He dragged in a huge breath, ran a hand through his hair. His chest felt as if it had been put through a mangle. He looked into her expressive face, saw all she’d held back, all she’d felt for so long—finally saw what had built the wall he’d sensed between them—and didn’t know how to breach it, how to reach her.
Only knew he had to.
Her lashes lowered, screening her eyes. She, too, drew in a breath, and held it. He sensed her drawing back, reining her temper in, realized that—the Vaux love of drama notwithstanding—she wasn’t going to, didn’t want to, lose it. Not now, not with him.
That seemed strange. Here, surely, was a grand stage—a grand passion tailormade for her to indulge in to the very top of her bent. A matter in which she was totally in the right, and he totally in the wrong.
But rather than rail at him, she turned away. Which only made him feel even more desperate. Head rising, she walked back to her dressing table. “One thing.” Her voice was cool, clear; she didn’t glance back at him. “I will not be blamed for doing what had to be done—not by you, not by anyone.”
Reaching her dressing stool, she stepped around it and sat. With dreadful calm, she reached up to unpin her hair. “Close the door behind you.”
He looked at her, for long minutes studied her, then he walked slowly forward until he stood directly behind her. He searched the face in the mirror—a face he knew better than his own, one that had inhabited his dreams for so many years he’d lost count.
A face that now was shuttered against him.
He hadn’t realized she could do that. He was certain, would have sworn that before—before he’d left her twelve years ago—she’d never be able to hide any of her vibrant emotions from him.
But the years between—the years with Randall—had taught her how to veil her inner self, to hide her feelings—to shield her heart.
The heart that once had been his, unreservedly.
“I’m sorry.”
The words fell from him, direct from his heart.
Her eyes sparked anew. She looked up, in the mirror met his gaze. “Sorry?” Temper, disgust, and disbelief mingled in her tone; her eyes were burning disks of fury. “Sorry for all the years I lay beside that man? Sorry for all the nights I had to put up with his rutting?” Her voice changed. “Do you want to hear that he was a dreadful clod of a lover? Because he was. You at twenty-three knew far more than he ever learned.”
There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to defend himself against the accusation in her eyes. He held her gaze, forced himself to, and hoped she could see how much he hurt, how much her words had cut him, how much he now bled, for her.
She seemed to. She drew another careful breath, again drew back from her dangerous edge. She refocused on her reflection; her face stony again, she reached up and pulled another pin from her hair. For a moment he wasn’t sure she was going to say anything more. He was floundering, trying to find some verbal way forward, when she drew in an unsteady breath and in a voice devoid of emotion stated, “You left me. You made my bed for me, and I was the one who had to lie in it—with Randall.”
He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. They’d always—in the past—been open with each other. “Can you forgive me?”
Again she didn’t immediately answer, but continued pulling pins from her hair. Then he sensed rather than heard her sigh. “If you want the truth, I honestly don’t know.”
He heard, knew that was the truth—and it terrified him. Sent a sheet of ice-cold fear cascading through him.
To have her within his grasp and lose her again…he knew, in that instant, that he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t live with that.
That he had to, somehow, find a way to recapture lost dreams—his, and hers.
She pulled out the last pin and her hair tumbled down, falling across her shoulders in a dark mahogany wave. The sight held him; he watched as she picked up a brush and applied it to the silky locks.
A minute ticked by, then he turned away. He knew, beyond doubt or question, that if he left her now, backed away from her revelations, he would never win her back. Stopping by a chair, he shrugged out of his coat, set it over the chair’s back, then unbuttoned his waistcoat, then set his fingers to his cravat.
Wielding her brush, she glanced at him, frowned, opened her mouth…after a moment she shut it again. She studied him for a moment more, then rose and, brush in hand, walked to the window. Slowly brushing, she stood looking out at the night.
He unraveled his cravat, dispensed with it and his waistcoat, then sat on the chair to pull off his boots. Setting them aside, he rose, yanked his shirt from his waistband, loosened the collar. He glanced at her, then, unlacing his cuffs, crossed silently to her.
Halting behind her, close, he waited while she finished brushing out one long tress, then slid the brush from her fingers and placed it on the chest of drawers beside the window.
She said nothing, did nothing.
He reached for her, wrapped her in his arms and simply held her. Waited, his cheek against her sleek head, until at last she relaxed, until she leaned back against him. He tightened his hold, swore on his heart, on his soul, that he would never again let her go.
Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her temple. Murmured, “I have one last question. When you came asking for my help, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you mention what’s been standing like a six-foot-thick wall between us?”
He wasn’t sure she’d give him an answer; he couldn’t demand one. Her hands resting over his at her waist, she continued to look out into the night.
Then she lifted one shoulder. “Pride, I suppose. That was all that was left to me.”
He tried to keep them back, but the words came out anyway. “Was it really so easy to hate me?” He used the term in the full knowledge that she never did anything by half.
Her chin rose. “It’s become a habit.”
“Break it.” Not demand, not command. A suggestion.
“Why?”
The response he’d expected. He turned her to him, into his arms. Looked into her eyes. “Because of this.”
He bent his head and kissed her—and knew he would have only this one chance. One night to give her reasons to try again. One night to make her believe in him again.
One night to find some hope that she would trust him again. Sometime.
That sometime she would be, again, as she had been long ago.
His.
Unquestionably. Incontrovertibly. Irrevocably.
He knew well enough not to try to overwhelm her, but kissed her gently, waited for her response before coaxing her into more. She kissed him back, tentatively at first, as if she hadn’t yet made up her mind to allow him into her bed—even though they both knew she had.
Although he hadn’t seen them, he tasted tears on her lips. On her tongue when he parted her lips and surged inside. He gathered her closer and deepened the kiss, let her feel all she did to him, and all he did to her.
Let her sense how much she meant to him.
No screens. No veils. No reservations.
The time for those was past.
She was, as always, liquid fire in his arms, but this time the fire was contained. The flames licked, tantalizing, tempting, but the fire was banked, controlled. She didn’t burn and sear him, didn’t try to set him afire as she usually did, didn’t fight for supremacy—for the reins—but held back, hung back, and left it to him to stoke their blaze.
So he let their passions rise, but slowly, tiny step by step, so there was no raging inferno to sweep them both away. So that they stepped hand in hand into desire, then let desire unfurl into full-blown passion.
Let passion escalate degree by degree…until it blossomed into need.
Letitia let him persuade her. For once let him lead her down the familiar path rather than rush ahead, so that for once he had to coax, rather than restrain.
She let him kiss her until her senses were reeling, let him fill her
mouth and make her yearn.
Let him seduce her.
Not because she’d forgiven him.
Not because she’d made any decision about him, but because she felt she was owed this.
That for all the long years—the lonely, deadening years—that for all her long ago heartbreak, she deserved recompense—a recognition of the sacrifice she’d had forced on her, by circumstance and him, all those years ago.
So she gave him her mouth and let him claim her, surrendered her body and let him caress her—let him trace her curves, with his too-knowing fingers circle, tweak, press, knead, until she grew breathless, restless and needy.
Let him make love to her.
Let him strip away her gown, her petticoats; with a sigh, she felt her chemise drift away. Felt the coolness of the night air on her skin—a long-ago pleasure she’d all but forgotten—the sensation heightened, gently at first, later excruciatingly, by the heated touch of his hands, followed by the hot brand of his mouth on her throat, traveling slowly on to her breasts, then later still laying a fiery path over her stomach to ultimately taste the soft flesh between her thighs.
Gasping, senses reeling, her skin flushed and damp, she let him, on his knees, hold her before him, his hard hands gripping her bottom, supporting her while, his soft hair tangling with her curls, he worshipped her with his lips, his mouth, his tongue, let him use his expertise to ensnare her completely, then let him drive her up, up and over the shining peak.
Glory broke like the sun over her; heat and pleasure fragmented, washing through her veins as molten delight.
Her legs buckled. She gasped; helpless, she gripped his shoulders. Shuddered as, her senses returning, she grew acutely aware of passion’s lash as at her core he supped, licked. Savored.
She didn’t have strength left to stop him, to do more than gasp as he spun the pleasure out. Eyes closed, she let her head loll back, and with a soft moan let delight sweep through her.
Let the intimacy of his possession sink into her.
At last he drew back; he looked up at her, then in one fluid movement stood and swung her up into his arms.
He carried her to her bed, flung back the covers, then laid her on the cool sheets.
She was restless, but didn’t want to show it. Didn’t want him to know how much she physically craved him. Forcing herself to lie still, through the dimness she watched as he stripped off his shirt and trousers. Naked, he stood by the bed, bathed in faint moonlight; silver gilded the heavy planes of his shoulders, etched the hard lines of his face. He studied her as she studied him, then he stepped closer and climbed onto the mattress.
It gave under his weight. Fully aroused, he came to her, let himself down on her and covered her. Reached down, caught her thighs and spread them wide. Settled his hips between, the blunt head of his erection at her entrance, then, his shadowed gaze locked on her face, with one long, controlled, unrelenting thrust, he joined them.
She smothered a gasp, couldn’t stop her body from arching in delicious reaction. His size still felt new to her, something she might once have known but had yet to grow accustomed to again. Yet to reach the stage where his penetration didn’t impinge overwhelmingly on her senses.
Lips lightly—irrepressibly—curving, she let her lids fall, let her body respond as he withdrew and thrust again, deeper still, then he settled into a slow, steady rhythm—a long, slow ride into paradise.
Opening her other senses, she let herself enjoy all she’d missed—his large, hard body, the wide acres of his chest, the heavy muscles banding it, the faint but excruciating abrasion of the crinkly hair that adorned his chest as it rasped her tightly furled nipples. Beneath him, pinned to the soft bed by his much greater weight, she quietly gloried in the indescribable delight of gripping his tight buttocks and feeling him driving into her, feeling the long, heavy weight of his erection thrusting and retreating deep inside her.
Regardless of all else, he knew how to please her—exactly how to pleasure her. How to delight and satisfy her.
She took all he gave her, gathered it in as her due.
Christian felt every nuance, was awake and aware to every racing beat of her heart, every flutter of her lashes, every soft sound that spilled from her lips, every moan he wrung from her. Every tensing of her fingers on his skin.
He’d never made love to any woman as he did to her that night. Never been so conscious of, so focused on, the intertwining of emotion with the physical act. Never had the act meant more, never had he needed it to mean so much, to carry so much emotional weight—the full measure of what he could no longer hide. Dared no longer hide, no longer had any reason to hide—all that he felt for her.
She’d never been passive in her life, yet that night she watched and waited, took, accepted, but held herself back. Not physically but emotionally.
It wasn’t a cold coupling; between them such a thing simply couldn’t be. Yet there was an emptiness within it that, he realized, her love used to fill. Used to fill and overflow.
He hadn’t noticed its absence during their recent interludes; the firestorm of her passions, and his, had concealed the lack. But he sensed it now. And felt the loss keenly.
He looked down at her as she lay beneath him, glorious as ever in her passion; her mahogany mane flung across the pillows, the faintest of curves to her lips, she rode with him, her hips undulating with each deep thrust, her breasts caressing his chest as he drove harder and harder into her luscious body. Her thighs gripped his flanks, her fingers tensing, sinking into his flexing buttocks, urging him on; within, her sheath, scalding and slick, gripped him and held him, released, then received him.
She was with him, yet not, reserved in some indefinable way that she never had been before, some elemental part of her withheld. He saw it, sensed it as the peak reared before them and they hovered, senses suspended, then they tumbled, fell, plummeted through the void, and in that searing, gasping, mindless moment when their senses imploded and ecstasy roared through and they clung…when they drifted back to earth, they were still two separate people.
Where before there’d always been a sense of shared joy, of complete fusion in the moment, of a loss of self that was somehow glorious, now there was only physical satiation.
Complete, deep and mind-numbing, yet not—for him nowhere near—as satisfying.
He couldn’t believe she didn’t feel the same, that she didn’t feel and mourn that loss.
That she didn’t wish it were otherwise.
He collapsed upon her, too racked to move. His head on her breasts, her shallow breathing in his ear, his heart still thundering in his chest, with the night air laying cooling tendrils over their slick bodies, he fought for breath—and waited.
Prayed.
At last—finally—she raised a hand and gently slid her fingers through his hair.
He closed his eyes, swallowed as incalculable relief swept through him. Simply lay there and took comfort in what he knew to be an instinctive, habitual caress.
In his mind’s eye he followed every slide, every flick of her fingers, every little touch that made up that caress.
Wallowed in what drove it.
All was, thank heaven, not lost. Her love—the one thing he now most wanted in life—still lived.
To win it back…all he had to do was convince her to trust him with it again.
Convince her that loving him again would be safe.
Prove to her that he would never again hurt her, never let anyone or anything hurt her.
He remained where he was, hungrily, greedily, savoring the sensations of her sated body cradling his. Clinging to the moment, the quiet glow, he wondered how one went about mending a broken heart.
Chapter 8
Letitia wasn’t easily shocked, but when she woke the next morning to the inescapable sensations of a large, warm—not to say hot—male body spooned around hers, she very nearly leapt from the bed.
She did sit up. Struggling out from under a heavy arm, she stared,
mouth acock, then looked across the room to the windows they’d left uncurtained—at the sunshine streaming in.
“Christian!” She jabbed his shoulder. When he didn’t respond, she jabbed his upper arm, leaning closer to hiss at him, “You have to wake up and go to your room!”
Over all the times they’d made love, she’d never spent the night in his arms. Never woken to find him beside her.
Exasperated—and not a little panicky—she jabbed again, and he moved—but only to wrap one huge hand about her fingers.
And draw her inexorably back down….
“No!” She tried to pull back, but had no purchase. “We can’t!”
He rolled over. Looking sinfully sleep-tousled, he cocked a lazy brow at her. “Why not?”
He continued to drag her closer, until, frustrated, she let herself tumble across his chest. All but nose-to-nose, she glared at him. “Because my maid will be here with my washing water and I absolutely refuse to be discovered in flagrante delicto with you in this bed.”
He smiled, slow, sensual, teasing. “Don’t worry.” He reached for her nape. “I locked the door.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, swiftly replayed his stormy entrance the previous night. “You did not. You slammed it.”
Large and warm, his palm caressed her sensitive skin. “I got up during the night and locked it.”
She blinked. “You did?” She frowned, trying to imagine why he’d thought to do so. Why he’d planned…
He gripped and drew her head down. “Stop thinking. Come and enjoy something you never have.”
She found herself lowering her lips to his. She halted just before their lips met. “What?”
He lifted his hips and she felt…his morning erection.
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Indeed.” He drew her down the last inch, into the kiss.
She let him, wondering, tantalized. Seduced.
She’d heard about men’s proclivities in the morning, but as she’d never shared a bed all night with him—and had actively discouraged Randall from spending one more minute with her than he absolutely needed to—she’d never had a chance to experience…the different, strangely compelling sensations of making love when they were already warm and relaxed beneath the covers.
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