He sat down on the side of the bed to pull off his boots and stockings before standing and setting his hands on either side of her waist and looking her over slowly, from her head to her feet.
And she realized that he was intentionally moving slowly and deliberately rather than tearing in a frenzy at their clothes. It was part of the lovemaking. She guessed he was experienced and was strangely thankful. She was twenty-five years old and really knew nothing beyond a few unsatisfactory kisses.
He was looking into her eyes again.
“I always knew you were beautiful,” he said. “I just did not realize that you were... perfect. I wish I could be perfect for you.”
“Idiot,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows. “Youareperfect. And even if you were not... you areJustin.That is all that matters.”
His eyes brightened again for a moment with what might have been tears. Though in truth the light from the single candle was very dim. He grasped the sides of her shift and lifted it over her head as she raised her arms. He turned her, and she lay down on the bed and watched as he unbuttoned his pantaloons at the waist, lowered them, and stepped out of them. He lay down beside her, sliding an arm beneath her and turning her onto her side so that there was room on the bed for the two of them. But only just. And only when they were pressed together.
Estelle, feeling him along the naked length of her body, wondered if she would ever be able to catch her breathagain. Now she could believe that he really was that man astride his horse who had so frightened her beside the river. But she was not frightened tonight. For she had spoken the truth just now. Nothing about him mattered more than that he was Justin.
“Let me make it good for you,” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes,” she whispered into his mouth.
He pushed back the bedcovers, and his hands moved over her. His mouth too, after it had left hers. And for the next while he did indeed make it good for her, touching her everywhere with those large, callused, sensitive hands of his and with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, caressing her and arousing her until she ached and tingled with desire and longing. She touched him too, tentatively at first, with more assurance when he drew in a hissing breath and murmured encouragement. She explored him with one hand, kissed him, and reveled in the breathtaking carnality of it all, the feel of him, the smell of his soap, of his cologne, ofhim.And at every moment she was aware of the size and hardness of his arousal, of his intent, of where this was all leading.
But where there ought perhaps to have been fright, there was only the eagerness of anticipation and the wondering realization that this wasJustin.The Earl of Brandon. The man of all men she had least expected to love with her whole heart and her whole body.
And then his hand wastherein her most secret place, his fingers stroking, parting, going inside her. She was wet, she realized. She could both feel it and hear it and was curiously unembarrassed.
“I want to come there,” he murmured into her mouth. “You are ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
And he lifted himself over her and lowered himself onto her with all that glorious size and weight. His hands slid down between her back and the mattress to spread over her buttocks as his knees came between hers and pushed her legs wide. She could feel him at her entrance and twined her legs about his.
He pressed inside her.
There were no words. There were not even thoughts. Only sensations. Hardness, size, stretching, discomfort that was not really uncomfortable, pain that did not really hurt, thoughts and words that would not form in her head with any coherence. The conviction that there could not possibly be room enough or depth enough. The sudden sharpness of a pain that was only too real, and a deep penetration that somehow banished the pain. The joining of bodies.
“I have hurt you,” he murmured.
“No. Yes.No,” she said. And“No”again when he withdrew slowly. But only to the brink of her.
He pressed deep again. And withdrew and pushed deep. And she knew—of course she knew—that this was what happened between man and woman. This was the act of love. She tilted her pelvis slightly, the better to accommodate him, and learned his rhythm and matched it with her own and rotated her hips because it felt even better that way. She could feel his hardness better, catch it at different angles inside.
“Witch!” he said, a note of sudden urgency in his voice. “Oh, God, you witch, Estelle.”
And if he had been trying to be gentle because he knew he had hurt her, he gave it up, knowing it to be unnecessary, and drove hard into her, over and over again until nothing existed except him and her. Them.There.Panting, laboredbreath. Sweat and rocking movement and the rhythmic sound of wetness. And the growing sensation that they were nearing the edge of some cliff or the peak of some mountain or the heart of some volcano. But no, there were no real words.
He found her mouth with his own as he thrust deep into her again and held there, poised on the precipice and somehow, suddenly, over it. But not to destruction. To its opposite, whatever that was. The hot flow of his love deep within her. The leftover throbbing as he lay still in her. The heavy weight of him. The sweaty heat of their bodies. The peace—ah, the peace. And the sense that for a moment they had become one and were now settling gently back into their own bodies. But forever linked by the fact that they had known that unity.
“I am probably crushing the life out of you,” he said.
It was not quite that dire, but he was very heavy. And large. Deliciously so. “I do not want you to leave yet,” she said, tightening her arms about him.
But after a few moments longer he withdrew slowly from her and moved to her side, holding her to him as he did so. Somehow he got hold of the bedcovers and pulled them up over them. And Estelle sighed against him as warmth upon warmth enveloped her. The candle flickered on. Her legs were twined with his. Her arms were trapped against his hard, muscled chest. Her head was nestled between his shoulder and neck. One of his arms was beneath her, the other over her hip while his hand was spread over her back. It was a night she did not want to end.
You will be marrying me,he had said earlier. Not a question. A statement. Which ought to have made her bristle a bit with indignation but actually made her smile. A man who knew what duty and responsibility were. And love.And hewouldask. She would insist upon it, though she was sure she would not have to. Her smile deepened.
And she realized he was sleeping. It was somehow the loveliest moment of the night. He had loved her and relaxed into sleep, holding her close.
Estelle closed her eyes and breathed in the sweaty, musky smell of him. Sleep. It was an enticing idea. She was so very weary and so very relaxed. A wonderful combination. Especially when she lay in her lover’s arms.
Twenty-two
