He was, in a word, magnificent.
All smooth skin and lean, taut muscles that clenched when she ran her hands along his body, exploring every nook and cranny, every flaw and scar, until there was no part of him that remained a mystery to her.
Above the waist, that is.
When his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers, she held her breath, and released it on a slow, wondrous exhalation as he exposedallof himself. Every long, thick inch revealed for her viewing pleasure. She was reminded of the Greek statues at Cremorne Gardens. Except Kincaid was carved from flesh and blood instead of stone. At least on the outside. And for now, forthis, that was all that concerned her.
It was her turn to undress next. No tiny task, given her number of undergarments. But she managed it well enough, and with only the tiniest bit of shyness. When she finally stood naked before Kincaid, she struggled not to give in to her natural instinct and cover her breasts. A good thing, as that seemed to be where his main focus was.
Heavy lidded, his gaze rose slowly to her face.
Their eyes met.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“With every fiber of my being,” she replied.
As the strains of Chopin’sSpring Waltzsounded faintly from the hallway, Joanna and Kincaid came together. It was not the feverish rush to climax that they’d sought in the boarding house, or the bold lust she’d instigated in his office, but rather a purposeful unraveling of all the ties and restraints that had kept their ultimate desire bound.
He kissed her gently, his tongue sweeping between her lips. Her fingers glided along the sculpted valley of his chest, her soft belly pressing against the hard, pulsing root of his passion.
The kiss deepened and then eased, like a tide washing up against the shore. She melted into his arms when he picked her up and carried her to one of the sofas, her auburn hair standing out in vivid contrast against all the pink velvet as he tenderly laid her upon the cushions.
Standing at the end of the sofa, he leaned over her and brushed a ringlet from her cheek. Her stomach drew inward when he pressed his lips to her jaw and then began to make his way down to her breasts, where he lingered for what felt like hours before he went lower, the short stubble on his chin scraping against her navel on his way to the curls between her thighs.
She gasped when he kissed her there, his tongue seeking and finding the source of her ardor. Her toes curled. Her heartbeat sped up, then slowed as warmth seeped into her.
The rising temperature drove her spine off the sofa. She arched, her voice escaping on a breathy moan of wanton disbelief as Kincaid cupped her bottom and lifted her to his mouth. For days, months,yearshe brought her to the brink again and again, teasing her with his lips, his tongue, his fingers, until her temple was damp with perspiration and her entire body was trembling with need.
Only when her eyes were glazed and her arms were limp did he give her curls a final kiss and withdraw his fingers from her wet, clenching heat.
The sofa was wide enough for his knees to fit on either side of her waist. He pinned her lightly in place as he lowered himself with exquisite control, and her nails dug into his back when she felt the press of his manhood, already slick, at her entrance.
He slid inside of her. There was a token resistance, a slight sensation of tugging, but he’d taken such care to prepare her that there wasn’t so much as a flicker of pain. Just ecstasy. Sweet, sweet ecstasy that expanded with every subtle rock of his hips.
When he sheathed himself completely inside of her, they both gasped. The sensation was such that she burrowed her face in the crook of his neck to keep herself from crying out. Beneath her hands, his muscles bunched and coiled from the force of his restraint.
Slowly, so slowly she could have wept, he began to move again and, this time, she moved with him. Their glistening bodies bathed in firelight and their hearts racing in tandem, they rode towards the elusive crest of sweet surrender.
And plummeted together.
*
Weston was lateto the ball.
One of his mares had showed signs of being ready to foal, and he’d stayed by her side as she circled her stall and pawed restlessly at the straw. Ultimately, it had been a false labor, and with Brynne snapping in his ear to hurry up, he’d changed his clothes and driven them to Beresford Manor in his curricle.
The slight, two-wheeled carriage was a decade out of fashion, but he still preferred it to the cumbersome town coach whenever he needed to get somewhere with haste. Not wanting all the fuss that accompanied the main entrance, he went in through the terrace at the back while Brynne skipped off to meet her friends.
His guarded expression warding off any who might have been tempted to engage in a simple conversation, he was afforded a wide swath of space as he made his way across the ballroom. He was searching for a tall redhead. If his half-sister was here, as she was rumored to be, he’d like to promptly dissuade her of any notions she might have of taking the ring back.
If she wanted to meet their father, he wasn’t going to stop her. In fact, he’d wish her good luck: the marquess was notably difficult to get an audience with, even for his own children. To the best of Weston’s knowledge, the old man was currently on holiday in France. There was no telling when he’d return. Or if he would even be bothered to meet with his illegitimate daughter when he did.
Mostly likely, the marquess would simply throw money at the problem and wash his hands of it. That was, after all, what’d he done with Weston and Brynne for their entire lives.
In many ways, Joanna was fortunate she’d been raised across the pond.
She certainly hadn’t missed any warm family gatherings on this side of it.
