by Gayle Eden
He was chased by goose in one of the villages, and she thought she would die laughing at his yells. Of course, she tried to help catch it, and that was comical for everyone.
He seemed surprised to discover some of the books she had read. She was surprised he read at all. They argued politics. They talked of his parent’s complicated relationship, and when Haven talked of the wonderful childhood his family had given her, he listened, watched her talking, and finally was able to share the best memories of his own.
Of course it was going well because he was not foxed; merely drinking an occasional brandy or whiskey, and their attraction was ever present. Se picked up a tension in him that she suspected was because he chaffed at the limitations a coach would provide. There were looks— sometimes softly drawled words that were sexual from him, when they were traveling in the night hours.
The closer they got to the next property, the more he coaxed her to sit with him, pulling her to his side, his arm around her, in doing so, they felt each other, breathed each other’s scent, and the masculine heat of his, the slighter feminine softness of hers, made the desire coil even when they could do more than kiss or whisper to each other.
One evening, after resting at an inn, when they were nearing their last property, Deme kissed her and they did that for over an hour—caressing through clothing, whispering, spending intimate moments tracing the line of a jaw, dragging fingers between fingers, learning a thousand ways one can feel pleasure when fully dressed. It left them both with a sluggish ache, and Haven saw another side to Deme—a tender and intimate one. A man who could ache and need and desire, and yet savor her softest kiss in a way she never expected.
In truth, she knew the spell was being weaved over miles and hours that would ensnare her in the end. It did not matter if it was those tender moments or the hot erotic ones, did not matter if she was watching him laugh or listening to him tell outrageous stories or bawdy ones, being witty—being an ass at times and she would take him down to size. She was that girl again, mesmerized, by him.
She caught him watching her too however, eating, awakening from sleep, or when she talked. His muse then, with his eyes on her, was so intense that she would feel her heartbeat accelerate and fool herself into believing the same thrall held him that at times ensnared her.
She felt very close to him. She cautioned herself —they were out of their element, somewhere out of time.
* * * *
Although he wanted to make love to her beyond sanity, Deme had waited— and he knew why he waited, the moment he stood at the bottom of the staircase at Rose Hill.
The estate was by far the most impressive they had visited and though the staff was only twelve in number, it was beautifully kept, graciously welcoming and sprawled out like a swan amid the ancient trees that lined a long brick drive to the entry.
From the landscape, decked out in autumn splendor, to the spacious and well-decorated rooms, the servants who had lined the steps and curtsied, smiling and welcoming—he felt certain he had found the seat of the Marquis of Fielding. His home. In fact, that first night he sat in a comfortable library and wrote his father that news. A cheerful fire had bathed the wood panel walls, and the scent of fresh coffee at his elbow, he had rarely felt so content.
Nevertheless, today, today—was the day that Haven would meet her Aunt. The woman had requested they meet at an Inn near her husband’s estate.
Deme had been in demand and kept busy, and he did not share her bed after that first stop—no matter how much he wanted to. Most days, he was tired and dirty, his body going through agony because he had abused it so long, most nights he went over accounts, and in time the limiting his drinks and pushing his physical body, became easier—but he never forgot the meeting was why Haven was here.
Dressed In his silk shirt and black trousers and boots, his sleeves rolled up, because he had been working in the study, he skimmed his eyes over her with each step she took— knowing, sensing she was nervous, but thinking that would not be anyone’s first impression.
Haven wore a gown of lavender velvet, with a deep violet coat, silk lined and nip waisted, having fur at the wrist and hem. Her feet were in lavender half boots, and though the coat had a wide hood, her hair was drawn back in a twist, upon it was a smart velvet hat, violet with a lavender and white strip brim, a feather curled back toward the back.
When she was but steps beside him, he saw the bit of net pulled over her eyes, and how that teasing yet sophisticated bit of fashion suited her perfectly. Her lashes were dark, her lisps rose kissed.
She was buttoning her lavender gloves at the wrist when she reached him.
“Will I do?”
He grinned slowly and cocked his brow. “You are the epitome of elegant sophistication.” He reached out and stroked his finger down her cheek, his gaze holding hers through that net. “I have never seen anyone so lovely.”
Smiling, she yet grimaced and admitted, “My stomach has been tense all morning.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
She swallowed and then shook her head. “I—have to go—by myself.”
“I understand.”
She stepped down onto the main floor and then turned to him. For some moments Deme let her search his face, unknowing what she sought but hoping she found it.
“What will you do today?”
“I’ve some errands to run. If you return before me, will you wait up?”
“Yes.” He saw in her eyes his unspoken message.
It seemed they had both reached the crux where the hunger was at a busting point.
He walked her to the door, and was standing there as she was let in the coach. He waved her off, feeling a sensation wash over him, half-afraid she would not come back. Shaking it off, Deme went back inside.
An hour later he was riding out on horseback, his caped greatcoat billowing as the stud ate up the miles.
* * * *
When Deme returned well after dark and climbed the stairs after removing his coat, he entered his chambers and halted, seeing Haven on his bed. She was reclined on pillows, sipping wine, looking ravishing in a thin satin gown. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, her eyes glowing in the soft amber light.
“Are you all right.”
She smiled, “Perfectly.”
He let his eyes go down her, lingering where the thin gown stopped at her calves and tracing them visually, admiring her fine arched feet. He let it glide up over the V neckline that dipped between her breasts, and finally met her gaze. “Let me wash off this dirt.”
He went into the adjoining room and started his bath but opened the door again and told her, “Bring me a glass of that wine.”
She did so, holding it while he stripped by the brass tub.
Nude, he sipped from it before stepping into the water, giving her a smoldering look before lowering his body into it. He felt her eyes all over him. Glad she sat on a wide stool beside the tub instead of returning to his chambers.
“How did it go?” He leaned over to put the glass down on the floor.
“Well. Very nice.”
He ducked under the water and emerged again, wiping his face while looking at her. “Nice?”
She grinned. “Yes. She was.”
Soaping his hair, he murmured, “Something is wrong.”
“No. I was nervous. There was no reason to be. She is a gracious woman. We don’t look alike and she’s taller than me, matronly and she has five children.”
He rinsed the soap out still feeling like there was something wrong. Laying back, relaxing, he picked up the wine and drank, “Go on.”
“We ordered tea and I asked her about my Mother. Most of the story fit the same that father had already told me, except that their lives were worse than he knew. It was obviously not a comfortable subject, so I did not linger on it. She told me however, that my mother did see me.”
“She did?” Deme was happy to hear that.
“Yes. Apparently, she came to the parish ch
urch and sat in the back, veiled. I am disappointed that I never sensed it.”
“How did she die?”
“Some illness. And not the year father left. That was something Jane told him, she thought, for their own good. I was her only child. We discussed my going to her grave someday.”
He studied her face carefully. “Will you visit her again, Lady Jane?”
“We’ll write, perhaps.” She put the drink down and got to her knees by the tub, soaping a cloth and then reaching for his arm. She stroked the cloth over it. “I’m glad I came. I discovered something sitting there with her.”
He was stirred by her bathing him as much as he was by the dampened bodice of her gown. He had concentrate on what she was saying. “What.’
“That it wasn’t me.” She put the cloth down and scooped water, rinsing the arms, his chest, and her palm gliding down his throat.
She met his gaze and murmured, “I found myself telling her about the Wimberly’s, realizing how wonderful my life had been with them. Moreover, I found myself saying, I am usually in trousers and I can drive a coach. I talked of father and your family—”
He captured her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it before teasing, “And did you tell her that you dragged the Marquis of fielding arse out of one scrape after another.”
Sitting back on her heels, she watched him twine their fingers and then looked at him. “I did. I told her everything—because as lovely as I looked, as good as it felt, it was not going to be the real me she was meeting, unless I did. It didn’t feel—like me.”
She sat forward on her knee and her free hand smoothed back his wet hair then rested it on his jaw. “I like who I am. I am proud of my father. It dawned on me that I am proud to be the coachman’s daughter.”
Deme loosed her hand and sat up, cupping the back of her head, bringing her to him for a lip dampened kiss. Slanting his head, letting his tongue taste her deep, they were both foggy eyed when he eased back.
Probing her gaze, he husked, “And that’s who I’m going to make love to tonight.” He brushed his thumb over her lip, then moved back and stood, finishing his bathing, dragging the soapy cloth over his skin and muscle while she watched. Soap slid over his dusky skin, over the indents of his hips, the hard firm buttocks and rounded thighs. It made a runnel down his spine, and slicked over the dark hair below his navel.
He rinsed much the same, using his hands to sleuth off the water, then stepped out, rubbing dry with linen. He turned to where she had gotten to her feet. Deme crossed to pick her up in his arms, carrying her to the bed that was bathed in soft saffron light.
Bracing up on his forearm, he smoothed her hair and whispered, “I feel as if I have waited an eternity for this moment.”
“Me too.” Her hand glided down his arm. “I have dreamed of you, ached for you.”
He groaned and kissed her fierce and long, before sitting up and helping her to her knees so he could peel that gown from her.
Deme moved off the bed a moment, wanting to savor the image of her there, her creamy body nude, nothing covered. Lithe and sleek, round in the right places, and soft as silk.
He could have drowned in the want in her eyes when he joined her again. A desire for him that when she touched him, skimmed him, held to him, he could feel to his bones.
Kissing, caressing, he traced every inch of her skin with measured strokes that built the fire higher between them. His palm glided over shoulders, arms, down her side, and across her quivering stomach.
She responded, arched and moaned so in tune to the erotic atmosphere that she trembled before he ever touched his tongue to her nipples, or found the exquisite soft silk of her sex and glided his fingers in it.
Sluggish and yet hot, their kissing, rubbing skin to skin, touching, was a sensual dance with the music being their breaths, their sighs, the whisper of skin on skin. It was doing what had been dreamed, longed for, fantasized about.
Haven raised and pushed him back, kissing his sensual mouth erotically before she began tasting his skin—his throat, across his shoulders.
His hands in her hair, she suckled his nipples, bit them, and mapped his gorgeous body with her hands. The sight of her pale hand on the flesh below his navel or her tongue teasing his nipples aroused them both.
In turn, he gave her the soft drag of his lips and tongue on her throat, the wrapping of his mouth around her nipples, and on a string of kisses down her body, he parted her legs, and sensually laved the folds of her sex, wringing feverish whispers from her lips.
Unhurried, they relished and savored, and growing bolder, she felt the tender skin of his cock on her lips, kissed it, breathed sweet breaths upon it, and touched her tongue to the underside with flicks, rewarded with his rumbling moans and roughly uttered words of praise.
The moment came when he covered her, her knees against his sides and the feel of his sex at the entry of hers. Her hands smoothed up the muscles of his back, body eager, her soul needing it.
He rose slightly and flexed his hips, his sex filling her slowly.
“Hold me, love.’ Deme managed at her tensing. During the first few strokes, when she was yet used to the fullness and the thrust, he uttered sweet words, silken hot and sensual phrases, until the feel of truly being joined with him consumed Haven.
His body moving sensually, ass and hips erotically cadenced to stroke her inside slowly, taking her and yet giving to her, Deme looked down into her tawny eyes, feeling her sex silky snug on his cock, her smooth thighs stroking his hips on each thrust.
When her hips were arching and their rhythm was in harmony, he went higher, and became intoxicated by the thick exquisite heat and pleasure.
There was only the two of them, an unseen fire around them, every nerve and pore between them feeling the least brush of flesh, and warm breath. Their eyes locked in recognition that he was inside of her, and that she was surrounding him. Every glide of his cock was as exquisite to him, as it was to her.
Arching his neck, closing his eyes as the fire burned them, Deme thrust harder, and deeper, hearing her feverish cries, feeling her nails bite into his upper arms, and her hips lifting. The fire raced like lightening and consumed him, splintering through muscle and bone, blinding him so that he cried out while spilling deep inside her.
* * * *
Haden lay in Deme’s arms watching the low flames in the fireplace behind the screen. He had held her after that incredible loving, and then they had washed and finished another glass of wine. She was incredibly content for a woman who had just lost her virtue. Wildly so. She could not imagine another man making her feel so wonderfully sensual, another who could kiss, touch, and move in her like Deme. Whatever she had thought of sex, of lovemaking, she knew in her woman’s soul that Deme had made it incredible for her. She knew it was something they created with every touch and kiss. If she had thought him beautiful before, he was more so in his mixture of vulnerable hungers and dominate thrusting into her body. His green eyes had glittered, his lids heavy and sinew in his face and neck had tightened. The way he used his body to make love was eroticism itself.
Nude, she felt his hand skim her hip and arose to glance over her shoulder at him.
His eyes were open, the green of them shimmering between his raven lashes. Deme lifted up and kissed her softly, then murmured, “I’m finished here and we could return to Wimberly tomorrow. However, I think this will be where I spend the off-season. What do you think of it?”
“It’s lovely.” She rolled and turned to face him. Their voices were hoarse from the emotions they had experienced. “Aside from the estate house, you have lakes, fishing, hunting, and there is shopping districts and grand homes nearby, everything that makes the area appealing. Your siblings will love visiting, as well the graces I think.”
Deme nodded and reached up, stroking a finger along her jaw line. “Would you mind staying a week more, helping me get the permanent staff and perhaps working on building up the stables?”
“I’
d love to.”
He grinned slightly “You can wear trousers.”
She laughed. “I intend to.”
“Or go necked.” His brow arched.
Her snort came with, “The staff would love that.”
“Particularly the grooms.”
They chuckled, and then he leaned, rolling her to her back, and kissing her for long moments. His hand eased between her legs.
When she moaned, he stroked between the folds and whispered, “I’m going to mount you again.”
She groaned and arched her neck. “Oh-yes.”
Haven lifted her hips to his touch and for the next feverish moments she was reaching for her climax and he was taking her there, kissing her breasts, her lips, murmuring explicit things that made the burning all the exquisite.
At the point she melted into it, his lips were at her ear and he husked, “You love coming, don’t you, sweet.”
“Mmm. Yes.” She shuddered with the spread of it thorough her body.
Her eyes watched him withdraw his finger and suck it between his lips.
He moved so that he was on his knees. “Let me see that beautiful derrière.”
She turned and got to her knees, moaning when his finger eased in her several times, before it was his cock stretching and filling her still sensitive sex. It felt thicker, bigger, and filled every inch of her.
His palms skimmed up her back. Hers were on the mattress. He skimmed them back down and cupped her hipbones, bringing a cry from her when he suddenly pulled out and slammed in.
Hard, sweet, fast, the joining was as untamed and as wild as the first was slow and measured.
Haven felt his thumb playing along the crease of her backside and circled her hips.
“You’re a wicked woman, Mulhern,” he groaned with sexy hoarseness.
“I need it too bad to pretend otherwise,” she panted feverishly. “Let me feel you, Deme.”
