On a Long Ago Night (35 page)

used his free hand to fluff up the pile of pillows behind them.

"You're naked," she observed.

"Nice to know that you can tell without your spectacles on."

"You're built like a bull; of
course
I know you're—Oh, my!"

Not only built like a bull but as randy as one, she thought as

his erection brushed across her belly. Her instinct was to stroke the

hard, velvet-sheathed length of him and lovingly cup the heavy

sacs of his testicles, but she managed to keep her hands from the

remembered delight of touching the most intimate, private part of

him. He was beautiful naked, brown-skinned and hard muscled.

That hadn't changed. He filled the bed, and her senses. The scent of

his skin was so achingly familiar. She wanted to bury her face

against his chest and in the hollow of his throat and simply breathe

him in for hours. The scent and feel and sight of him were

overwhelming, and quite wonderful.

The traitorous admission that she welcomed being out of

control flitted through her mind. She was in his hands. She could

not stop him, so why try? Somehow that didn't seem as awful as it

should. In fact, she was filled with a bright sense of curiosity, a

wonder at what would happen next.

He knelt over her. "Lie still," he said. "While I get

reacquainted."

Honoria really did mean to protest when he unbuttoned her

chemise, but she only moaned, a long, low needy sound that was

eloquent in its own way. She felt the material part, baring her to his

view and touch from the waist up. She could not lift her hands to

cover herself, or push him away. They were no longer even holding

on to the bedclothes, but relaxed, palms open at her sides. She was

made of candlewax, melting in the heat of the sun. Then his hands

began to move over her, heating her inside and out. He bent

forward to run his tongue slowly down the cleft between her

breasts.

How could she help but move in response as his skilled

fingers smoothed over her flesh? She closed her eyes, more aware

of the tiny sensory details around her that way. She was lying on

satin, quilted and embroidered, and she could feel every rich, sleek,

soft strand of thread as though it was imprinted on her skin. She

could almost
feel
the color, green as the first spring grass. The rest

of her garments were removed, with the gentlest of tugs and the

sighing slide of fabric down her hips and legs. Morning sunlight

spilled across the bed from nearby windows and the light pressed

against her totally bare skin, adding its mild heat to the building

fire from James's touch. Air flowed gently over skin naked but for

the swift fluttering kisses around her navel, then at the top of her

thighs.

He had forgotten how much of her there was to love. From

the top of her fiery red head to the shapely length of her amazing

legs, and all the glorious curves and mounds in between, she was

all earth-goddess: wide-hipped, large-breasted, ripe, lush, totally

female—beautiful. Every erotic detail he held in his memory

proved to be true, not the flight of his overheated imagination.

He rose to his knees to simply study her for a moment. His

erection arced over his belly, urging him to sheath himself deep

inside her. He controlled the impulse, intending to savor and

seduce. She was so very responsive, but she had to remember that

she was made for the taking and giving of pleasure. She was the

sort of woman a man loved to make love to.

"Beautiful," he said worshipfully. His hands hovered over

her, absorbing the heat from her skin. He studied the line of

freckles that dusted like a curve of stars across her collarbone and

the tops of her breasts. He could only look for an instant before

cupping the soft weight of her breasts. Her nipples were large and

pink and tempting. He leaned forward to kiss them again, one at a

time.

"Beautiful," she repeated as though speaking in a dream, her

head turned on the pillow, exposing the vulnerable line of her

throat. He saw her lips lift in a slow, utterly seductive smile. He

had forgotten the power of that lover's smile. It tugged equally on

his heart and on his manhood. Then, with a purring sigh, she

stretched her arms slowly out across the bed. She seemed as

languid as a cat but he felt her trembling with desire. He did not

think she could hide her passion from herself, or from him, very

much longer. He knew he could not hold his in check too much

longer, either.

He smiled knowingly as he parted the vee of her legs and

kissed soft white skin. She moaned very softly, and shifted her legs

wider, slowly, like a blossom opening. He had told her to stay still,

and knew that she was trying to will herself to feel nothing. But she

moved, subtly, sensuously, reacting to his every touch and kiss.

"Time to wake, Sleeping Beauty," he whispered. "It is your

wedding night."

Honoria opened her eyes very slowly. The fire in them was

unmistakable. "It is the middle of the day," she pointed out. Her

words were punctuated by sharp little gasps of arousal as his thumb

circled and teased the swollen folds of flesh between her legs.

"Does it matter?" he asked her, voice husky with desire.

She shook her head, very slowly. Then she reached for him.

He'd forgotten the speed of her reflexes, though he welcomed

her supple strength. She had him on his back after a brief,

breathless, laughing tussle. "What?" he demanded on a gasp of

pleasure as she slithered her long body down his.

Rather than answer, her mouth settled around his erection,

taking his whole length. She controlled his pleasure with a sure

rhythm that sent waves of concentrated heat through him. He

wanted to beg her not to stop when she lifted her head, but he knew

from her wicked smile that begging would do no good.

He lifted himself on his elbows instead, and met her bold

look for bold look. "As good as you remembered?" he asked. He

sat up and held his arms out.

She hesitated for an instant, but the mask of iron calm she'd

hidden behind could not be called back, not in this bed, not now.

He waited, making and letting her choose, shaking with need, and

controlling the urge to throw her onto her back and enter her hard

and fast and long.

Honoria felt tears wet her cheeks as she moved into James's

embrace, but she didn't know whether it was the past or the present

she cried for; whether her heart was broken, or if they were tears of

elation and happiness. She only knew that if she did not have him

inside her soon, completing her, she would surely die from one

more instant of utter loneliness.

He did not make her wait, but settled her on his lap. He thrust

upward as she lowered herself onto him and he came inside her,

face to face, mouth to mouth, arms and legs and all of them

entwined. He filled her, hot and hard. She surrounded him,

sheathing him in soft, tight folds. They remained like this for a

while, unmoving, statue still while fever built in maddening

intensity.

Then slowly, very, very slowly, Honoria began to rock her

hips, her inner muscles rippling around his length at the same time.

He moaned and his hungry mouth came down on hers, ravishing,

thrusting to match the rhythm of her hips.

Finally, when he could take it no longer, James shifted their

positions again, tumbling her backwards. He thrust into her the way

his body demanded, hard and fast, her cries of pleasure urging him

on. Her legs wrapped tightly around his hips; her fingers dug

desperately into his back. The sight of him, his features

transformed with wild desire, filled her vision and her world.

Honoria was completely out of herself and soaring free, tied

only to the connection of pleasure she shared with James. The knot

of arousal grew and grew, it curled and twined inside her, the spiral

widening until an unstoppable firestorm burst through her just as

his seed spilled inside her. She shrieked, he bellowed, and they

both gave a shaky, breathless burst of laughter as his weight came

down hard on top of her.

Honoria lay sweaty and satiated, with a man the size of a

small house draped over every naked inch of her, and stared in

amazement up at the ceiling. Her hands stroked the heavy muscles

of his back and shoulders with absent affection while she reveled in

this new feeling, this mixture of surprise and fearful promise. Her

amazement, a feeling that went deep into her bones, was not just at

having made love. It was because he had reminded her how good it

felt to laugh.

Whether she could forgive him for that had yet to be seen.

Chapter 19

After some time passed, James rolled over and propped himself up

on his elbow. He yawned and scratched his chest. Honoria lay on

her back, head propped up by a pile of pillows covered in yellow

and green satin casings, her red hair spread out like wildfire across

a spring meadow. She looked lovely and wanton, with her lips

tender and swollen from kisses, her pale skin still flushed from

lovemaking. He remembered the last time he had seen her looking

this way, and held in the sadness for all the years in between now

and the last time they had made love. Memory had not idealized

her, as he had been afraid it might have. She made love like the

Honoria he'd longed for for seven years, even if she wasn't the

woman he thought she was.

"And why is it," he heard himself asking, though he didn't

know if she was awake to hear, "that you didn't tell me who you

really were?"

Honoria came awake with a start. She hadn't realized she'd

dozed. Finding James stretched out beside her convinced her

instantly that she had not dreamed what had happened between

them. She shifted and rolled to face him when his hand across her

waist prevented her from sitting up. "Why didn't you tell me who

you
really were?" she demanded in turn.

"I did."

"Well, yes, all right," she conceded, after a stubborn few

seconds. His earnest expression was far too appealing, and the hint

of anger in his eyes lent a frisson of danger. After a moment she

went on, "But I didn't think it was relevant at the time."

"Neither did I," he conceded in turn. "I knew I was a

viscount's son, but the best I hoped for in life was to go home to

Malaga a wealthy man." He touched the upturned tip of her nose.

"But you… I don't understand why you hid the truth."

She fought not to find the gesture endearing, but this small

intimacy shook her emotions as strongly as having sex had done.

She wanted to pretend it was simply that she was not used to being

touched in any affectionate way by anyone but her father, but it

seemed ridiculous to try to make excuses while lying naked in bed

beside the man she'd married the day before.

And why was it that she did not feel awkward, did not feel

even the least bit of shame to be lying naked in bed with a man?

Perhaps it was because she'd had so much prior experience of being

in the same situation with this particular one. She should at least

feel vulnerable as he asked her questions, but all she felt was

languidly comfortable and vaguely hungry.

"Would knowing who I was have changed how you treated

me?" she asked curiously.

"No," he answered promptly. "I needed you. Duchess or

merchant's daughter, I needed you." He took her hand and kissed

it—the back, the palm, and each individual finger. "I still need

you."

"Liar." She would have snatched her hand away, but his grip

was unbreakable.

"Never." He indulged in one of his roguish, charming smiles.

"Not much, at least, or often. Besides," he defended his behavior, "I

did nothing to harm you."

This time she did manage to sit up, though he still held her

hand in his. "You arranged to have me sold at a slave auction! To

have me locked up all alone in a dreadful prison cell!"

"For your protection, yes. I did everything I could to protect

you." He sounded genuinely surprised at her being upset.

"It was dreadful! I'd never been alone before in my life!" The