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The Lady Most Willing
  • Текст добавлен: 15 октября 2016, 01:11

Текст книги "The Lady Most Willing"


Автор книги: Connie Brockway


Соавторы: Julia Quinn,Eloisa James
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)





Chapter 16

Byron could not believe what he was seeing. After Fiona’s hell-born sister had blurted out where she had gone, he had risked his life making his way to the stable, stumbling around the side of the castle in the storm, sick with fear that he was about to walk over Fiona’s fallen body . . . only to find her tucked down in a stall nestled against a fat old pony, the two of them peacefully asleep.

He pulled off his gloves with a muttered curse. Thank God the stable was so small, and preserved heat so well. His fingers burned with the cold, and his toes felt as if they might fall off. He took another irritable look at the sleeping girl at his feet.

Her hair had fallen out of its bun. Tousled strands of it curled around her face and unfurled over the pony’s rough winter coat.

He squatted down and put a hand on her cheek. The skin burned hot under his fingers, and her eyes flew open on a little shriek. “Take your hand off me!”

“You’re warm. And,” he said, catching sight of a bottle of wine, “you’re drunk.”

“I am not drunk,” she told him, tilting her little nose in the air. “Though I may as well point out, since you do not know me, it could be that I am an invet– an inveterate inebriate.” She said the last two words carefully.

He bent down and pulled off his boots, which were covered with snow. That strange joy that Fiona Chisholm seemed to inspire in him was spreading through him again like liquid gold. Like the kind of dizzy, silly joy he distantly remembered experiencing as a child.

“What are you doing here?” Her eyes were suspicious.

“I came to rescue you.”

What?

“I thought I would find you dead in the snow,” he said conversationally, knocking snow from his hat before hanging it on a hook. “I think it was a near go myself, in truth. I kept losing the castle as I was trying to get around to the stable. I was completely blinded by the snow. Needless to say, we don’t have storms like this in London.”

She sat up, a molting fur cape slipping from her shoulder. “Didn’t you follow the rope from the kitchen door?”

“The kitchen?” He shook his head. “I knew nothing about that, so I went out the front door. Your sister said you went to the stable; I looked out the window and thought it was a damned foolish and dangerous thing to do. So I followed the castle around to the stable, but I kept losing touch of the walls. Blasted amount of snow out there.”

“You could have died!” Her voice cut straight through the muffled sound of the wind howling outside.

“Would you have cared?”

She lay back down. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

But Byron heard her voice wobble. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, staring down at her. “I know your reputation is . . . whatever it is—”

“Stupid Englishman,” she said, opening her eyes again. “I know you heard what Marilla said. Every word of it is true.”

He took off his greatcoat and shook the snow off in the corridor before he came back into the stall. “Your fiancé, Dugald, had the brains of a gnat, if he thought ivy would bear the weight of a grown man. You’re better off without him.”

“I won’t be your mistress just because everyone thinks that of me!” she said, her voice very sharp, wrapping her arms tight around herself. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of offers, especially in the first year after Dugald’s death.”

Byron froze as a hot wave of anger rushed to his head. “They talked of climbing up to your window, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard all the sallies you can think of involving ivy,” she said, obviously trying for a careless tone but not succeeding. But her voice strengthened. “I’m a ruined woman. But that doesn’t mean that you can simply take advantage of me.”

Byron managed to shove all his rage back into a little box, with the silent promise that he would wring the names of every one of those damned Scotsmen out of her.

He came down on his heels in order to be at Fiona’s level. The old pony raised her head sleepily, and he scratched her between the ears. “I told myself to go to my room, and then I tried to find you anyway. I wandered around and talked to Lady Cecily for a time.”

“She’s very nice. You should marry her.” She said it flatly.

“I don’t want to,” Byron said, as flatly as she.

“You can’t have everything you want in life,” she said, looking at him with an expression of mingled rage and pain. “Haven’t you learned anything, Byron? Not even that?”

“There have been many things I’ve wanted.” He gently stroked the pony’s ears so she twitched in her sleep. “I wanted my father to care for me. I wanted my mother to come home. I wanted to be less alone.”

Fiona pointed to a bottle of wine. “Have a drink.”

“I wanted a wife who would never play me false, or break my heart, the way my father’s heart was broken.”

“I never considered it before, but I’m finding wine is quite good at soothing a broken heart,” Fiona offered.

“Is your heart broken?” His whole body froze, waiting for her answer. He didn’t know what he was doing, what he was saying. But he was caught up in madness.

“What did you talk to Lady Cecily about?” Fiona said, ignoring his question, her eyes sliding away from his.

“We talked about the difference between what the world thinks of a person . . . and who that person may truly be.” Byron rather thought that the one sentence—that one thought—had changed the course of his life forever.

Fiona snorted. “The world thinks Cecily is tremendously nice, if a little boring, and from what I have seen in the last few days, she is.”

“I don’t think she’s boring.”

“Wonderful. Marry her. Her reputation is undoubtedly snow white and deserved.”

“Do you think that I am precisely what the world thinks me to be?”

She looked at him, and for a moment there was something raw and intense and full of longing in her eyes. Then she blinked. “Likely not,” she said, her voice disinterested.

She settled back against the pony’s stomach. “I’m leaving the country,” she announced.

What?

“I’m leaving Scotland. I can’t think why I didn’t have the idea before.”

“Of course,” he said, calming instantly. “You’re coming to England.” With me, he thought, feeling the truth of it in his bones. “Move a bit, would you? I’m going to put this animal in the stall next door. There’s not room enough for three of us.”

“No, no, not England,” she said, far too cheerfully, though she did sit up so that he could coax the pony to her feet. “I mean to live in Italy. The vineyards, the sunshine, the ancient Roman ruins . . . It will be wonderful! And when I’ve tired of gondolas, I’ll just move on. I’d like to see a camel. I’d like to ridea camel!”

“Hell no, you’re not,” Byron growled. He kicked open the door and led the pony through, glancing over his shoulder.

Fiona reached for the half-full bottle of wine leaning against the wall, but she paused. “Did you just swear at me?”

“No.” He opened the stall next door; the old pony ambled in and collapsed in the pile of straw.

He walked back to her, closing the stall door behind him.

“I’m glad that you didn’t swear at me.” She smiled in a way that showed pretty white teeth. “Because you have nothing to say about what I do with my life.”

Byron grinned back at her, enjoying the rebellion in her eyes. Not to mention the way her cloak had slid down to her waist so he could see the luscious curve of a shadowed breast.

“How will you finance these travels?” he asked, sitting down on a pile of straw opposite her.

Fiona took a swig from the bottle. “Oh, I inherited my mother’s fortune,” she said. “Didn’t I mention that? I reckon I have the edge on Marilla, if you add it all together. I have quite a bit of land.”

Byron reached out, took the bottle, and held it up to the oil lamp. “This half must be mine.”

“Actually, it’s all mine,” Fiona said, a little owlishly. “Though you may have a sip if you like. I’ll have plenty of wine once I move to Italy. Did I tell you that I’m moving to Italy?”

He just looked at her.

“I suppose I did,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, since you don’t seem to like that topic of conversation, let’s discuss something else. Why on earth did you try to save my sorry self from gracefully falling asleep in a snowdrift? Didn’t you tell me this very afternoon that a chaste reputation was the greatest possible blessing? I don’t have one, in case you missed the announcement.”

“I suppose I did say something of that nature.”

“Dugald’s mother has stopped spitting when she sees me.” She paused. “You know how people say there’s a silver lining to a dark cloud? I hate to say it, but not having that woman as my mother-in-law is something of a blessing.”

Byron took another gulp of wine, and placed the bottle to the side. Then he reached out, tossed the fur cape to the side, and crawled forward until his hands were on either side of her shoulders.

She frowned up at him. “You’re not the lord of the manor, you know.” She hiccupped. “The lord of the stable. Don’t think I will kiss you again, because I will not. I’m done with kissing.”

He gazed down at the rose flush in her cheeks, her liquid, slightly hazy eyes, her plump lips, and felt that surge of gladness again. “You’re done with kissing forever?”

“Oh no,” she said, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “I’ve decided to make exceptions.”

“Good,” he said silkily. “You can make one for me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Only for my Italian lover.”

The hiss that came from between his teeth wasn’t a noise a civilized man would make. “Dugald wasn’t Italian, was he?”

“What? No.” She frowned at him. “Would you mind not crouching over me like some sort of demented housecat grown large?”

Byron dropped to his elbows and, very deliberately, lowered his body onto hers. There was a gasp from her, and a barely stifled groan from him. “There will be no Italian lover,” he said, clenching his teeth so that he didn’t resort to a ridiculous, primitive display of manhood.

“Who are you to say that?” she demanded, her eyes darkening, even as her arms looped around his neck. “You are not my fiancé.”

“I know; he’s dead.”

“And ruined me in the process,” she pointed out, yet again.

“Right.” Byron had already decided that he didn’t give a damn about Dugald. If he, the Earl of Oakley, was going to throw over his father’s principles, he was going to do it in style. In other words, he would not only marry the most notorious woman in Scotland (if she was to be believed), but he would never tax his wife with the fact that she came to their bed less than innocent, tarnished by a blackguard fiancé with the stupidity to compromise her as he plummeted to his death.

“You really must stop flirting with me.” She scowled at him. “Though this can hardly be called flirting.”

“What is it?” Byron asked, settling his body a bit more firmly on top of hers. All the right parts of him were pressing against the right parts of her.

“Something worse,” she said darkly.

“Or better,” he said, leaning down so he could give her earlobe a little nip.

“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but I’d rather not have everyone think that I’ve dallied with you as well as with Dugald. I’m already next thing to a Babylonian scarlet woman. A Highlands version, of course.”

“That bad?” Her ear was delightful: small and round and feminine.

“I told you that Dugald’s mother crosses the street when she sees me. After spitting.”

“What about the Italian lover?”

“What about him?”

“What’s his name?” Byron asked, keeping his tone easy. He didn’t want her to know that the Italian was about to plunge from his own metaphoric ivy.

“Well, how should I know? I haven’t met him yet.”

A great burst of joy spread through Byron’s chest, so he bent his head to her mouth. She tasted like wine and Fiona, a combination more potent than the strongest whiskey.

“Ach, man,” she whispered, when he slipped away from her lips and kissed a path along her jaw. “Ye do drive me mad, ye truly do.”

“Your burr comes out when you’re drunk,” he whispered back.

“I’m not drunk! I’m a little tipsy, that’s all.”

“And you’ve decided to take an Italian lover?”

She nodded. She seemed not to notice that her hands were exploring his back, each touch making him press more firmly into the cradle of her legs.

Ti amo, amore mia.

“I suppose you’re trying to make me think that you’re Italian, rather than the most punctilious earl in all London?”

Byron dropped a careful line of kisses down her neck. “I’m not your Italian lover. I’m your Italian husband.”

Her eyes were closed, but at that she opened one and squinted at him. “Don’t you understand who I am?”

He smiled down at her. “Most scandalous woman in all Scotland. Seducer and killer of an idiot by the name of Dugald. Have I missed anything?”

“Probably not.”

“Future countess,” he added calmly.

A crease appeared between her brows, and he kissed it.

“You’ve gone mad.” She seemed quite convinced of it.

“I don’t care.” He caught her mouth again and plunged into a craving, demanding, all-consuming kiss. One hand found its way to her breast, and with a little sigh, she arched toward him, sending a rush of fire to his loins.

“What if you change your mind?” she whispered, a while later. There was just the tiniest quaver in her voice.

“In my family, we never change our minds. That was my father’s problem, you know.”

“He had a problem?”

“My mother left when I was a boy,” Byron said. He rolled off her body and pulled the cape over her again. Then he ran a finger down her delicate nose. “One day I realized that she hadn’t summoned me to her room in some days. I finally concluded that she must have died, if only because my father was so obviously affected.”

Fiona came up on one elbow, her beautiful eyes fixed on his face. “You grew up without a mother.”

“As did you.” He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “That’s why I knew the one thing you wouldn’t allow Marilla to take from you must be a portrait of your mother.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, Byron.”

The pang was hardly more than a pinprick. “My mother was not very motherly. I thought . . . I thought if I could find a wife who showed no signs of passion that she wouldn’t think of leaving our children for another man.”

She nodded. “You must have been devastated when she left.”

“I didn’t know her well enough to be devastated. But my father was. He grew harsh and rather brittle. Even after I was grown, I didn’t question him about what happened. I had the feeling he might break.”

“What would happen if he had broken?”

He considered. “I suppose all that pent-up emotion would have rushed out . . . It would have been embarrassing for both of us.”

“So you never asked him where she was?”

“I pieced it together slowly, mostly from things I overheard. She ran away with my father’s brother. His younger brother.”

Fiona gasped. “That must have been so awful for your father!”

“Yes. He always talked of his brother as a man led astray by an evil woman. For a long time, I had no idea that my mother was the evil woman in question.”

“That’s dreadfully sad. No wonder you were taught such concern about your reputation.”

“It’s not my reputation that’s at the heart of it.” He moved a little closer, just enough that he could put an arm around her waist. “I like touching you.”

She frowned at him. “If not your reputation, then what?”

“I couldn’t bear to become like him,” Byron explained. “I thought if I didn’t fall in love, and I chose a woman who was utterly chaste, I could avoid the possibility.”

“Lady Opal . . .”

“I didn’t know her at all. But she seemed like the driven snow.”

Fiona giggled. “She obviously got to know you well enough to guess precisely what would drive you away.”

“I might kill a dancing master you kissed.” His voice came out hard, all the sheen of a civilized Englishman stripped away, leaving a blazingly possessive man. Just a man. It felt as if his heart stopped as he waited for her to answer, his breath clenched in his chest.

The sharp pain there eased only when she leaned closer to him and said, “You don’t have me, so you’d have no right to raise an eyebrow.” There was a promise in her voice, a daring, silky promise.

Byron took a deep breath, threw a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity happened to be listening, and began nimbly undoing the lacing on her velvet bodice.

“What are you doing?” she yelped.

His fingers stilled. “How drunk are you?”

Her eyes were clear. “I seem to have grown quite sober. But perhaps you should give me the bottle. I’m pretty sure that I’m hallucinating, and I don’t want it to stop.”

“It won’t,” he said. He slowly pulled her jacket wide open. Of course, she was wearing layers . . . a blouse, a corset, a chemise.

He had her out of the blouse and was unlacing the corset before she asked, “Byron, why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m marrying you.”

She was silent, and then: “Did I miss the moment when you asked me?”

“Yes. You must have had too much to drink.” He threw her corset to the side.

But she shook her head when he reached toward her chemise. “Byron. No.”

“I want you,” he said, his voice dismayingly like a growl. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. I . . . I think I—”

But she interrupted before he could finish that sentence. “You want to marry me, even given my reputation.”

“You’re the one for me,” he said, giving up on her chemise and cupping her face in his hands instead. “I don’t know why. All I know is that the moment I saw you, my life changed. What I wanted from life changed. I don’t want to marry a woman who dislikes me enough to stage a performance with a dancing master. I don’t want to be safe and prudent. It’s true that if you leave me, I’ll turn into my father and stalk around being horrible and brokenhearted. I’d rather risk it than not be with you.”

“But you’re beautiful. You’re an earl, you’re brilliant, and if you stop being so frighteningly distant, ladies will fall at your feet. You needn’t marry me merely to prove that you’re a changed man.” She gently pulled his hands down from her face.

“Would you marry me if your fiancé hadn’t died falling from your window?” Byron asked. “Not just because I’m an earl, but . . . for me?”






Chapter 17

Fiona’s heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she hardly heard his quiet question.

She’d always told herself not to wantanything. Now she was breaking all her own rules. It was strange and rather terrifying to discover just how much she wanted to catch Byron in her arms, to kiss him, to reassure him, to make that tiny gleam of uncertainty in his eyes disappear.

“I would,” she said, her voice ringing out in the stables. “I would want you if you were one of Taran’s men, if you were a stable boy, if you were merely an Italian lover.”

“But I’m not,” he said. “I’m the man who is going to be your husband.” Their eyes met, and then he leaned toward her. She closed her eyes, falling into that dark sweep of emotion and desire that came with the touch of his lips.

After that, there wasn’t any fighting over her chemise. A short time later, he stood before her, skin the color of cream, dappled with flecks of shadow by the oil lamp, the powerful muscles in his buttocks leading to muscled thighs, lean calves . . . “I even like your ankles,” she murmured, devouring him with her eyes. His body was heavy and aroused, like nothing she’d imagined.

He didn’t answer, but dropped to his knees before her, his eyes ravishing her, his hands sliding up her legs slowly, seductively. Where his fingers trailed, hot, eager kisses followed.

Fiona writhed on the old blankets, arching her hips instinctively toward him, crying out when his lips moved on to torment yet another part of her.

“I—I—” she cried, meaning to say that she’d never heard of people, respectable people, doing things like this.

But he just nudged her legs farther apart. There was a hum of pleasure in the back of his throat.

He was as careful in this as he was in everything: now delicate, now rough, experimenting to see what made her cry out, alternating with . . . She couldn’t find words because she was too busy trying to draw air into her lungs, and then her mind went black, and she was twisting against his hand, trying, trying . . . and then he finally slipped a broad finger inside her and she nearly screamed.

She did scream, at last, when the world broke around her into tiny shards of light that were somehow flashes of feeling at the same time. They swept over her body in wave after wave.

Byron laughed, and then lowered his head again. She reached down just in time and grabbed his hand. “Don’t touch!”

“Why not?”

She could hear the laughter in his voice, but she ignored it. The air still felt harsh in her lungs, as if she’d stopped breathing for a time. “I’m—I’m—just don’t. It’s too much. Too intense.”

Byron frowned to himself. Obviously, Dugald had been stupid in more ways than one. A silent shrug. If the idiot Scotsman had been too much of an idiot to please his fiancée, that was all to Byron’s advantage.

Fiona lay before him like a dish of strawberries and cream, her skin flushed with pleasure, her dark red hair strands of rubies against the rough woolen blankets. Too harsh for her back, he thought. There was no question but that their joining would make him lose control. He could feel crazed lust possessing him, like a kind of madness.

He had never lost control during a sexual act. Yet with Fiona, the slightest kiss brought him close to the limit of that control. She made him feel like a madman, crazed with the wish to possess her, to make her his. Knowing that was stupid didn’t help.

She would end up with abrasions on her back, and he had just enough control left to want to avoid that. He picked up her soft body and rolled backward, letting her down on top of him.

She balanced her weight by catching herself on his chest and then pursed her lips in the most carnal pout he’d ever seen. “What are you doing?”

Byron traced the line of her deep bottom lip with a finger. “I thought we’d try it this way for our first time,” he said, trying to disguise the keen ache that he felt at the mere sight of her breasts . . . and utterly failing. They were ripe and full, the perfect size to drive a man to his knees with lust. The groan that broke from his throat was more like a growl as he curled up to draw one pink nipple into his mouth, pleasuring first it and then the other.

She liked it. Her fingers clenched in his hair and broken cries flew from her mouth. Through the roaring fog of lust, he spared a thought about his good fortune to find a woman who was not afraid of marital congress. Who wasn’t pushing him away and shuddering in disgust the way most virgins did, or so he had been reliably informed.

When he could hardly breathe, and his loins were on fire, he said in a gravelly voice, “ Now!

Her head was thrown back, all that gorgeous hair tumbling to her bottom, but at his command she straightened and braced herself on his chest.

There was something odd and tentative about her expression, and Byron realized in a blinding flash that dim-witted Dugald had not only denied his ostensible beloved an orgasm of her own, but that he had apparently made love to her only in the most conventional of ways.

Which left more for the two of them to discover together, he thought with a rocketing streak of pleasure, his tool hardening even more at the thought.

He put his hands on Fiona’s lush hips and lifted her up, positioning her carefully, and then let her go.

He was desperate with need, mad to be inside her. Her mouth formed a perfect circle as he thrust upward. She felt like liquid silk, hot and tight.

She was so tight that his vision went white as a voluptuous fog of pleasure enclosed him. He threw his head back, his fingers flexing on her hips and arched so that this time, this first time, he was surrounded by her. A groan burst from his throat as he withdrew and thrust upward again, even the tiniest movement sending a blast of pleasure down his limbs. She was so tight. Verytight.

Byron’s eyes flew open.

Fiona was leaning forward, braced against his chest. She didn’t look precisely as if she was in pain, but her face was tentative.

He froze, his back still arched, his hands gripping the curve of her hips. A good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon curse erupted from his lips.

Fiona blinked and said, “There’s no need to speak in such a fashion.”

“You . . . You . . .” The word came out strangled, harsh and dark.

“I’m a virgin,” she said helpfully. “Or perhaps I should say that I wasa virgin.” She wiggled her hips, and he swallowed a groan, his fingers tightening on her hips again. “It doesn’t feel terrible.”

“The window,” he gasped. “The—the ivy?”

“Do you really believe that I would be stupid enough to invite a lover to enter my bedroom by horticultural means?”

Her eyes were sparkling, although a tightness around her jaw told him that the snug fit that was making him tremble from head to foot was not as delicious for her. He began to lift her away from him, but she curled her fingers against his chest and said, “No!”

He stopped instantly.

She slipped back down until he was snugly hilted inside her. Byron couldn’t help it: his hips arched and he gasped her name.

“Did you like that?” she asked, her voice changing from its usual calm, dry amusement with the world to something different. Nearly a purr. She braced herself against his chest and lifted herself a bit and then slammed back down.

A ragged cry broke from his lips and he thrust into her again, taking that last millimeter, burying himself in her slick heat.

Fiona laughed, and the sound fell on him like a blessing. She leaned forward and did it again, and he finally regained enough control to release her hips, though he was pretty sure he’d left bruises on her skin. His hands free, they went naturally to her breasts.

He had his control back now, even if it was held by a thread so delicate it might as well be a strand of her hair. She had to come with him into the intoxicating, ravenous pleasure that beckoned.

She had her eyes closed, swaying a little on top of him, her hands covering his as he shaped her breasts, rubbing those beautiful nipples again and again. Every time, he felt a delicate little shudder go through her body.

Fiona was in the grip of a feeling so sensual that she didn’t even know how to name it. It was like the storm outside, as if she’d been caught up in something so powerful that the essential her was lost in the middle of a whirl of wind. Where there had been nothing, there was suddenly this hard, hot . . . this . . . She couldn’t think of the word.

And Byron was caressing her breasts, and every time he rubbed a thumb past her nipples, he would nudge upward, just the smallest amount, just enough to remind her that he was there.

Part of her.

The very thought ran like liquid gold over her skin. She, Fiona, was finally not alone any longer. Even though they’d known each other for almost no time at all, she knew it with a certainty that flooded her whole body. His face, that beautiful, beautiful face, was contorted, savage, not graceful . . . because of her.

“You will always love me, won’t you?” she asked, the words coming out with a gasp. Every time he moved, it made spirals of heat shoot through her legs.

He opened his eyes at that. She knew instinctively that there wasn’t a woman in London who would recognize, who had ever seen, the look of savage possession that she saw now on the face of the cultured and urbane Earl of Oakley. “Always. You are mine,” he snarled, thrusting up again. Her body had adjusted now, accepted him.

More than that, it welcomed him, sent a shudder of heat through her. She swayed, caught herself on his chest, her fingers curling against hard muscle.

Her eyelids dropped closed. It felt as if her body was narrowing to one point, to this—

His big hands caught her hips and lifted her easily in the air, away from him, into unwelcome coolness. She let out a sobbing cry, but he was moving like a whirlwind, throwing down the fur cape, laying her gently on her back, bracing himself over her.

“I have to have you,” he said, his mouth just touching hers, his voice strained but gentle. “It’s this bloody possessive side of me, Fiona. I need to—I need to—”

She looked up at him, feeling the fever race through her blood as he started to come to her, and knew that this would always be their fulcrum point.

He would needto possess her, to know that she would never leave him, to believe it with every speck of his soul. And she would needjust as desperately to know that he loved her. That he would be tender, and stand between her and the world’s opinion, and always defend her.

It was the blazing truth in his eyes, clear in the way his huge body was frozen over hers, even as he obviously struggled to control himself. He was braced on his elbows, his hands clenched beside her head.

Fiona drew her fingers voluptuously down his back, all the way to the hard muscles of his buttocks. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice aching with the truth of it. “I am not complete without you.”

The hunger in her voice was matched by the rumbling groan that broke from his throat. He stretched her, and completed her. And then they were both lost in the storm, his head bent so that he could dust her with sweet kisses, catch her panting breaths, lick the line of her lips . . .

While he ravished her.

And she ravished him.

They spoke to each other without words, made promises without words, loved each other without words.


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