“Kiss me,” I whispered, holding back a well of emotion threatening to bring tears to my eyes.
“The sting will pass,” he whispered, jaw clenching with his restraint, concern lining his furrowed brow. As if even my body obeyed his will, the throbbing transformed from pain to pleasure.
“I’m okay,” I said, breath shaky.
I arched upward, the tips of my breasts brushing his hard chest, sending electric heat tingling through my body. I leaned up and bit his bottom lip. “More, Jude.” I rocked up, urging him on, needing more than a gentle coupling. “I want all of you.”
That was it. The cord snapped. The dam broke.
In a deft move, he unclasped our hands, wrapped my wrists and pushed them up toward the headboard where there were slender wooden slats. “Hold on,” he commanded.
Still inside me, he shifted his weight to his forearms, lifting barely off the mattress. His desire-hazed eyes locked on mine, then he gave me what I asked for. Drawing back, he thrust back in, hard, a mix of pleasure-pain rocking through my core. I whimpered and held on, squeezing the wooden slats. He drew back, all the way and pumped in again, slow and steady, pace building. I laced one hand in his hair, pulling his mouth to mine, swallowing his moan. As he took me with fierce possession, pumping harder, our bodies quivering with need, I took him back, lifting my head off the pillow to kiss him more deeply, to show him my passion, my need, my love met his. The sting had lessened, as he promised, erotic pleasure taking hold of my body, overwhelming me. I rocked with him, meeting every bone-shaking thrust.
My body hummed with pleasure at Jude taking me hard, the only way he could, seeming to swell bigger within me, stretching me, stroking deeper. He growled low, like a feral beast, claiming his own with violent possession. My spirit soared, accepting every part of him—fierce, dark, dominant…gentle, giving, tender. He was all those things in one man…my man. I pulled my hand free of the bed and slipped both my hands to his back near his waist, feeling the muscles ripple beneath, pulling him closer, my body building, mounting toward climax.
“Jude,” I begged. “I can’t…can’t take it.”
Unyielding, he drove harder, deeper, sounding hardly human. “Yes…you can
.
” His hand drifted to my hip, squeezing with undeniable affection and need, pinning me in place. “So beautiful,
mon coeur
.”
My body climbed higher, my VS humming with an electric buzz, night stars swimming and spinning in my head, my underlight glowing, lighting up the darkened room. The sensation was too much—his hands, his body, his voice—owning me and sending me over the edge.
In that moment, I was so grateful that I’d waited, that I’d rejected the boys in high school and college. None of them could give me what Jude could. None of them could love me like this, make me feel as if I was the center of his world, the full focus of his passion, driving us both over the edge into ecstasy.
Throwing my head back, arching my neck, I cried out, screaming his name, my inner walls convulsing with violent speed around him. I literally saw stars, my VS splintering into a bright cosmos, a jewel-bright sky across my mind. He stopped thrusting, his hand on my hip still gripping hard as the inner throbbing slowed. I panted, trying to catch my breath.
He leaned forward, his body pressing me into the mattress. His hand cupped my jaw as his lips swept featherlight over mine. He pulled out and sheathed himself, tenderly this time. “Again,” he whispered against my lips. He sealed my mouth with a mind-melting kiss, sweeping his tongue along mine before pressing in deeper. I’d asked for it, for all of him, and he was giving it to me—raw and rock hard. He rolled into me with a steady rhythm, slower now, our sweaty bodies sliding over and into each other.
I moaned. “Again?” I didn’t know you could. Twice at one time? Then Jude didn’t let me speak anymore, taking over my mouth with deep strokes of his tongue, mirroring his shaft hilting inside me. I whimpered when my body mounted to a second peak with blinding speed, as if Jude could simply tell me what he wanted and my body obeyed. He let loose a deep growl, vibrating from his chest, reverberating through mine, fist tightening in my hair, pulling my scalp as he released and pulsed inside of me. Wave after wave, a long shudder rippled through his taut frame with a groan. I fell over the edge with him this time, my heart twisting with hard-core emotion that could either make me whole or break me in half. Vulnerable like never before, I savored this moment, knowing we were truly one, in every possible way.
He collapsed on top of me, pressing a soft kiss to the slope between shoulder and neck before shifting his chest to the side, relieving me of the bulk of his weight, our limbs still tangled, his shaft still buried deep. “Now, my heart…you are mine.”
Both of us panting and spent, I managed to tilt my head toward him. “And you’re mine,” I declared.
Chests heaving, he angled toward me, his rough chin resting on my shoulder. “I’ve always been yours,
mon coeur
.” His stubble scraped along my skin as he moved closer, pressing a tender kiss to my well-used, swollen lips. “Always.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next three days were a wonderful blur. Bitterly cold gale winds and blistering snows kept us indoors. Of course, we could’ve sifted to Hawaii if we wanted, but we didn’t want to. Without mentioning it, we both enjoyed secluding ourselves from the world and pretending nothing existed but us in our cozy little cottage. That didn’t keep Jude from sifting out for replenishments, of course, and forbidding me to go anywhere or even change out of my pajamas.
After our wedding night and my first experience with sex, which had scrambled my brain into mush, Jude nudged me into the shower, where he’d scrubbed and massaged my body from tip to toe. Once I was sated and warmly content in his arms, we talked about nothing of importance—our favorite foods, the best movies, our pet peeves. I was shocked to discover Jude loved anchovies on his pizza, Quentin Tarantino flicks and John Wayne westerns, while he hated nasally talkers. When I’d started teasing him by reciting The Pledge of Allegiance in nasal-speak, he tickled me into surrender. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I’d finally drifted off while he rambled about his favorite scene in
Inglourious Basterds
. Yes. Jude rambled, something unheard of in our relationship up to this point. His low baritone had regaled how the Jewish girl, Shosanna, fled in terror across the French pasture, running for her life while the mad Colonel Landa screamed her name in fond farewell. Despite the disturbing images Jude’s nighttime story conjured, I’d fallen into a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep.
During our snow-in, we cuddled and kissed and touched, but he wouldn’t have sex with me. Somehow, I was still too shy to broach the subject. Until the third day, while he was making some kind of famous Scottish dessert called cranachan, I watched him from a nest of covers on the floor. His black workout pants hung loosely on his hips, giving me that glorious view of his broad, well-muscled back. My gaze strayed down his frame, imagining him without those stupid workout pants.
“Why won’t you have sex with me again?”
He dropped the jar of honey in his hands to the counter, then turned to give me a pointed look over his shoulder. I waited patiently, tilting my head innocently to the left as he eyed me for a few seconds before turning back to his mixing bowl.
“Because”—he cleared his throat, stalling, and for the first time in our entire relationship, I could hear actual nervousness breaking his speech—“I just want to be sure you’re okay… That you’re not too…sore.”
I giggled. The man could decapitate demon princes and damn a million souls to hell, but he was anxious about this?
“I think I’m okay now.” True, I had been sore for the last few days, but I seemed to be on the mend.
He layered his mixture of sugared raspberries, oats and honeyed whiskey and cream in a clear dessert glass, then carried it over and sat cross-legged in front of me on the floor. He spooned a big bite and held it in front of my mouth.
“I can feed myself,” I teased. “I’m a big girl.”
His shoulder muscles tensed. “Yes. I know you are.” The tenor of his voice, deep and silky, made my blood hum faster.
He gestured with the spoon to open my mouth, so I let him feed me. His focus was intent on my lips. The burst of flavor surprised me with the kick of whiskey.
“That’s delicious.” I took the glass from him, and he let me with a laugh. I became distracted with his delicious concoction, shoveling it in. “Want a bite?” I asked, crunching on a mouth full of the tasty oats.
“No.” He smiled, reaching out and twirling a loose strand of my hair around his finger. “Genevieve.” His grave tone slowed my feeding frenzy. “I want to be more than your protector or your guardian. I want to be your provider, your lover, your caregiver… I want—”
My beautiful, strong Jude was almost beside himself with self-doubt. Where this came from, I had no idea, but this was one area he needn’t have any fears at all. I set the glass to the side, the spoon clinking on the now-empty bottom. I scooted as close as I could get and cupped his face between my palms. His brooding eyes slid closed for a heartbeat.
“You are, Jude. You’re my husband. You’re my everything. Don’t you know that?”
His arms came around me, pulling me into his lap where he buried his face in my hair. We held one another for a long time, content in each other’s arms with nothing but the sound of the crackling fire and the blustery winds howling over the cliffs and the sea.
The next morning, I awoke to the familiar smell of frying bacon. For two seconds, I thought I was in Jude’s bed in New Orleans. Then I remembered. And smiled.
Still in my cotton pajamas, I ambled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth and did my business, then shuffled into the other room where a toasty fire and a jaw-dropping sight awaited me.
Watching a shirtless Jude in jeans cook breakfast for me was hot as hell. Watching him do the same in nothing but white boxer briefs made me whimper. I must’ve actually made a sound, because he looked up when I entered the room. Forking crispy bacon onto a paper towel, he moved the pan to the sink with a clatter. Before I knew what he was about, I was crushed in his arms, my feet no longer touching the ground, his mouth slanting over mine. I might’ve moaned a little, but I couldn’t help myself. He lowered me to the floor, his hands roaming to the curve of my bum.
“Mmm. I’m hungry.” He squeezed and pulled my body against him, showing me the evidence of his hunger. He kissed me again. Deeper.
I laced my fingers behind his neck, not ready to break the kiss when he did. I nipped his lip. “You taste like bacon.”
“You taste like heaven.” He smiled so wide, my stomach did a somersault.
Taking my hand, he guided me to the dining table. I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to cook for him as he was insistent on doing the cooking for both of us.
A loaf of French bread sat on the counter. A bowl of fruit centered the round-top dining table. When he opened the mini-fridge for a carton of orange juice, I saw it was fully stocked with milk, eggs and other food and condiments before he closed it shut.
“Someone’s been shopping.”
He poured me a glass of orange juice and set it on the table. “Drink up. You need the vitamins,” he said, giving me a wink.
Heat crawled up my neck. Confident Jude was back. He moved around, serving me a plate. A minute later, I had a feast of bacon, scrambled eggs, and gooey cinnamon rolls before me. He sat down, hands clasped between his legs, observing me with a Cheshire-cat grin on his face.
I picked up a cinnamon roll first. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I already did.” He smiled. “You tasted me. Remember?”
I choked on the image those words conjured—his bare chest delectably displayed, his briefs riding up on strong thighs, the masculine hairline below his navel disappearing into his waistline.
“Genevieve?”
I flinched, my gaze jumping to his. I wanted to slap the arrogant smirk off his face. “Would you go get dressed so I can eat in peace?”
He chuckled, standing, which drew my gaze directly to what that thin piece of cotton-spandex was hiding from my greedy eyes.
“Eat well, my heart. You’ll need your energy today,” he said, planting a hand on the table next to my plate and leaning down to me. He drew close, lifting a finger to the corner of my mouth, wiping some icing onto his finger and sliding his finger into my mouth. I sucked it clean.
He groaned and shook his head, the glazed expression sliding away.
“After breakfast, hurry and get dressed,” he said more gruffly, heading for the bedroom.
“Wait. I thought—don’t you mean get
un
dressed?”
“Dressed. I know what you thought with your dirty mind,” he called back.
“
My
dirty mind!”
A bark of laughter. I’d never heard Jude laugh so much in one sitting. “Hurry up. The weather has cleared. I want to show you the island.”
Oh. Okay. So I did have a dirty mind, but what do you expect after watching your very own sex god cooking you breakfast in nothing but his super-tight briefs, leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Stop daydreaming and eat, Genevieve,” he said, peeking out the doorway.
Damn it! That man.
I tripped on another gnarled root crossing the forest trail. Jude steadied me with a hand under my elbow. Once we’d moved into the heavy woodland, we hadn’t spoken much. The air itself invoked silence. Trees nestled thick, even naked in winter, creating a quiet haven for the creatures dwelling here. Snow dusted dark branches and the path. Deep silence weighed heavy, like a cloak time couldn’t strip away. Thick billowy clouds above us pressed down, promising heavier snowfall soon.
A chittering and scratching made me look up. Another red squirrel, tufted ears and tiny body, scampered from one limb to another, flitting its bushy tail this way and that. A strong wind whipped through the boughs, the limbs creaking like an old woman’s bones. Back at the cottage, the smell of the sea dominated. But here, it was all earth and moss and wood—everything ancient and timeless.
Jude took my hand again as a particularly knotty root jutted across the path, partially covered by snow.
“I feel like I’m in Fangorn Forest,” I whispered, feeling the need to keep quiet. Like the woods might hear me.
“What’s that?” Even Jude kept his tone to a low rumble.
“You know.
Lord of the Rings
?”
“Haven’t seen it.”
I froze. Our hands separated as he took two more strides, then stopped with a questioning look.
“Did you read the book?” I asked, dumbfounded.
He shook his head. “Not much of a Tolkien fan.”
“Seriously?” I eyed him with suspicion. Not like Tolkien? “Why did I marry you again?”
His expression slanted into a devilish grin. “I can remind you if you like.”
A wave of heat flushed me all over. I hopped over a fallen limb as if to run away. Jude grabbed my arms from behind. I laughed, then his grip became firm not playful, and his body stilled.
“Shh!”
My pulse leapt, my Vessel Sense snapping to attention, reaching out, finding nothing. No Flamma. Panting, I scanned the woods, then Jude leveled his arm over my shoulder, pointing up the path. He leaned close to my ear, warm breath caressing. “Look.”
Twenty yards ahead, a rust-red doe stepped daintily onto the trail. Ears pricking, her head rotated in our direction. A smaller doe, perhaps a yearling, followed her. Dark, wild eyes measured us and the danger we projected for about three seconds before she disappeared into the forest with a silent leap, her yearling after her.
“So pretty,” I whispered, smiling over my shoulder.
Jude’s gaze, flecks of amber glinting in pools of swirling black, held me for a breathless moment.
“Come on,” he said, twining his gloved fingers in mine. “We’re almost there.”
A few minutes later, we stepped onto an open moor, the trail vanishing behind us. Hiking up a smooth slope, he led me to a small circle of standing stones. I’d never seen any in real life, only in movies or random documentaries on the History Channel.
They weren’t extraordinary in any particular way—stone monoliths, green lichen clinging to deep crevices, pocks and scars eroded by weather and time—except that they were purposefully placed here by a people so long ago, they might as well have been from another world. I wondered for a second if they were.
I circled one, trailing my gloved fingers on the rough rock, the cold seeping through the leather liner. “Do you know who put these here?”
Jude chuckled, as if he expected the question. “No. Afraid not.” He walked to another, brushing his hand over the stone, looking up. “Before my time.”
Like this place, he exuded a primitive nature—the sharp line of his jaw, the predatory slant of his eyes, the readiness for danger in the taut line of his well-muscled frame. Being here with him reminded me how many eras he’d lived through. Like the standing stones around us, he carried his own crevices, his own scars, his soul weathered from centuries of brushing against evil, each demon leaving a bitter mark.
He glanced at me. “What is it?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I was just wondering.”
“About?”
“You’ve seen so much, lived through so many different time periods. I was wondering of all the times you’ve lived through, which one is your favorite?”
“This one.” An immediate, unflinching response.
I frowned. “This one? That’s crazy. Of all the beautiful, amazing eras you’ve seen, I can’t believe you’d choose the modern age.”
His expression was hard yet tender, intense yet endearing, guarded yet vulnerable. “You’re in this one.”
Silence pervaded as his undying devotion hit me like a missile. Soft downy flakes began to fall. I swallowed the lump swelling in my throat and reached out my hand. “Show me more of your island.”
After he sifted me to view Glenashdale Falls, we stood for a long time, his arms wrapped around me, cocooning me in the shelter of his body. We stared at the breathtaking water cascading down the rock side, the edges of the deep pool crusted with ice and the snow-dusted woods surrounding, never saying a word. After fifteen minutes of thoughtful silence, he leaned over my shoulder and brushed a kiss below my ear.
“Time to get you warm and fed.”
Holding me in an iron embrace, he sifted me across the island to the outskirts of the village Brodick where restaurants, inns and shops dappled the coastal town. Arm in arm, we strolled along, me following Jude’s lead as he skirted a corner and passed the post office, obviously having a particular destination in mind and definitely having been here before.
A gruff-looking man with a barrel chest and urgent stride scowled and muttered something as we passed.
“What did he say?” I asked Jude.
“Tourists,” he said with a smirk. “The locals get a bit tired of tourist invasion, I imagine.”
“Oh,” I said with a laugh as he hauled me around another corner off the main road. He guided me toward a door, over which hung a round cast-iron-rimmed sign with script lettering—The Brodick Brasserie.
Jude kept his hand at the small of my back, nudging me past the corner bar and farther into the restaurant near the menu on a blackboard. I perused the items, pulling off my gloves and tucking them into my coat pocket. A withered old man hunched over the wooden bar in his brown wool coat and flat cap, nursing a pint of dark beer. A rosy-cheeked waitress with strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a ponytail met us where the tables and booths began.