She shifted beside him. He felt just the movement of the bed. Then the soft brash of her golden hair against the flesh of his arm. He smoothed it away.
He felt his heartbeat once again, its pace growing faster. Louder. Pounding throughout him.
If he’d meant to leave her alone, he should have retired to his own room.
He could smell her. The scent of her flesh, clean, carrying the subtle, evocative scent of Mayfair’s rosewood soap. She’d washed her hair recently as well. It, too, carried a soft, titillating scent. He moved a hand, running it over the golden tendrils curled over the sheets by his side. They were unbelievably soft, silky…he buried his face in them. Closed his eyes again. Leaned back.
His heartbeat shuddered, skipped. Pulsed into his limbs, his loins, his blood, body, sex…
He rolled next to her, lifted her hair, nuzzled his lips against the lobe of her ear, her throat. She didn’t awaken, but twisted, her body coming flush against his. He pulled down the sheets, slipped his hand beneath the hem of the chaste flannel gown, drawing it up. He stroked her thigh, drawing incredibly soft, lazy circles against it. She moved against him, a long expulsion of breath escaping through her lips, some slight, sensual sound mingling with it. He brought the movement upward, caressing her hips, belly, ribs. Lower, higher. A feathery touch against her breasts. Between her thighs. She roused but didn’t waken. Undulated, pressed against him. Her neck arched. He placed his lips against it, felt her pulse, then…
Fierce impatience seized him. He caught her hips and drew her buttocks hard against his loin. One swift movement and he was within her, satiation of the pulsing hunger within him his one driving goal.
At the invasion of his first thrust, she woke fully. Had she wished to protest, it would have been far too late. But she wouldn’t protest. Nor would she allow herself in a fully conscious state the subtle but sensuous movements that had served to so fully rouse him. She buried her face against the bedding. Her fingers fell upon his hands where they steadiedher hips, holding her to his will. She didn’t try to stop him, she simply dug in, as if she braced herself, and waited.
Not even her stubborn determination to remain unmoved could dampen his fire. Within minutes he rose to a swift, violent climax, ejaculating into her with a shudder that ripped through the length of him. First, the sweet simple warmth of basic satiation filled him. Then the ragged edge of disappointment. He rolled to his back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. But then, I guess I actually didn’t.”
She spoke without turning to him. “I told you?—”
“I know. You’ll give me nothing. Whatever I get, I must take. Perhaps you should be careful. When I set my mind to it, I can take a lot.”
“You can’t take everything.”
He turned on his side, away from her. He felt her shifting in the bed, pulling her nightgown back down.
He wondered then what it was about her that could make him behave so irrationally because her simple movement suddenly sent his temper soaring. He spun on her, drawing a startled gasp. “What in God’s name…”
With the same fluid movement, he caught hold of the flannel garment he found so offensive and ripped it with the strength of a madman, not ceasing then, but tearing and pulling despite her ground-out curses and flailing protest. At last the remnants of the gown lay on the floor beside the bed.
“Damn you!” she gasped. “Just what is it that you seem to have against my clothing?”
“It doesn’t belong in bed,” he told her blandly.
“It was a nightgown!”
“For a schoolmarm. It doesn’t belong in bed.”
“Lots of women, lots of wives, wear nightgowns!”
“Not my wife.”
He fell away from her, turning his back on her, feeling the shame creep over him again. In some things, perhaps, he was justified. Because she was full of secrets. And lies. And because she had made her own choices.
But still…
Why get so worked up about a nightgown? Because it came between them.
Along with what else?
Trouble. Have you legal title? Can manage no more than a few weeks. Help fast. Pray you’re well.
If he confronted her now, she’d lie. Close more tightly against him. He’d have to find her out. Take what he wanted to know because she’d give him nothing.
He closed his eyes. He needed to sleep.
His eyes flew open again when her fist slammed against his back with surprising strength.
“You son of a bitch!” she hissed, turning away from him once again.
