by Liz Carlyle
He stepped away and bowed his head. “Yes, of course.”
She turned as if to go, sweeping the longer hem of her habit over the kitchen threshold. But at the last minute, she turned around, her eyes suddenly wide and sorrowful. “I have often wondered, Quinten,” she said quietly. “After I left, did you…did you miss me? Even a little? Or was I just another whore to you?”
He crossed the little room in two strides and snared her hand in his. “Don’t say that, Vivie,” he growled. “Don’t ever use that word again.”
She blinked as if startled from a dream. “A Cyprian, you called me,” she murmured. “Is that not a whore?”
He bowed his head, and carried her gloved hand to his lips. God help him, but he had said it—and not that long ago. And then he had kissed her, quite rapaciously and cruelly. He was fortunate his mother and his uncle had been able to hush up the worst of the damage.
“Forgive me, Viviana,” he managed. “I did say it, but I was wrong. I was angry. You were never that to me.”
“Why?” Her voice was plaintive now. “Why, Quinten, were you so angry?”
Inexplicably, he wanted to tell her. To unshackle himself from the awful truth. “Because, Viviana, when you left me, I did miss you,” he answered. “Very much.”
“In what way?” she asked. “How? I need to know. I need to know that that part of my life was not entirely wasted. That it meant…something. To someone.”
He dropped her hand, his smile bitter. “It probably was wasted, Vivie,” he said. “But it meant something to me, if that helps. I don’t think I ever deserved you. And when you left, it was as if someone had stripped my very soul away.”
She started to reply, but he set a finger to her lips. “You were never a whore, Vivie. Never a Cyprian. You were my light and my life.”
Gently, she pushed his hand away. “Oh, Quinten, would it have been better for the both of us if we had never met at all?” she asked, her voice suddenly unsteady. “Would our lives have been easier? Our hearts less damaged?”
He shook his head. “You cannot look back, Vivie,” he answered.
She surprised him then by lifting her hands to his face. “I know,” she whispered. “I don’t look back. I cannot let myself. I cannot bear to question the choices I have made. But today, I—I just don’t know.”
He closed his eyes and turned his face into the palm of her glove. He could feel her ever-comforting warmth beneath the supple leather. “Your touch is like a dream to me,” he whispered, almost unaware he spoke the words aloud. “So many times I have awakened to this, only to find…that it was not this at all.”
“Quin, I—” She stopped, and shook her head. “I never meant to hurt you. I never even knew that I had. I am sorry. I regret we could not part as friends.”
“It would not have been possible then, Viviana.” He set his hands on her shoulders and tried to resist the urge to pull her into his arms. “My feelings for you were not so simple.”
“Is it too late now?” she asked. “Oh, Quin, I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to die old and bitter. I want to remember my first lover with happiness and not regret. Is there any little scrap of fondness or friendship that we might salvage from this mess we’ve made?”
He felt a little piece of his heart crumble again. It was not fondness or friendship which he felt for her. It never would be.
Later, he could not have said if Viviana came against him of her own accord, or if he pulled her into his arms. But somehow, his hands were spread wide across her back, and his face was buried in her hair. “I don’t know, Vivie,” he whispered. “I don’t know what is left of my heart. Nothing, I sometimes fear.”
“You hurt me, Quinten,” she whispered. “I will not pretend you did not. But I think I did not comprehend that I had hurt you.”
He drew a deep, unsteady breath. “You spoke of happiness, Viviana, and not regret,” he said. “Perhaps we parted on terms so bitter they poisoned us. Perhaps we will look back on this visit of yours and know that we tried to make peace.”
“I would like to be rid of the bad memories.” Viviana let her eyes drop shut and set her cheek against his chest. “A thousand times, Quinten, I have thought of this. Of what it would be like to have your arms round me again. To feel no anger, but instead, only peace.”
He set his lips against the top of her head, and inhaled the soft scent of her hair. “I wish, Vivie, that I could live that time over again,” he said. “I know we cannot turn back the clock. I know our ways have parted and will likely never merge again. But I cannot say I won’t think of you often.”
She looked up, and he felt her shiver in his embrace. Her eyes softened in that too-familiar way he had once loved. And suddenly, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lower his lips to hers. This time, however, he was slow and patient. This time, he gave her every opportunity to refuse him. She did not. Instead, she lowered her sweep of long, black lashes, and sucked in her breath on a little gasp. Delicately, his lips brushed the swell of her bottom lip.
“Vivie, let me—” he rasped. “No, let us, Vivie—let us wipe away the bad memories with a memory of something sweet and good.”
He felt her hands move uncertainly to his waist, then felt them settle there, pulling him incrementally nearer. His mouth molded fully over hers, and he kissed her deeply as he drew in the scent which had so long haunted him.
Good God, he had thought never to do this again! Perhaps he oughtn’t be doing it now, but Viviana’s mouth was softening beneath his, and her lips were parting in sweet invitation. After a moment’s hesitation, he answered her, stroking his tongue along the seam of her lips, then sliding gently inside. For long moments he held her, thrusting slowly into her mouth, and reveling in the way her breath caught and the way her body came fully against his.
They came apart breathing rapidly, both of them thinking the same thing, he would have sworn. “Oh, we should not,” she whispered, her eyes holding his quite unflinchingly. “Quin, you know where this is going. We never possessed an ounce of restraint between the two of us.”
“No, not an ounce,” he whispered, pulling her back, and tucking her head beneath his chin. “Is that so bad, Vivie?”
She set her lips against his throat. “Oh, Quin! Oh, God, is this…is this wise?”
He felt his own hands begin to shake. “Vivie, I don’t know,” he admitted. “But who will ever know? How can it be wrong if we agree to it? Just once more, and then perhaps we will…we will be able to part in peace. Perhaps we will be erasing the bad with the good—and bringing back the memories of a time that was so fleetingly sweet.”
Viviana’s mouth opened against his throat, then skimmed along his collar. He felt her whole body shudder against his. She knew what he was offering, then. What he wanted. And dear God, she was going to do it. Relief and joy and desire ran through him like a lightning strike. She returned her mouth to his and kissed him hungrily—the kiss of his dreams. His heart literally skipped a beat.
“Then do it, Quin,” she said when she tore her mouth from his. “Leave me with a good memory and wipe away the bad.”
His hands went to her shoulders, and he squeezed them gently. “Vivie, are you sure?” he choked. “Be sure. I have to know it is something you want.”
She shook her head and pressed her eyes tighter still. “It is something I want,” she whispered.
And then, somehow, Quin had her in his arms, her long skirts draped across his coat sleeve, and he was carrying her back through the little parlor. The fire was blazing there, radiating warmth into the room. He swept past and into the dark, narrow bedchamber. He laid her down and set one knee to the mattress, making the bed creak beneath his weight.
Viviana reached up, and lightly embraced his face with her hands. Her gloves, he realized, were gone. “We will not regret this, amore mio?”
“We won’t let ourselves regret it,” he answered. He shucked off both his coats, and let them slither to the floor. His boo
ts followed, then he sat back down on the bed.
“Vivie, we will tell ourselves this is just for old times’ sake,” he said, sliding the backs of his fingers across the infinitesimal softness of her cheek. “That we left something undone all those years ago.”
She reached up, and he felt her fingers run through his hair, gently stroking him from his temples, all the way back. It was one of his favorite touches, one which left him shivering with delight. This afternoon was no exception.
“Just for old times’ sake, then,” she whispered. “Just once more. To make good memories instead of bad.”
Viviana’s heavy cloak had fallen away and slithered half-off the bed. His hands went to the throat of her habit, and slowly he began to undress her. Not once did she hesitate, or move to stop him. Every button, every hook, revealed something indescribably sweet. An inch of lace. A patch of creamy skin. A scent. A gasp. Like tiny drops of water in a drought, they quenched an emotional thirst, as though he were parched to his very soul.
She watched him through eyes half-closed as her body was unveiled. Her throat, so long and so perfect. The neat, round turn of each shoulder, and her still slender arms. Her heavy skirts. Her boots so small they fit across the length of his hand. Even her drawers, which she untied herself, almost bashfully. All of it fell away until she lay stretched out before him in her thin chemise of fine lawn and lace. So fine he could see her dusky aerolas, and her nipples already hard—though whether from the cold or from desire, he could not say.
Lightly, he brushed one finger over the peaked fabric. Viviana’s eyes closed fully, and her head went back into the softness of the old feather bolster. “Quin.” She paused to swallow hard. “Quin, don’t…don’t torture me. Not this time.”
He smiled, and remembered how it used to be; how, after those first few weeks of uncontrolled lust had been sated, he had learned to go slow. So slow he could make Viviana writhe and beg. What a feeling of power that had been; a feeling he had not enjoyed—or even tried to enjoy—with any woman since. Then, there had been no mistaking Viviana’s desire for him. He took comfort in that now and lowered his mouth to her breast.
Viviana gasped, her hips surging upward and he sucked the hard, perfect tip of her breast between his lips. He listened in satisfaction as her breath ratcheted slowly upward. She shifted one leg restlessly, and Quin set his palm against the inside of her calf and began slowly to push the fine lawn chemise higher and higher, until he reached the tender flesh of her inner thigh. For long moments, he simply caressed her there, suckling her gently with his mouth as his palm circled and stroked.
When he sensed the restlessness growing in her again, Quin eased his hand higher still, stroking one finger deep into the softness which he found there, and eliciting a small, weak cry of pleasure. Forcing himself to be gentle, he touched her in the way he remembered. The way she liked, the tip of his finger gently grazing her sweet feminine nub.
Viviana began to tremble a little. Her hands, light and warm, settled on his shoulders. “Come into the bed now, caro mio.” Her voice was husky now. “Give me your warmth and the hardness of your body.”
Quietly, he rose from the bed. He found it strange that he felt no need to rush. He had dreamt of this moment a thousand times. And always, it had been a dream which turned into a nightmare upon his awakening, for his bed was always empty. In the weak afternoon light which permeated the tiny room, he undressed. Viviana had never been shy, but this time, her eyes never left him. When at last his shirt had been dragged off over his head, and his hands went to the tie of his drawers, he saw her swallow hard. Quickly, he tore them away, half-fearing that the blatantly aroused state of his body might yet give her pause. Viviana’s eyes widened, and she moved to throw back the old wool coverlet and the heavy bedcovers beneath.
He went to the bed, and reached for her. A little desperately, he stripped away her chemise. The fabric breezed up, baring her breasts and teasing her nipples. Quin made a little growling sound in his throat. “Oh, holy God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God, Vivie.”
“I—I am not the same, Quin,” she answered. “I have aged.”
He leaned over her, and set his right hand on the turn of her waist, then slid it slowly up and over her ribs, until her breast was cradled in his hand. “No, you have ripened,” he whispered. “You are a lush, lovely woman, Vivie, instead of just a pretty girl.” Gently, he ran his thumb around her nipple. But Viviana wanted more. She moved restlessly in the bed, silently pleading for him. Quin felt suddenly humbled by it all. He pushed back the bedcovers and slid in beside her.
Viviana felt the heat radiating from Quin’s body and drew to it like a moth to flame. She wanted to lose herself in him, to be enfolded in his embrace until they were one—at least for a few sweet, perfect moments. She snuggled against him, pressing her body to his from chest to knees and trying not to question her own judgment.
She wanted, oh, how she wanted this man. Nothing had changed. He made her feel alive with her every fiber. He thought she was lush, and lovely. He was temptation in the flesh, and his touch sent a sweet, hot need spiraling through her, tugging her toward him. She yearned to be pressed down into the softness of bed by the weight of his body. She fought an urgent, wanton wish to be impaled by him. Her body craved the perfect pleasure which only Quin could arouse. Yes, long after leaving him, she had ached for this, until the need had been numbed by the years of bitterness. How quickly and how hotly it could spring to life again.
The old bed creaked more loudly as he pushed her onto her back and dragged his weight over hers. His heavy, dark hair fell forward to shadow his face as his mouth closed over her breast again. Her every tactile awareness came alive to him. His legs felt hard and rough splayed over hers. His beard softly abraded the tender flesh of her breast as he suckled her. The muscles of his arms and thighs weighed her down, held her tight, left her captive to his desire.
His tongue laved and circled her nipple, and the white-hot need twisted in her belly again. Viviana became dimly aware of his teeth closing over her nipple, biting and sucking until her desire was drawn taut. Impatient, she pushed him away. He lifted his head, smiled, and allowed her to push him onto his back.
Eagerly, she mounted him, then sat back on her knees to drink in the beauty of his body. Even before she had loved him, she had loved to look at him. And again, nothing had changed. Oh, he was bigger. Heavier. And broader, too. The light was beginning to fade ever so slightly, casting a beautiful warmth to his skin. Though she would not have believed it possible, he was more handsome as a man than a boy.
Gone were the dark, often accusing eyes. Instead they were warm, and slightly crinkled at the corners. There was no softness to his face now; it was all hard planes and angles. His arms were thicker, and taut with power. His chest was sculpted with muscle and dusted with dark hair—something else she did not remember. He really had been so very young, all those years ago.
She set her hands on his wide, hard chest, and leaned over him. “Ah, caro mio, you grow more beautiful with age.”
He smiled up at her. For the first time, it struck her that she was naked and astraddle him, her every shortcoming—well, save for that slight sag in her rear—fully exposed. It had not, however, lessened his interest. That was readily apparent. Impulsively, she took his erection in her hands, finding joy in the sleek, hard strength of him. His body pulsed with suppressed power and promised her pleasure well remembered.
She stroked both hands up the full length of him, and beneath her, Quin shuddered. “Oh, Vivie,” he half groaned, half laughed. “You always get right to the point, don’t you, love?”
She said nothing, but instead rose up on her knees, and slowly took him, inch by sweet, hot inch, until he was groaning in earnest. Then clenching her muscles tight, she rose onto her knees again. Twice. Three times. Over and over, until Quin set his hands on her hips, and urged her to move more slowly. She gentled her pace, but not the intensity.
“Oh, God!” he c
hoked. “Minx. Wanton. Stop.” A little roughly, he literally lifted her up.
“Quin, no!”
“Come here,” he growled, more serious now. He urged her forward until her knees clasped his upper rib cage. “Quin, caro, what—?”
With his hands still set at her waist, he plunged his tongue deep into her most sensitive place. Her eyes opened wide and her breath seized. Oh, for so long she had yearned for this. Quin’s tongue touched and teased, sliding through her flesh until her breathing became audible. He stroked again, deeper, more intimately. Viviana gave a sharp cry of pleasure and reached out to grasp the rough wooden headboard.
He held her there, a prisoner to his ravening tongue, his hands firmly clasping her buttocks. It was wicked, almost embarrassing, to be touched so. But she had little time to consider it, for she was drowning in pleasure. She felt her climax teasing, inching nearer. Oh, too soon. Too fast.
Quin sensed it, and drew back a little, soothing her more gently until her breathing had calmed a little. Then, with a sound of impatience, he slid his hands around until his thumbs touched the folds of her flesh and urged them fully open. Then his tongue touched her again, a sweet, searching circle. With his strong hands, he urged her thighs apart until she was fully exposed to his mouth’s ravishing demands. At last, she came apart, shattering into slivers of crystalline pleasure as she clung to the bed and trembled.
When she returned to her senses, Quin was kissing her; kissing her curls, her belly, then nuzzling higher. She moved as if to sit back, and he caught her breast in his mouth, suckling her yet again, like a desperate man.
“Vivie,” he rasped. “I need you. On your back, love. The old-fashioned way.”
Viviana smiled inwardly and did as he commanded. She loved the feel of Quin atop her. He followed her, dragging himself fully over her, and the years fell away. He was again her beautiful boy, thrusting himself home on one awkward, enthusiastic stroke.
