“It’s all right, Sarah. Passion isn’t forbidden.”
She sighed. She’d never be able to explain. Even if it had been forbidden, she wouldn’t have been able to prevent it. Being around him was magic. She trembled inside. She quaked with it.
She turned and reached up, pulled his head down for a kiss.
When she pulled away, she was breathless, and delighted to see that Douglas was as well. She walked toward her bed, dropping her wrapper on the floor. She’d never had the freedom to be as naked as he. She’d never had the confidence or the courage. Tonight, with the lamplight spreading through the room with a golden glow, she would simply have to be brave.
She grabbed her nightgown with both hands and pulled it over her head.
He didn’t say a word as his gaze traveled over her body. She straightened her shoulders, kept her hands flat against her thighs, then without a word, turned and climbed onto her bed.
He was suddenly there beside her.
She laughed, excitement racing through her blood.
They were tumbling among the sheets, tangled in heat and desperation. Turning, hands sliding over skin, palms curving over shoulders, elbows, buttocks, knees. Her fingernails gently trailed across the skin of his back, and he responded by curving over her.
She was the one to deepen their next kiss, tasting the contours of his lips, rubbing her palms over the bristles on his cheeks.
His skin was hot, and she warmed herself on it,exposing herself to the air when her own heat threatened to engulf her. She rose onto her knees, brushing her hair back from her shoulders, swooping down on him like a siren of need and want, nipping at his chest, the muscles of his arms, hearing his laughter and knowing it was in praise of her boldness.
She was mad for him.
She sat astride him, pressing both hands against his instrument, holding it possessively against her palms, She loved the feel of it, soft, and hot and hard. Her fingers measured its length, burrowed in the nest of hair at its base, and palmed the sac there.
Even when he rose and strained against her, even when he made a low, groaning sound in the back of his throat, she wouldn’t let him inside. Instead, she placed both hands on the mattress behind her and arched back, exposing herself to the cooling air, to his hands, to his glittering gaze. He touched her everywhere, fingers trailing along her neck, thumbs brushing against her nipples, and there, where he sought out her swollen folds, playing amid the dampness, causing delight with his talented fingers.
She reached for him again, needing the touch of his manhood like it was a lodestone for her hands. The head at the end of this magical instrument wept for her, and when she circled it with tender, fascinated fingers, he emitted a low, mirthless chuckle. Raising himself again, he offered himself to her. A pagan sacrifice, and one that she received with exultation.
He was hers.
He would not leave her. He couldn’t. She’d lost her mother, and possibly her identity. She wouldn’t lose him as well.
Suddenly, she was on her back and he was atop her,his knee at the apex of her thighs. She widened her legs in invitation, and he smiled at her, the lamplight giving him the appearance of a reiver, a Scottish invader.
She placed one hand on his cheek and the other behind his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss.
She hurt for him, a pulse beating deep in her core that could only be satisfied by him. Her body was damp, swollen. She needed him in her.
Her fingers trembled, her breath was too tight, and her heart raced. She gripped him, but instead of being reticent and ladylike, instead of being restrained, she gripped his shoulders and pulled him to her.
“Douglas,” she whispered, in a voice too demanding, too harsh.
Now.
He was suddenly in her, blocking out every thought but how he felt, how he moved. She held him by his hips, setting him in motion, the rhythm hard, strong, and fluid. He pulled one of her hands free, then the other, holding them clasped with each of his so that they were joined in all ways, in all places.
She was making little sounds, but she didn’t care.
He slid in and out of her, increasing his pace, pushing against the mattress as if to bury himself in her. She held on, wrapped her feet around his calves, shuddering when the pleasure overwhelmed her. A moment, an instant, a lifetime later, she watched as his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and the muscles of his throat pulled taut. His face, that wonderfully handsome face of his, stiffened and held, then relaxed in lines of pleasure.
How had she lived without passion? How had she ever lived withouthim?
Chapter 28
Rain had fallen throughout the night, pinging against the oak leaves, falling in a gurgling melody through the downspouts of Chavensworth’s roof. A few times during the night, Sarah awakened from the sound and curled against Douglas. More than once, she’d registered that his hand was flat on her naked hip, his fingers splayed as if he claimed her in his sleep. When she awoke the last time, it was to find that it was morning, and Douglas was once again gone from their bed.
She rang for Florie, pulled out the dress she wanted to wear, and began to comb the tangles from her hair. Dressing took less time than usual because she resolutely refused to look in the mirror. She didn’t want to see that her eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles below them made the rest of her face look much paler than usual.
