Once again he took charge of her body, using his hands and his hips and whispered words to issue commands. Where they touched each other, when and how they kissed, the speed and style of their escalating rhythm: He dictated every detail with aplomb. And she obeyed every dictate with eager excitement.
And not only because she found this new, authoritative streak in Jonathan wildly attractive and compelling. He also seemed to have a knack for anticipating her desires, sometimes before they’d revealed themselves even to her.
Was this evidence of his skill in the bedchamber? Proof of how well they suited one another? Or just a result of how unreservedly he was giving her his full attention?
She couldn’t decide, because she couldn’t think straight.
Those deep blue eyes never left hers. When she searched them now, she saw a satisfying change. Though the hunger and fire remained, they were no longer tinged with even the tiniest trace of worry. Instead there was a golden glow of joy, adoration, and love.
His love was so palpable that her heart suddenly swelled. Like molten metal filled a jeweler’s mold, the golden glow seemed to flow right into her. Smoothing over jagged edges, lighting all the shadowed corners. Chasing away the darkness and emptiness of the past year.
Tears of happy relief pricked at Claire’s eyes. She tried to hold them back, fearing they’d upset Jonathan. But he sensed the emotional shift at once and eased back a little.
When a tear overflowed and streaked down her temple, he bent to kiss it away. “Don’t cry, my love,” he murmured. “This feels too good and too right for sorrow, don’t you think?”
She nodded fervently. “Th-that’s why I’m crying.”
“Ah.” A smile tugging at his lips, he drew away and sat up. “I suppose it’s all right, then.”
“Are we stopping?” she asked in dismay.
“Not for the world.”
“Then why?—”
“Trust me,” he said, “I dreamt of doing this, too.” And as if she weighed nothing, he lifted her and arranged her astride his lap, spreading her skirts all around them.
Her curiosity turned to appreciation as he raised and then lowered her down upon him, slowly, slowly. At the bottom she encountered a new feeling, an almost-too-fullness she found queer although not unpleasant. A little sound escaped her throat at the same time a shuddering breath escaped his.
The odd feeling could not be endured for long. Instinctively she leaned into Jonathan and used his wide shoulders to push herself up. With his hands spanning her waist, he assisted as much as directed her rise and fall, slowly, slowly…then faster, faster.
Claire didn’t know who was driving the escalation—nor at present did she care. All she knew was the dizzying whirl of sensation: his sleek hair feathering her cheek, his hot mouth teasing any bare skin it could reach, her thigh muscles straining with effort, the urgency building where his body joined hers.
When his hands left her waist to bring her head down to his, she feared her legs might give out for want of support. His kiss was frantic and unending, and though it stoked her urgency, she felt herself tiring.
He must have felt it too, for his murmured, “Keep going,” was nearly a growl. A shivery thrill raced down her spine, imparting a burst of renewed energy.
In the next instant he was crushing her to him. She felt him quaking, and the turbulence in his body made her own body flood with heat. She heard him gasp her name and felt his fingers burrow between them. And when they found her tenderest place, she felt the unbearable contrast of deft, feather-light caresses amid rough and fevered straining...
This time her unravelling was so complete she feared her cries were too loud. For some moments she scarcely remembered her own name or where she was.
Upon knitting herself back together, she found that she was Claire (albeit, a much happier and lighter Claire than she’d been of late), and her current location was in Jonathan’s arms. Her head was tucked under his chin; her face was engulfed in his cravat (which was sadly bedraggled, though it still smelled as forest-fresh as the rest of him); and all her limbs were enfolding him, clinging to his reassuringly solid form.
When her breathing had evened, she exerted herself so far as to turn her head. “I didn’t know you could be so…” Groping for a word that wouldn’t make her blush, at length she chose: “Assertive.”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to be,” he replied archly.
She gave a contented sigh, and he settled his lips in her hair, and they didn’t move or speak again for some time. The only sounds were the crackling fire and Jonathan humming snatches of some indistinct melody, his throat vibrating pleasantly against her forehead.
“What are you humming?”
“You can’t tell? It’s one of your favorite songs.”
Claire frowned, listening closer. “I don’t recognize it.”
“How could you fail to recognize Sir Christèmas?”
A laugh bubbled in her throat. “You’ve got the melody all wrong. It goes like this—” She demonstrated.
