The Taste of Innocence

by Stephanie Laurens

  She felt as if she were moving through heat, toward some potent fire. She halted when she faced him fully. His gaze was on her toes.

  It rose, slowly, unhurriedly; confident yet enthralled, he drank in every inch of her.

  She was battling inward shudders when his eyes finally reached hers. Impulsively, she stepped closer—he stopped her, with his grip on her hand held her back.

  “No. Not yet.” He drew in a breath as ragged as hers. Clearly clinging to his control, he murmured, husky and low, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you like this.”

  The tone of his voice, its cadence, fell into her mind, bearing a message much deeper, much more primitive and evocative than his words. She swayed, but through his grip on her hand he held her steady.

  As he raised his other hand and, with the lightest of touches, brushed the backs of his fingers down the swell of her breast, then around and across the underside.

  She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  “Just like this.” His words reached her in the same mesmerizing tone. “Waiting for me to take you. Wanting me to take you.”

  His fingers drifted, flame on her skin, tracing powerful patterns over it.

  She heated with every touch, every evocative caress.

  His fingers rose to her hair, searching, pulling free and discarding the pins restraining the heavy mass of gilded brown. Slowly, reverently, he drew the tresses out and laid them over her shoulders.

  He moved near and she felt his breath on her cheek, sensed his willing enthrallment as he said, “You’re a goddess and an offering, both at once. You’re the woman I worship, and the woman I must have. The woman I will take, but in the taking…I, too, willingly yield.”

  Charlie didn’t know where the words came from, only that they were true; he felt them resonate deep inside him. Deep, where only she—sweet innocent Sarah—had ever reached.

  Those words encompassed the truth—the truth of him and her, and what had grown between them, the truth of them in the here and now, and in the ever after. Worshipping her was a passion he embraced willingly; he set his hands, his lips, his mouth, his body, to the task.

  Set himself to hold her there, naked before him, while he worshipped each curve, each evocative line of her slender form. While he awakened her to more intimate delights, to the plea sure of being touched without touching. From their earlier interludes, he’d learned those spots that most inflamed her desire—the sensitive underside of her breasts, the even more arousing lower curve of her bottom. Slowly, steadily, he applied the knowledge, arousing her to a passion to rival his own.

  He took his time, ruthless in his need to worship her, to draw out every last minute of that curious hunger; he only took her in his arms and drew her against him when she could no longer stand.

  They came together, skin to skin, flesh to heated flesh. She gasped; he quelled a long shudder. She shifted against him, silken limbs caressing his harder, hair-dusted frame, her soft belly cradling his aching erection. He sank one hand into the mass of her bright hair, gripped and held her as he bent his head and kissed her, hard, ruthless, and demanding.

  This time he was determined to remain in control throughout, not to weaken and cede to her at any point; given their past history, reducing her to mindless need seemed a wise idea.

  There were levels of fire, degrees of sensual flame. Under his practiced caresses, growing harder, more urgent, increasingly driven, at the center of his unwavering attention she heated, slowly but surely under his guidance progressing from one level to the next, from one degree of heated yearning into ever deepening flames.

  He went with her, but he was more accustomed to passion’s heat, to its beat, to withstanding the compulsion that lay within it.

  Until the sensual conflagration captured them, him as well as her. Until their embrace grew so hot it cindered all thought and left no other awareness but of him and her, and the need to come together.

  Desire flared ever hotter; passion roared through the flames.

  He stooped, swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her on satin sheets the color of her eyes, laying her hair, a bright veil, over the pillows, seeing her writhe and reach for him, heated, wanton, almost desperate in her need, he paused for one second to savor the sight of her, naked, aroused, and all his, and sensed, as he moved to join her, a spark of something like triumph, obscured by the storm of desire raging through him.

  That moment of lucidity was enough to let him grasp the reins again, as he stretched beside her on the bed to consider how much further he could push her into mindless wanting, how much higher on passion’s peak he could drive her before he let her dive off the edge.

  The higher, the more plea sure, for her and for him.

  He caught the hand that reached for him, leaned over her, deliberately letting his chest abrade the tight peaks of her breasts as he kissed her deeply, unrestrainedly, letting her taste how wild for her he was, filling his own senses with the evocative taste of her.

  Sweet innocence and passion.

  The combination was an unbelievably heady mix, but now his mind had fixed on his plan, the execution required no further thought.

  Only action.

  He held her down in the cushioning billows of the bed, kissed her, fondled and provocatively caressed until she arched, with her body begged; breaking from the kiss, he trailed hot, wet, openmouthed kisses down the taut line of her throat, over the creamy upper swell of her breast, and gave her the first course of what she’d asked for.

  He feasted on her breasts without quarter, licked, suckled, and laved as she writhed and gasped beneath him, as her hands gripped and tightened on his skull as he drew every last gasp and moan he could from her, then moved on.

  Over her midriff, down over her waist, pausing to pay homage to the sensitive indentation of her navel, then he shifted still lower.

  Trapping one of her long legs beneath him, lifting and draping the other over his shoulder, he held it there, held her steady as he pressed an ardent kiss to the curls shielding her mons.

  He heard her breath hitch, felt her body tremble, then tense and coil. Glancing at her face, he caught a glimpse of intense cornflower blue burning beneath her heavy lids, saw her lips, slick and swollen from his kisses, parted in shocked disbelief. Deliberately he slid lower, bent and set his lips to the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs.

  She jerked, moaned. He licked and she screamed. She reached for him, but could only touch his head. Her fingers twined in his hair, tightened; she tensed to tug, but he licked again, then slowly, expertly probed, and she didn’t move.

  Panting, eyes shut, she waited.

  Inwardly smug, he settled to worship her in that way, too, to taste her, to fill his senses with her, and hers with him.

  She let him have his way, let him taste her as he wished, let him try her with his tongue and drive her mindless.

  He asked, and she surrendered; he took, and she gave. In return, he pleasured her with unwavering devotion until she sobbed and cried his name.

  Rising, he rolled her fully onto her back, trailed kisses like fire up her belly and breasts as he loomed over her, spreading her thighs wide, settling between. He held himself over her, arms braced as he kissed her, tasted her desperation on her lips. Then with one single, powerful thrust he joined them.

  She closed about him like a glove, and he gasped; like the goddess he’d named her she welcomed her servant into her temple and embraced him.

  He moved, and she moved with him, fluidly meeting him as they gave themselves up to the now familiar dance. His thoughts fractured, ripped from him as a whirlpool of sensation rose up, drenched, then drowned him.

  And there was no longer any such concept as control, no restraint what ever in the world they’d finally reached. There was only him, and her, and the power raging through them, seeking its long-denied release.

  Through the tempest of their passions, through the wild turbulent ride, Sarah was consciou
s only of sensation. It buffeted her, overwhelmed her mind, etched itself on her awareness. So that despite the heat and the delirious plea sure of his body moving over hers, despite the powerful thrusts that physically rocked her, despite the impossible clamoring urgency that had her tilting her hips to take him yet more deeply, that had her scoring his back urging him desperately to ride her yet more forcefully, the one element that shone through the raging veil was his hunger for her. It was every bit as deep and powerful and demanding as her hunger for him.

  No—more.

  For him, in him, that hunger was so potent, so deeply ingrained that she had no doubt he would give every last gasp to sate it—to consummate it, to give it life, here with her in their bed. It drove him, and controlled him, and drew her into the maelstrom, too, until she was as passionate as he in finding the way to appease it, to sate it, to discover the way into its temple and sacrifice herself at its altar.

  And at the last, in the final mind-shattering moment when she clung by her fingernails over the sensual void, the veils ripped apart and she saw that hungry power clearly—saw, felt, with her own senses knew what it was.

  Unquestionably, beyond doubt.

  Then he thrust one last time and with a cry she shattered; with a sob she lost her grip on reality and fell. Weightless for that moment, that briefest of journeys, falling from heavenly plea sure into satiation’s soothing sea.

  Bliss closed around her, suffused her, buoyed her, softening her limbs, eradicating every last iota of tension. Then the glow brightened, flared as with a guttural groan he stiffened in her arms.

  From beneath her lids, she looked up, in that telltale moment saw his face stripped of all sophistication, of all veils and screens. In the instant when he lost himself in her, when he shuddered and completion racked him, there was only one emotion etched on his face.

  One she felt in her heart, recognized in her bones.

  He slumped across her, as boneless as she; she let her lids fall, felt her lips curve. Remembered his words. All she saw here, in this room, in her domain, was hers.

  Hers to rule in the physical dimension perhaps, but hers to be ruled by in that other dimension, in that other world given reality by their love.

  Hers, and his. She’d felt hers, felt, sensed, and seen his.

  No more doubts.

  He lifted from her, slumped heavily beside her, and drew her into his arms. She went gladly, pleasured and joyful beyond her wildest dreams.

  Here, with him, was her life, her future, the right path for her. With him, she would find the satisfaction she sought. Together with him, all would be well.

  She’d made the right decision.

  Her mind was drifting, her brain hazed with plea sure. Secure in his arms, her cheek on his chest, she whispered, “I love you.”

  Even though her mind was sliding through sleep’s veil, she heard the faint surprise in her tone, and smiled. “And I know you love me, too.”

  Sleep enfolded her in rapturous arms, and she sank into bliss-filled dreams.

  Sprawled on his back, her gentle, almost ethereal whispers sighing through his head, Charlie lay sunk beneath her soft weight, his arms loosely around her, his body too sated even to tense.

  He stared up at the canopy, blue silk the color of her eyes.

  And wondered how his wonderful plan had gone so terribly wrong.

  He roused her as dawn was sliding across the sky. As rosy glory streaked the horizon, he dipped his fingers into her swollen softness and lured her from sleep with slow caresses, until, flushed like the morning, she sighed, and he slid into her body and she smiled.

  He rode her slowly, totally controlled, rigidly watchful, desperate to convince himself that the addiction, and his raging hunger, had muted. That the power that drove him, that fueled his mindless need—that regardless of his guard inexorably rose within him, whipped through him, wrested control from him and wrenched him from this world—had abated.

  It hadn’t. Not in the least.

  If anything, that power had only grown.

  He held her until she slid back into sleep, then turned onto his back and, staring upward unseeing, faced the cold hard facts as a cold hard dawn broke over his lands.

  Alathea had been right; until him, love had invariably captured every Morwellan male. It had caught his sire, and driven him, obsessed him, had compelled him in its name to take risks that had nearly destroyed their family, the earldom, and everything he’d held dear.

  With that example engraved on his mind, he’d chosen a different path. By arranging a conventional marriage, he’d sought to shut out love, and thus remain in absolute control of his life, safe from that dangerous emotion.

  Instead…fate had set her snare, and he’d walked unheeding—arrogantly—into it, and tripped the trap himself.

  He’d married Sarah—sweet innocent Sarah—and now he faced the one prospect he’d fought, and thought he’d arranged never ever to meet.

  He was in love with his wife.

  There was no point pretending he wasn’t, not any longer, not with the clutch of that power still so tangible in his chest, not with its claws sunk in his heart. There was no value what ever in denying its existence, not to himself.

  He should have seen…but he hadn’t. Perhaps he should have guessed what it was that had made her different—to him so different from all other women on virtually every level—but he’d had no experience from which to judge; the notion that the reason she was so unarguably his was because he loved her hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  So now he loved. He’d fallen victim to that ungovernable emotion, and now and forever would be subject to that irresistible force, that power that could so easily fuel obsession.

  That same power that, in his father, had led to the brink of ruination.

  Instead of being the bulwark he’d intended, the salvation he’d sought, his marriage had transformed into his worst nightmare.

  How on earth was he to manage? What could he do?

  12

  The closing of a door, followed by the hesitant patter of feet across the floor, woke Sarah. She blinked, and looked around, and remembered where she was. She struggled up onto her elbow; the bed beside her was rumpled, but empty.

  Sunlight streamed in through the windows, bright and sharp, but Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

  Gwen, who had come with her from the manor, carefully set a steaming pitcher on the dresser; reaching for a door in the paneling, she glanced at the bed. Seeing Sarah awake, she grinned. “Thought I’d best come and wake you, miss—m’lady, I mean. I’ve brought your washing water.” She opened the door, and nodded. “Your dressing room’s through here—have you seen it?”

  “Ah, no.” Sarah pushed back her hair. She hadn’t seen anything beyond the bed since Charlie had laid her upon it. She went to throw back the bedclothes, then realized she was naked. She blushed.

  So did Gwen. “I’ll just pop this pitcher on the washstand in here and bring you your robe.”

  Sarah peered over the side of the bed, and saw her beautiful wedding gown lying where it had fallen. Remembering the look in Charlie’s eyes as he’d peeled it from her, she grinned. Then Gwen brought her robe and she shrugged into it. Leaving Gwen to deal with her discarded clothes, she went into the dressing room, discovering that it matched the bedroom, decorated in blues and glowing golden oak.

  She quickly washed. “What time is it, Gwen? What’s happening about breakfast?” To her surprise, she felt ravenous.

  “It’s just gone eleven,” Gwen called from the bedchamber. “Breakfast was held back—they’re just gathering in the breakfast parlor now.”

  “Oh. Good.” Sarah grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. Her first morning as lady of the house, and she’d be the last down to breakfast. More, she’d have to face various sets of curious eyes, and have to conduct herself as if it were just another day—all while Charlie was in the same room.

  It was a prospect to tie her stomach in knots, but when sh
e consulted that organ she discovered she was still too relaxed, too inwardly languid in the wake of Charlie’s so-expert attentions, that she really couldn’t summon the tension to manage knots at all.

  Pondering that unexpected ramification of her wifely duties, she left the earl’s apartments and followed the corridor to the gallery, and thence to the stairs; descending, she gained the front hall and the areas of the house with which she was familiar.

  The breakfast parlor was a sunny room off the conservatory. A rectangular table sat in the room’s center with places laid along its length; a heavy sideboard stood against one wall, all but groaning beneath a profusion of serving dishes and warming pans. Both table and sideboard sported vases brimming with white blooms from the day before, an appealing touch.

  The instant she appeared in the open doorway, chairs scraped as all those seated rose to greet her. She hesitated, smiling but unsure just what to do; Serena, whom she’d known all her life and who was now her mother-in-law, came bustling forward, a smile wreathing her face.

  “There you are, dear.” Serena embraced her warmly, lightly touching cheeks, then ushered her to the chair at the end of the table. “This is now your place. Of course you know everyone here.” With a wave she indicated her children and their spouses. Nudging Sarah into her chair, Serena subsided into the one beside her. “We’re all absolutely delighted to see you in that seat.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah settled into the high-backed, ornately carved chair.

  Her gaze traveling around the table, she nodded a smiling good morning to Mary and Alice, Charlie’s sisters, and their husbands, Alec and George, and Augusta and Jeremy, all transparently pleased both with her presence and how yesterday had gone.

  Alice leaned forward; with a swift grin, she continued to relate a tale gleaned from a guest that Sarah’s arrival had interrupted. The others’ attention deflected to Alice—all except Charlie’s. He sat opposite Sarah at the head of the table, coffee cup in one hand, a news sheet in the other, but his eyes weren’t tracking the print; they were on her.