“My love,” he said.
And then he filled her. Filled her so deep and so full that she thought she might burst with the exquisite wonder of it. She wrapped her legs around him, clinging to him, loving him and wanting him, her body and mind and heart solely his. How right it felt, this joining. How right he was for her, this man.
He moved, slowly at first, his cock gliding easily through her slickness. His expression was intent, his jaw locked, his eyes burning green fire into hers as he held her gaze and made love to her until they both lost all control. His measured thrusts became faster and harder, and her nails scraped down his back. He kissed her, and she tasted both of them together. It was wicked and it was wonderful, and when he reached between their joined bodies to press on her aching clitoris again, she came undone.
Her inner muscles clenched on him, and Elizabeth moaned into his mouth, holding on to him as he continued to fuck her deeply, deliciously. He made an answering sound deep in his chest, a rumble so primal that it vibrated against her breasts. Another few pumps, and he came apart as well, spilling inside her, filling her with the hot release of his seed, their lips never parting.
When the last drop had been wrung from him, he ended their kiss, his breathing as ragged as hers, looking down at her with the tender expression she adored.
“Sweet God,” he said, reverence in his voice, in his eyes. “That was incredible, my love.”
He was still pulsing inside her, and she wasn’t ready for him to withdraw just yet. She kept her legs locked around him, her arms twined around his neck.
“You’reincredible,” she told him.
“Hardly.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m just a sinner and a scoundrel.”
“You’re far more than that,” she countered softly. “You’re my husband.” She kissed his jaw, his cheek, his lips, any part of him she could. “And you’re the other half of my heart.”
EPILOGUE
“Angel,” Torrie called in a singsong voice, feeling ridiculous as he swept through the town house in search of one tortoise shell cat. “Angel. Here puss, puss, puss. Where have you gone, you sly little bit of fur?”
He was seeking the cat for good reason, of course. Bess wanted to feed the minx her breakfast, and Bess was decidedly not in a state to be chasing about an errant feline. She was doing precisely what she ought to be doing at the moment: resting in bed, propped up with an array of pillows.
Torrie passed the breakfast room and caught a flurry of motion from the corner of his eye. Had it been the cat?
He stopped and doubled back, entering the room to find his mother sitting at the table with Angel at her side. The cat was atop the table, eating delicately from whatever feast his mother must have procured on her behalf from the laden sideboard.
“Mama,” he said, for now that time had passed and he had regained his memory, the endearment no longer felt foreign and unfamiliar.
And at his wife’s urging, he was attempting to mend his relationship with his mother.
“I would give anything to speak to my mother one more time,” she had told him. “Yours is still here.”
And as always, Bess with her compassionate heart had persuaded him that he must give his mother another chance. He had been willing, provided that his mother continued to treat Bess kindly. And in recent months, her ice had gradually thawed.
“Torrie,” his mother greeted him, looking a bit ruffled at his unexpected arrival.
No doubt because she was allowing the cat to dine atop the table.
He cleared his throat. “Good morning. Bess was searching for Angel, but I see that she is already enjoying her breakfast.”
Color tinged his mother’s cheekbones. “The vexing creature was hungry. What else was I to do?”
The cat’s frequent presence on tables now made perfect sense.
“You’ve been spoiling her,” he said without heat.
For in truth, he found his mother’s grudging adoration for Angel amusing. She insisted that she disliked the cat and yet, at every opportunity, she was feeding her or holding her in her lap.
“Why would I spoil her?” His mother asked dismissively. “I don’t even like her.”
“Of course, you don’t,” he agreed wryly.
Mama gave an imperious sniff. “She is a little beggar.”
“Who knows where to beg,” he pointed out.
