This time, the shock of the syllables didn’t rock him.
Since his parents died, he’d rarely heard his name spoken aloud. He’d left the syllables behind, carefully pressed like an autumn leaf between the pages of a heavy book—preserved, but fragile, libel to break apart with the merest breath.
She had—he kissed them both—gentle hands.
If his name were ever to be safe again, it would be safe in her keeping.
But he’d paused too long. And now, she was watching him with her too perceptive gaze. Once more, he feared he’d revealed more than he’d intended.
Devil take it, she was his now, by legal agreement. Just as he was hers. Why should he hold back at all?
“Say my name again,” he said.
She leaned forward and kissed him. “Godric,” she repeated against his mouth. “Would you like me to call you Godric when we are alone?”
Yes. “Flick your tongue against my lip that way, and I will answer to anything you call me.”
She repeated the action. He cupped her neck and held her still as he plundered. He couldn’t get enough. Her heat. Her sweetness. The way she matched each thrust of his tongue. They weren’t so much kissing as hungrily devouring one another.
She pulled back, panting—staring at him with flushed cheeks and wild eyes.
“Snuff the lamp, would you?” she asked.
“Why? I like to look at you.”
“I prefer to feel.”
She stretched the single syllablefeelinto a long, breathy caress against his skin. Darkness, he decided, had advantages, too.
“For tonight, then.” They’d have others. But never, he thought, enough.
Languidly, she lifted herself from the couch and then lowered the wick. She did not completely quench the light but dimmed the glow enough to cast them both in shadow—a shadow that charmingly outlined her shape. Soon enough, he’d learn that same curve with his mouth.
“Now,” she stretched out her arms, “you may undress me.”
He pulled the string at her throat and slid her dressing gown down over her shoulders. A dowdy thing. Too dowdy for such a prize. He’d buy her something better. Some frothy concoction of laced lawn that would make her look like a tantalizing confection. A sweet.
Hissweet.
He pressed his lips to her shoulder and then, over her shift, he worked his way back to the swell of her breasts. Her fretfully impatient whimper made him smile against the thin fabric.
She tugged at his nightshirt. “Shall I remove this?”
“Well”—he chuckled softly—“aren’t you a confounding combination of bold and polite?”
“Womanly nerves?” She leaned into him, placing her hand over the open part of his shirt.
“You are not at all of a nervous disposition.” Her light scent unmanned him, as if he were a youth unschooled in carnal experience. Slowly, he palmed her breasts. “Womanly however...”
She tugged up his nightshirt. He leaned to the side, helping her work the garment over his head. She couldn’t possibly see much more than shadows, but her sigh was pure gratification.
“Very nice. Just as I imagined.”
“Imagined?”
“You aren’t the only one who can paint pictures with your mind.” She placed her hand on the center of his chest and pushed him back against the raised part of the chair.
“What’s this? he asked, though he offered no resistance.
