They burrowed under the down quilt and learned each other’s body. His rough and hers smooth. His hard and hers soft. He kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts. With his hands he learned the curves and slopes and valleys of her body. He remembered it slim and pliant, he remembered it full, burgeoning with their children. He found it now, full and soft and yielding. Damp. Ready.
For him.
She drew him in. She wrapped him in her warmth, in her sweetness, in her love.
She kissed him, loved him, shattered him.
And made him whole again.
They built the fire later. Much later.
They cooked the meal and drank the champagne. Then they wrapped themselves in the quilt once more and Mariah nestled against the heart of the man she loved.
She traced a circle on his chest and made him shiver. She ran her foot up his calf and touched the inside of his thigh. He let out a soft, low growling sound.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he told her and nipped her ear.
“Am I?” She was delighted. Her foot inched farther. Her hands did wicked teasing things. He shifted. He moaned.
“Mmm,” he murmured, capturing her hands, “and you’re finding it, too.”
And he rolled her onto her back and plunged in. He was hard and she was slick, and it was marvelous. Quick. Fierce. Quenching.
And after, sated, she wrapped her arms around him. “You were wonderful,” she told him. “You are wonderful. You put my fire right out.”
Rhys lifted himself far enough to look down at her with those beautiful midnight eyes.
“I hope not,” he said gruffly, and he lowered his head and kissed her long and hard and deep. “I hope not. I don’t want this fire to go out. Ever.”
Rhys's Redemption Page 17
