Crispin’s hands moved over her with reverence.He cradled the line of her jaw, the nape of her neck, the trembling slope of her shoulder.Clara, in turn, found the buttons at his collar and worked them loose.
She let the jacket slip, followed by the waistcoat, her fingers moving with a deliberate grace that mirrored the quiet certainty in her heart.She fumbled at the cravat, laughed under her breath, and untied it with a sharp tug.
He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.For a moment she only looked at him, her hands hovering just above his skin, uncertain whether to touch.He leaned forward.Her fingers brushed his chest, then further, until her arms circled his back and their bodies fit together.
He kissed her again, slower this time, and she yielded.Crispin caught the back of her head, tangling his hand in her hair, and he let the feeling of her—her warmth, her scent, the sinewy grace of her—flood through him until he could no longer recall what it had been like to be alone.
He traced the laces at the back of her gown, fingertips skimming the curve of her spine through the silk.“May I?”he asked, and the question shocked them both with its courtesy.
Clara breathed, “Yes,” barely a sound, and he slipped the laces free.Her dress slid to her hips.The chemise beneath was gossamer, nearly nothing, and she flushed a deep, beautiful pink at his first true glimpse of her.
She began to turn away, suddenly shy, but he caught her at the waist and pulled her close.
“You are so lovely,” he said.“I have wanted you since the first time you threatened to kill me.”
She laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder.He gathered her closer, one hand at her hip, the other pressing into her back, and he felt her body melt against his.
They toppled, half-laughing, half-clinging, to the edge of the bed, and then she was beneath him, hair fanned over the sheets, eyes wide and unguarded.He took a moment to gaze upon her, to memorize the line of her jaw, the arch of her brow, the pulse that flickered at her throat.She looked back, steady and certain.
He bent and kissed the hollow at the base of her neck, felt her shudder and draw a sharp breath.He let his lips drift down, tasting her shoulder, her collarbone, the bare, trembling skin of her chest.She reached for him, found his hair, pulled him up to meet her mouth.
“I want you.I want this,” she said, running her hands down his back, pulling him close.
“I intend to take my time,” he replied.“Unless you would prefer?—”
She shook her head.“No.I want all of it.”
He slipped the remaining garments fully off, baring her.His hands—steady, deliberate—skated over her ribs, her waist, her hips.She shivered beneath his touch, but did not look away, even when he peeled the last fabric from her skin.
He removed his boots and breeches in silence, letting her watch.She did, her gaze roaming his body with a frankness that made him feel flayed and worshipped at once.
When he finally lay beside her, he pulled her close, skin to skin.The sensation was overwhelming.She was warm and alive, her heart pounding so hard he thought it might bruise them both.
“Clara,” he whispered again, but this time it was a benediction.
She touched his cheek.“Yes.”
He kissed her, and the world collapsed to the two of them, to the way her body arched under his, the way she gripped his shoulders.The heat gathered and built until it was unbearable and then, somehow, more than that.
She gasped when he entered her, a small, startled sound, and for a moment he stilled, afraid he had gone too far.
But she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper, meeting him with a ferocity that astonished him.He matched her, pulse for pulse, until the rhythm became a tide.Their bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, fingers digging into flesh as if each sought to anchor the other in place.
Her climax took her by surprise—he felt the shudder, the sharp cry muffled in his neck, and he lost himself in the same moment, spilling into her with a low, ragged groan.They clung together through it, unwilling to let go.
After, they lay tangled on the sheets, limbs entwined, foreheads pressed together.He smoothed the damp hair from her brow and pressed a lingering kiss to the soft skin just above her cheekbone.
For a long time, neither spoke.The silence was profound, complete.The fire in the grate hissed as it burned down.
At last, Crispin murmured, “You are mine.”
He felt her smile, slow and secret, against his skin.
He stroked his fingers across her back, writing forever against her skin as he continued.“Not because of a bargain.Not because of scandal.Because you chose me and I chose you.”
She lifted her head, studied him with clear, steady eyes.“And I will again.Tomorrow.And the next day.”
He could not help it.He laughed, and the sound was softer than any he had ever made.He let his hand drift down her back, tracing the curve of her spine.
