He stilled for half a beat before a low sound—a half growl—vibrated in his chest.
“I only meant to help you bathe,” he said.
“If I remember correctly, this bath is big enough to accommodate the two of us,” she replied, tilting her head just enough to catch his eye over her shoulder.
His grin was slow and wicked, the kind that had once made her knees weak from across the room. But now it held something different too—something softer, almost reverent.
“Then we’ll test your memory, Mrs. Greystone.”
Mrs. Greystone. Not Lady Greystone. Was he playing at being what they were before? She could go along with that fantasy. Those were simpler times. Happier times.
His fingers worked at the tiny buttons down her front, each one releasing with a faint pop, the slide of fabric cool against her heated skin. She turned in his arms once the bodice loosened, her fingers finding his necktie, tugging it loose with deliberate slowness. His coat followed, then her skirt. His waistcoat. Her petticoat. His shirt. Her hands lingered over the hard slabs of muscle that composed his chest. He indulged her, allowing her to explore him at her leisure. Which she did, following the ridges and contours of a torso that seemed carved by a Renaissance master sculptor. But it was no cold marble under her hands. Warm flesh quivered under her touch. She licked her lips in appreciation, then slid lower, toward the waistband of his trousers. His hands stopped her, signaling it was his turn to play.
Slowly, he lifted one of her legs to prop her foot on the lip of the porcelain bath. It was the work of a moment for him to remove her serviceable work boots. But his touch lingered, sliding slowly up her stockinged leg, his fingers leaving a trail of warmth on her skin and making a different sort of warmth pool in the center of her.
Holding her gaze, he untied the garter and rolled down the stocking. By the time he had done the same with the other leg, her core felt liquid with desire.
He knew, of course. The little half smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and the seemingly casual way his fingers brushed her folds said it clearly. She thought he would remark on it, but he refrained. Letting her wait…and wonder.
Then she was standing in only her chemise, he in his trousers, their hands exploring with a familiarity that felt both brand new and achingly remembered.
The last of their clothes didn’t last for long, for they were both desperate to explore the other fully. When they were bare at last, he kissed her softly—no hunger, no demand, only the press of his lips as if he, too, was memorizing her all over again. And the effect of this kiss was even more devastating than the last one.
She was trembling with need by the time they, together, stepped into the bath, the water lapping up in gentle waves. She settled between his legs, leaning back onto the solid wall of his chest. His hard, engorged rod a bar of iron against her lower back. She wanted to lift herself up and sink onto that glorious cock. Let it fill her until it vanquished the aching emptiness inside her.
But his arms came around her automatically, holding her in place for his leisurely exploration. As his soap-slicked hands glided over her torso, teasing her nipples into turgid little pebbles, she let her head fall back to rest on his shoulder.
For the first time in too long, she felt…safe.
Which made no sense, given the storm of passion that raged inside her. It should scare her, excite her, compel her. And it did all of that. But underneath it all, the strongest emotion was that she could give in to the storm. Because this was Nathaniel. He would see her through. He would hold her and protect her through it all.
She turned her head to kiss the underside of his jaw. His hands on her breasts were relentless, causing her to squirm and thrash, water spilling over the edge of the bath. She sneaked a hand behind her back and took hold of the iron rod encased in the softest skin.
He groaned and for a moment, pumped into her hand, but then he pulled himself out of her grasp.
“Later,” he rasped. “For the moment, just enjoy.”
What followed was a slow exploration of her body. His soapy hands ran over every inch of her skin. Her breasts, her belly, her arms, the inside of her thighs. Molding. Claiming. Owning.
Surrendering herself to her husband’s mastery of her body was not an option but a need. He played her like a maestro plays the violin, and in his hands, her body was a finely tuned instrument.
His clever, dexterous fingers played over the swollen folds of her sex, a whisper-soft caress that inflamed rather than satisfied. She whimpered and pressed into his hand, eliciting a low, dark chuckle from his throat. He was aware of what he was doing, of course. The effect it was having on her. And she couldn’t even be cross. The longer he teased her, the longer he played with her and wound her up tighter, the stronger the release would be.
His lips coasted along her neck. Licking, then softly biting as one long finger slid inside her hungry sheath. She gasped and clamped around it, making a mewling sound of need.
“Ready for more?” he whispered in her ear, his voice smoky and dark as midnight.
“Yes!” It burst out of her. A demand. A plea. A cry for help.
The finger withdrew, and the next time he pushed in, another joined the first. They slid easily in the abundant moisture of her sheath, moving slowly and deeply inside of her, caressing her insides while his thumb found her nub and circled it relentlessly.
The double stimulation made her wild. A creature made of fire and desire. She writhed against him, pushing into his hand. But when his other hand joined the action, pinching and rolling one over-sensitized nipple between thumb and forefinger, she lost her mind.
“Nate…I can’t. It’s too much,” she whimpered, almost incoherent with lust.
“You can take it. I know you can. You are going to take all the pleasure I give you, and you are going to come for me. Go ahead, Alice. Squeeze my fingers with your tight little cunny while you explode into a million sparks like a firework.”
“Nathaniel…”
