He smiled with a slow, hungry expression that he knew she’d understand. “I am very up for it.”
She flushed at his double entendre while he silently cursed himself. That had been a crude joke, the note discordant. Grant had adored such bad witticisms, but not Mr. Grant, who had understood that any bastard could be crude. It was a true man who gave respect by being refined.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude.”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t offended.”
“I was. By myself. And you deserve better.”
Her lips curved at that. “I assure you, I have heard much worse almost from the cradle. My father enjoyed throwing house parties, and the conversation was decidedly improper.”
Grant grimaced. “You should not have been exposed to that.”
She shrugged. “But I was, and I don’t mind—”
“I mind,” he emphasized as he rolled off her. Then he pulled her up. She went willingly, her lips caught between her teeth in uncertainty. He touched her cheek. “Are you changing your mind? We don’t need to—”
“Oh no!” she gasped. Then her face flamed, and her hands flew to her cheeks. She looked away. “You must think me a wanton, but…” Her voice faded away as she looked at the floor.
“But what? Irene, what we are about to do requires plain speaking beforehand.”
At his encouragement, she dropped her hands from his face. “It has been years since anyone touched me,” she said softly. “Skin on skin—not through gloves or fabric. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until we danced in the inn.”
He thought back. There had been mounds of fabric between them. Not only clothing, but a bolt of wool wrapped around her.
“Our hands,” she whispered. “I’d taken off my gloves, and you weren’t wearing any.”
So small a thing, and yet she remembered it. He was amazed. So he reached out and stroked again across her bodice. One calloused finger as he meandered a slow pattern on her flesh.
Her mouth opened on a gasp, and she shivered. “It’s the most amazing thing,” she whispered.
“So let us go slowly. Enjoy every second.”
She bit her lip. “It’s so overwhelming. I’m afraid I shall go mad.”
He smiled, his eyes still watching his finger and the flush to her skin. “One can get used to madness.”
She tilted her head. “What?”
He looked at her, replaying his own words in his head. “What? Oh, never mind.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that aloud. Then he slowly turned her around so he could release the buttons of her gown. “I am addled by you.”
He saw the goose bumps on her flesh as he touched the skin above her buttons. On impulse, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her there. This time her sigh came to him as a slower note, an oboe of a sound, rich and woody.
“You want to do this, don’t you?” he whispered against her skin. “You choose this?”
She nodded. “Yes. I didn’t plan this night, but now that it’s here?” She twisted enough to look in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Yes,” he echoed. No triumph in the word. Just pure happiness, because for Grant, this was a miracle.
So he applied himself to her buttons. He kissed down her back, slipping each one free then anointing the revealed skin with his tongue. And as he slipped her gown off her shoulders, there was so much more to adore. Until he came to her stays.
“Stand,” he said hoarsely. “Let me release you.”
She did without objection, though she smiled. “You make it sound like I’ve been in prison.”
He peeled the gown from her lower body. Years ago, he would have dropped the thing on the floor, but he knew too much of dresses now. He held it so she stepped out of the beautiful thing and then neatly set it aside.
She stood in short corset and shift, and beneath them, stockings and shoes. He stood, barely caring about the pain in his side. He saw her: tall, elegant, with porcelain skin tinted rose.
“What do you see?” she asked. “You are looking so intently.”
“I see a song,” he answered.
“A what?”
“A song,” he said as he stepped up to her. “I cannot explain it, but you make me see music.” He touched the fluttering pulse at her throat. “This is a flute’s trill.” He stepped close to kiss that pulse. “Your shoulders are the strength of the melody—steady notes, perfectly balanced.” He quickly undid the knots of her stays. As they released, he heard her inhale deeply, her torso lifting and expanding like the flow of a harp—up and down—a waterfall of sound.
“So poetic,” she whispered.
“Never before.”
She lifted her arms as he tossed aside the corset. Then before she could think about it, he lifted the shift up and away. She stood before him in nothing but her stockings and shoes. He’d moved behind her, and now his hands circled her narrow waist, slowly drawing her against his naked chest.
Skin to skin, heat to heat. He thought he heard a clash of cymbals the instant they touched. She cried out, and he bent his head—half to hear the sound better, half to nuzzle beneath her ear. Even her scent made sounds. Subtle, earthy sounds. Percussion. He felt the vibrations in his entire soul.
“I don’t hear music,” he said to himself, still struggling with the incredible sounds she engendered in his mind. “Not like this. Not from touching a woman.” He pressed his temple to hers, his hands stroking across her belly, while her abdomen trembled in a waterfall of notes.
She leaned back into him, raising her arms to drape them behind her. She touched his hair, his shoulders. Whatever she could reach. And as she stretched against him, he curled about her. His cock thumped in a steady heartbeat, pulsing for her. His hands strummed her skin—belly, ribs, breasts. Light touches, feathery strokes, and she seemed to hum in response. His head dropped forward, unable to resist tasting her sound, nipping an accent wherever he could touch.
Then he held her breasts, his hands slowly brushing inward to her nipples. She stilled in his arms, her breath suspended, her spine half arched. She was waiting for him to mold her breasts as only a man can. She was of average size, her nipples tight and high. But as he squeezed, she let out a series of sweet gasps. And the more her breath hitched—like the light tap of a triangle—the slower and firmer his stroke.
Until he found her peaks. Hard and tight, her nipples were beads to roll and twist. She cried out as he took them, and her spine rolled against him as he played. Such tiny points, but one touch, and her whole body resonated with sound.
“Oh my!” she cried. “Oh! Oh!”
It was with some shock that he realized she had reached her fulfillment from nipple play alone. Never had he done such a thing to a woman. And never had a woman’s cries sounded like the voice of angels. It was ridiculous! She was just a woman, but the sounds in his head as she shivered in his arms were of such glory he could not comprehend it.
“My God,” he whispered, as he watched her writhe in the mirror. “My God.”
He held her until she sagged against him. Until the crashing booms in his head faded to the soft song of a lute barely played. And then, while she was still boneless in his arms, he reached down and swept her off her feet.
“Grant?” she said in surprise.
He lay her gently down on the bed. Head first, settled lightly on the pillow. Back and hips, then all that long, glorious expanse of legs still encased in her stockings.
“Shh,” he said, knowing that awe still infused his voice. “I have not finished undressing you yet.”
She blinked, but it did little to dispel the languid happiness in her eyes. “You don’t need to maid for me,” she said. “Come up on the bed. I know you haven’t… I mean… I’m sorry I was so quick.”
He flashed her a grin. “Be as quick as you like as often as you like.”
“But—”
“Hush,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her flushed and pert nipple. “I am not even remotely done.”
Eleven
Irene didn’t know what to think. Or perhaps, more accurately, she had no interest in thinking at all. She’d never believed she would go to a man’s bed outside of wedlock, but the night had run away with her. Worse yet, she had wanted it to happen. Ever since that morning when they’d danced in the inn, she had dreamed of this. Except her imagination could not compare to the reality of his touch.
It was the way he went slow with her. Her husband had been an active man: wild and quick everywhere including their bed. She had not dreamed that a man might go slow—that he might relish a simple touch, the gentle build that became a crescendo, to a dizzying, perfect experience.
But Grant did. And as he pulled off her shoes, she felt that patient attention. She closed her eyes, glorying in the sensation of his hands holding her leg high, while the air hit her inner flesh. She felt his hands so large and strong slide up her leg to the top of her silk stocking. She felt his mouth at the line between silk and skin, wet and delicious, as he nuzzled her. Then slowly, the fastening loosened, and she abruptly looked at him.
“Did you just untie that with your teeth?”
He wiggled his eyebrows at her—grinning—with the white ribbon trailing from his teeth. “Someday I should like to see if I can undress you completely using just my mouth. Quite the challenge, don’t you think?”
She stared at him, uncertain what to say. In the end, she giggled. “I think you might have trouble with some of the buttons, especially if they are tight.”
“Not if I bite them off.”
She blinked. “You mean to destroy the dress?”
“It’s one way of getting you naked.”
She nodded. “I suppose it is, but hardly that difficult. The real challenge would be to do it without destroying the gown.”
He straightened up from her leg, his expression one of mock insult. “You think it’s easy to bite a dress off a woman?”
“Of course it is. If you have the time, I suppose a man could chew off any manner of attire.”
“Hmmm,” he said, apparently thinking about it. She might have said something, except that his clever fingers had begun to roll the stocking down her leg. He moved smoothly, his fingers spanning her thigh before pushing. Everything before had been soft caresses, but this was a deeper push, harder into her leg. How marvelous the stretch of muscles, the ever so slight kneading of his fingers, all the way down calf, ankle, and foot.
“My God,” she breathed. “That’s amazing!”
“You are not used to dancing.”
She smiled. “I haven’t done it for years.”
His eyes actually twinkled. “Well, now we’re going to do something better than dancing.”
“What could that be?” she asked in mock innocence.
He raised her other leg, pulling it high so he could untie the other stocking. Or so she thought. But instead of stroking that thigh, his hand slid up her naked leg. Higher and higher, until he pushed himself inside her. One thick finger—his thumb, she thought—and the invasion was so wonderful she arched off the bed with a gasp.
“Mmmm,” he said, the sound almost a purr of delight. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back while inside her, as his thumb circled in the most amazing way. “I knew you would be perfect.”
If she hadn’t been clenching and releasing around his finger, she might have answered. She might have said that she was simply his instrument. But she couldn’t speak, not with her breath catching every time he rolled his thumb.
She felt his fingers slowly stroke her spread thighs. The sensations were overpowering, her body too sensitive, so she tensed. He stilled until her breath eased, then he caressed her again—just a finger on each hand brushing back and forth across her skin. It was as if he couldn’t resist touching her, and she smiled at the thought.
“Will you join me now?” she asked, her mind not really engaged in what she said. It was too bold a thing, too intimate to ask. So she didn’t think, she just spoke. “There has been an emptiness inside me for so long.”
His fingers paused. “You said that before. What does it mean?”
She opened her eyes and caught his gaze. “That I want you to fill me.”
He pressed a kiss to her upraised knee. “Nothing would make me happier. But are you sure you’re ready?”
She’d been ready for years, but she didn’t say that. Sometimes, she thought the loneliness of the last few years would consume her. Suck her away until there was nothing left but an empty shell.
Logically, she knew that having a man between her thighs would not fill the ache. It was not the answer to her pain, but in this moment, on this magical night, she didn’t believe in logic. She didn’t accept reason or doubts or fear. She simply wanted. So she begged him for more. She asked with her eyes and with her touch. She reached down to help him with his pants, but her fingers were too clumsy, and he stepped quickly out of reach.
She watched as he unbuttoned his attire and pushed it from his hips. Shoes and stockings were long gone, and all that remained was the stark white bandage on his belly, partially hidden by the thick stalk of his arousal.
She reached for his cock, intrigued by the reddish color and the smooth head. She wanted to touch the heat of him and feel the pulse of his desire in her hand. She made to sit up, but he shook his head.
“If you touch it, I will explode.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Another time then.” She hadn’t meant to suggest they repeat this night. The logistics alone could be difficult. But she was not thinking right now, and so her wants slipped out into the night air without restraint. What she wanted was more of this. More of him.
He flashed her a grin. “Whenever you want,” he said. “However often you want.”
“Now,” she said. “Right now.”
He started crawling toward her. She shifted more onto the mattress to give him room. He moved between her legs, stopping long enough to lean down and suckle her right breast. She gasped, loving the brush of his tongue, the pull of his lips, and the way he used his teeth just when she needed more.
Then he let her go. “A symphony,” he whispered. “I hear a full symphony.”
She laughed as soon as she caught her breath. “You are so poetic, Mr. Grant. I had no idea.”
He quirked his brows. “Neither did I.” Then he gently settled his weight upon her.
She released a sigh of delight, feeling his head at her entrance. His aim was unerring, and she flexed her hips enough to push at him, hoping to draw him inside.
“So impatient,” he said with a chuckle. “I like that in a woman.”
“So thick and strong,” she answered. “I like that in a man.”
“Are you sure?” He began to push inside her, moving slowly. The first tiny bit was easy. She was slick, and his aim was true. But then she began to feel his full girth. It stretched her in the most wonderful way.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.”
He’d closed his eyes, and now his face took on an ecstatic look. “So tight,” he groaned. Then he pushed in another inch. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She was too breathless to say more. Especially as she shifted her hips, drawing him deeper. He groaned again. Then he opened his eyes, and their gazes caught. His face was in shadow, but there was enough light to see him—nostrils stretched tight, mouth set in a clenched ferocity. But what held her so strongly were his eyes. They seemed to burn with intensity. He was looking straight at her—straight into her—and what he saw pleased him.
She stretched up as she tried to meet his lips. But she couldn’t, and he was still pushing. So she tilted her head back and arched. Fuller, deeper, harder—she loved every second of his slow penetration.
He paused, and she clenched him, trying to hold him even more tightly. “Don’t stop,” she cried.
“Couldn’t. Not even… if I wanted.”
Then he was finally—wonderfully—seated. Deeply embedded inside her, and she felt so
full. He was thick and pulsing with life. His weight pressed her down, and she loved that she could feel his heat inside and out. She raised her knees, trying to grip him. She never wanted him to leave.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She opened her eyes and caught his gaze. She didn’t speak, but reached to stroke his forehead and trail her fingers into his hair. His curls brushed the back of her hand—so soft. And yet below, so hard.
“Irene?”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I want it all.”
His smile was almost feral. Then he began to move.
Gentle at first. A withdrawal that had her whimpering. The emptiness caved in her belly and pulled at her insides. She tightened her legs along his flanks, and he growled.
“I’m trying to go slow,” he said, his voice tight.
“Sweet heaven, why?”
“Because you’re worth enjoying.” Then he waited, poised at a place nearly out, but not quite. Then he began the return, pushing harder this time. Faster.
“Not slow, Grant.” She suddenly arched her hips so that he fell hard against her pelvis. She cried out at the impact, loving the sharp, hard press of it. “Now. Right now.”
He looked down, deeply embedded and refusing to move. “I’d like my kiss now, Irene.”
“What?” she gasped.
“You promised me two kisses.”
“I gave you—”
“One. Just one.”
She laughed, and the sensations had them both groaning. “We’ve been kissing for hours!”
“That was me kissing you. I want my second kiss, and I won’t move until I get it.”
She reached up and grabbed hold of his head. She pulled him down to her and fused their mouths together. The kiss was deep and frenetic. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, and he dueled with her, quickly dominating. Then he pushed into her mouth, moving into her with a speed that left her dizzy.
Almost without her realizing it, he began to thrust. The withdrawal was slow and unsteady, jerking backwards, but not so far as to lose his place. She moved with him, arching first, then gripping his return. And together the pace built.
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