something he could give her.
He wasn’t, even now, at all sure what that something was. But he’d sensed her need and had responded, as some part of him now claimed the right, the honor, to do. As it had transpired, she’d wanted to follow a sensual path he hadn’t known existed, one that had demanded a great deal from him—yet part of the glory, much of the challenge, had been to give her what she’d wanted, to lavish on her what ever pleasures she wished, to make what ever sensual sacrifices that called for.
She stirred in his arms. He placed a gentle kiss on her temple, and she relaxed once more, unable as yet to summon the strength to rouse. He smiled, more than a trifle smugly. When she regained her bed he was sure she’d sleep soundly.
Settling his head against the sofa back, he thought of the next day—of the next night. Finally, he’d have her naked in his arms. The vision…brought to mind his thought that she would be a goddess—his goddess.
She was already that.
Somewhere inside he knew that was true, that some element of worship, of reverence, had already crept into his view of her, already colored the way he dealt with her. It was partly from that that the glory he felt in their physical union flowed; it was that that fed his devotion to satisfying her wants and demands. Her needs and wants now governed him. He expected to be shaken by the mere thought; instead, he felt sanguine, as if some part of him, his baser self certainly, felt that was only right, more, that it was his due.
Curious, but that was how he felt.
Perhaps it was simply another symptom of his addiction to the taste of innocence.
An addiction he felt confident would gradually fade.
The thought of that addiction drew his mind back to her, to her body, warm, sated female flesh still sheathing his staff…
His senses refocused. Confirmed that they must have been lying slumped for some time, that she was returni
ng to full awareness, to command of her senses, limbs, and wits, then she contracted about him, and he didn’t need to think any further.
Shifting, half lifting her, he tumbled her onto her back along the sofa, following her down without breaking their connection, beneath her rucked skirts rearranging her limbs so that her knees gripped his flanks.
Then he thrust into her.
And felt her immediate response. Saw her eyes glint from beneath heavy lids as her body arched beneath his.
He lay upon her, hands gripping her hips holding her immobile, trapped beneath him. “My turn,” he murmured.
Her lips curved, swollen and sheening. Smiling like a cat drunk on cream, she tipped her face up so those luscious lips met his, reached up and twined her arms about his neck, and wordlessly invited him to take what he wished.
He wasn’t sure which of them was more drained, more sated and ready for sleep, when an hour later he saw her to the manor’s side door. There couldn’t be that many hours left before they’d have to rise and plunge into the chaos of their wedding day, yet he doubted either of them cared.
Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at him, raised one hand to touch his cheek and smiled her madonna’s smile. “Thank you.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “It was entirely my plea sure.” Drawing away, he met her eyes. “I’ll see you at the altar.”
Letting her fingers slide from his, he saluted her, then turned and walked away into the night.
At noon the next day, Sarah paced down the nave of the church at Combe Florey in a daze of happiness. Eyes locked on Charlie’s as he waited for her on the shallow steps before the altar, she literally felt the glow that her mother, sisters, and all others who had seen her that morning had remarked on.
It came from somewhere deep within her, fueled by the absolute certainty that Charlie loved her as she loved him. That even if today was only the beginning for their love, love was unquestionably there.
The Taste of Innocence Page 18