“I. ..” What did she want? Passion? Excitement? Love? “I don’t really know.” She held her breath. “And what of you, Richard? What do you want from me?”
“It seems we are well matched, then.” He straightened and laughed softly in the manner of a man who suspects he is the subject of the joke. “I don’t know either.”
“I suppose you could say, either of us could say, we want nothing more from one another than to share my inheritance,” she said lightly, hoping he’d deny it.
“Indeed you could say that.” The casual tone of his voice matched her own.
Disappointment stabbed her, followed at once by irritation with herself. What did she expect from him, anyway? A declaration of undying devotion? An assertion of eternal love? If she was unwilling to so much as suggest such things aloud, how could she expect him to?
“But perhaps it’s time for a question that actually has an answer,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, as if they’d been discussing nothing more substantial than the prospect of rain.
“A question with an answer?” She forced a teasing note to her voice. “However will we manage?”
“However, indeed.” He laughed, and she couldn’t hold back a smile. “So, tell me, Gillian, have you given any more thought to your farfetched, impossible, and more than a little foolish idea?”
“My what?”
“Didn’t you say that in addition to the obvious attraction of financial independence you wanted this inheritance because of a far-fetched, impossible, and—”
“More than a little foolish idea.” She nodded slowly. “I may have said something like that.”
“Well, what is it?”
Her mind raced and came up with nothing but the truth. And hadn’t she decided from the start she would be honest with him? Of course, she hadn’t been entirely honest about Toussaint, although Richard had never asked about him, knew nothing, in fact, about the sittings, so she’d never truly lied to him.
“Gillian?”
“Well, what I’ve thought... that is, what I’ve decided to do...” According to Emma, Richard wasn’t going to like this one bit. He would have to be told sooner or later, although she much preferred later. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him everything at once. To ease him into the idea gently. She gathered her courage and braced herself for his reaction. “I want to provide a place, room and board, for promising artists so they can concentrate on their work instead of merely surviving from day to day.”
She cringed and waited. He was quiet for a long moment. She longed to turn and see his face, but she forced herself to keep still.
“Room and board,” he said slowly. “A kind of orphanage for adults. How intriguing.”
She whirled in his arms and stared up at him. “Do you really think so?”
“I do.” He nodded, his brow furrowed with thought. “It would be the answer to a prayer for many with a great deal of talent who have no choice but to abandon their muse to turn their attention to keeping body and soul together.”
“My thoughts exactly,” she said eagerly. “I propose to buy a building, a large house or mansion, perhaps a hall or an old abbey in the country—”
“No, no, the country won’t work at all.” He shook his head. “The market is in London. The academy, the galleries, the dealers, even the critics.”
“Very well, the city it is, then. It shouldn’t be difficult to find the kind of house I have in mind.” Relief coursed through her. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you approve of the idea.”
He chuckled. “I doubt Lady Forester will approve. This proposal of yours will mean far fewer artists to choose from when it comes to the kind of patronage she’s always been fond of.”
“Oh, Lady Forester won’t mind at all. To my knowledge, she’s never been particularly interested in sponsoring women anyway.” The words were out of her mouth before she could catch herself.
“Women?” He frowned down at her. “What do you mean,
women
?”
“Didn’t I mention that?” Gillian said brightly.
“Not that I recall.”
“Oh. Well...” So much for easing him into the idea. “I intend for this facility to be strictly for the support of female artists.”
“What kind of female artists?” His words were measured, and he released her.
She stepped away from him and the edge of the roof. If they were going to discuss this now, and apparently they were, she was not about to do battle tottering on the brink of a physical precipice as well as a verbal one. “Serious female artists.”
“There are no serious female artists.”
“I have encountered a few in recent years. Not many, I admit, but—”
“And have you ever stopped to consider why there are not many?”
“Why yes, I have. I have given it a great deal of thought.” Annoyance surged through her. “Women, no matter how talented, are simply not taken seriously.”
“Gillian, my dear, there is a reason for that.” His voice carried a tolerant note, as if he were trying to explain something very basic to a very small child. Or to someone incredibly stupid.
“Is there?” She struggled to keep her voice level. “Oh please, Richard, do tell me more.” He didn’t seem to note the sarcasm in her voice. Surely if he had, he would have tempered his smug attitude.
“Women are suited for dabbling in watercolors or perhaps charcoal sketches. I will go so far as to say I have heard of one or two who have a fair hand at miniatures, but that’s the extent of it.”
She stared at him in stunned disbelief. Emma had warned her about his attitude, but she’d never expected him to be quite so, well, pompous.
“Even Emma realizes as much. I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but she paints. Watercolors, of course. Oh, certainly she was interested in more serious work once, but she has accepted the wisdom of my advice on this subject.”
Gillian clenched her fists. “Has she?”
“Indeed.” He smiled condescendingly. “Women simply don’t have the temperament for oils, for legitimate art.”
“Why, Richard, I had no idea,” she smiled pleasantly. “I never so much as suspected you were quite so narrow-minded, sanctimonious, and, well, silly.”
Richard’s eyes widened. “Silly?”
“Don’t forget sanctimonious and narrow-minded.”
“I doubt I shall ever forget sanctimonious and narrow-minded.” He drew himself up and stared down at her. “I have been called many things in my life, indeed I have called myself many things, but never sanctimonious and narrow-minded,”
“Then I expect I should offer my congratulations on achieving new levels of smug male superiority.”
“Well, men are super—” He stopped abruptly. Apparently his superior male intellect was at last understanding precisely what he was facing.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Men are what?”
“Men are ...” Indecision crossed his face. Finally he rolled his eyes and heaved a resigned sigh. “Sanctimonious and narrow-minded.”
She bit back a smile. “And?”
“Deeply repentant.” He swept an exaggerated bow. “A thousand apologies, madame.”
“And?”
“And”—he studied her cautiously—“what?”
“And wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“About women and
legitimate
art.”
“I am sorry, Gillian, as to my high-handed manner, but,” he said shaking his head, “on the subject of the suitability of women for serious work,”—he bent over and picked up the hammer—“I’m not wrong.” He started toward the door.
She hurried after him. “You won’t even consider the possibility?”
“No.”
“Whyever not?”
He stopped, blew a long resigned breath, then turned to face her. He settled his back against a chimney and absently tapped the handle of the hammer in one palm, looking for all the world as if he was about to begin a debate in which he had no doubts as to the merits of his argument and no intention of listening to an opposing point of view.
“Marianne is convinced fairies live on the estate. Becky thinks that’s complete nonsense. However, she harbors a secret belief that not only can she talk to Henry but, given enough attention, Henry will one day speak back.”
“What does that have to do—”
“I am trying to make a point. To continue: Jocelyn has no doubts whatsoever that she is destined to marry at the very least a duke and possibly a king.”
“And what does Emma believe?” Gillian said, intrigued in spite of herself.
“Emma is far too practical to believe in anything she can’t see or hear. As am I.” He shook his head. “I will admit, given Jocelyn’s determined nature, she could well marry a king. But I have neither encountered fairies nor heard Henry say a single word. And I have never seen the art of a woman that is equal to that of a man. I seriously doubt I ever will.”
“Perhaps you simply haven’t looked.”
“Perhaps. However, I consider myself rather well acquainted with the work of modern painters.”
“I thought you told me you didn’t know a great deal about art?”
He shrugged. “False modesty.”
“It must be quite difficult, concealing your superior male qualities behind a mask of feigned humility.”
“Why, Gillian, it’s that very ability that makes us so superior,” he said loftily, then softened his words with a teasing grin.
She should have realized from their first meeting that he was not merely an astute observer when it came to art. His comments were far too perceptive and knowledgeable for someone with nothing more than a passing interest. Now that she knew he had once painted himself, his opinions were at least based in substance. Inaccurate though they may be.
“So you don’t accept what you haven’t seen with your own eyes.” She chose her words with care. “What if I could prove you wrong?”
“Admittedly, Gillian, it’s conceivable that you could dredge up a female or two, even half a dozen, whose work is passable—possibly even acceptable. And I would gladly concede that in those instances I am wrong. But that changes nothing. In the scheme of the world as a whole the place of a woman is not before an easel. The life of an artist, especially one who has not achieved any measure of success, is extremely difficult.”
“Which is precisely why I wish to help—”
“And precisely why that help should not be wasted on those who cannot possibly gain from it.”
“Wait just a moment, Richard.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “First you tell me women are not suited for serious work, then you tell me even for those who are, there is no place for them.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“Exactly my point.” He smiled in an all too patronizing manner. “Even if I am wrong about the abilities of women, and I daresay I’m not, but if I were there is still simply no place for them in the world of art.
“Regardless of any potential talent, you know as well as I do—you even admitted it yourself a moment ago—they are not taken seriously and never will be simply because they are women.”
She drew her brows together and glared. “Well, that reeks.”
He shrugged. “It’s the way of the world.”
“Disregarding ability and skill and intelligence just because someone had the misfortune to be born female makes no sense whatsoever.” She paced back and forth in front of him.
“Possibly, but—”
“It’s totally and completely unfair. Talent should be nurtured, recognized, and rewarded regardless of where it’s found.”
“Ideally, but—”
“And to discard the potential of fully half the population without so much as minimal consideration is stupid.”
“It is?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“This is not funny, Richard, not one bit.” She halted and leveled him an irritated look.
“Of course not,” he said solemnly, but laughter danced in his eyes.
“You are so infuriating.” She stepped toward him and shook her finger. “You wouldn’t find this even remotely amusing if the situation were reversed. If we were discussing... I don’t know.” What was it his sister had said about their father putting an end to Richard’s painting? No
way for a future earl to spend his time
? “What if the issue wasn’t the abilities of women or their positions in life but that of titled noblemen?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“What if we were talking about the talent of earls not being valued simply because they’re earls?” She poked her finger at his chest. “What if we were talking about you?”
“About me?” Richard’s words were measured, his voice cool and slightly amused. “That’s rather far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.” Apparently Emma was right about Richard’s reluctance to speak of his own painting no matter how long ago it was. What else could put such an odd look in his eye? “It’s just an example to point out that you’d hardly find it so very humorous then.”
“Actually, I would and I do.” He caught her hand. “My compliments, Gillian, you understand completely. Society has certain expectations of us all, regardless of whether we are women or merely earls. In this instance, there’s little difference. Whether by a female or an earl or a prince for that matter, such work would be seen as inconsequential and given no serious consideration.” He pulled her finger to his lips and kissed it. “As I said, it’s how the world is.”
“Well, I don’t like it one bit.”
“I can certainly understand that.” He kissed a second finger, then turned her hand and kissed her palm.
Shivers washed through her. “What are you doing?”
“Arguing with you. Or rather, disarming your argument.” His gaze met hers, but his lips found the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. She was at once rather grateful she’d discarded her long-sleeved pelisse before joining him on the roof. “Is it working?”
“Not at all,” she lied. His mouth trailed to the crook of her elbow. She drew a long, shuddering breath. “Are you quite certain you’ve reformed? You seem somewhat well practiced to me.”
“It is all coming back,” he murmured. “Rather like riding a horse after a long absence.”
“I suspect you were excellent in the saddle.” She snaked her free arm around his neck, reached up, and kissed the spot right below his ear.
“Indeed I was.”
“I will not give up on this proposal of mine, Richard.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and gathered her to him, his lips nuzzling the side of her neck. “You won’t?”
“No indeed.” She gasped and nibbled the line of his jaw. “It’s as important to me as paying off your debts is to you.”
“It’s a ridiculous idea.” The hammer slipped from his hand and clattered at their feet with a dim distant sound, as though it were very far away. “I shall never approve.”
“Will you continue to attempt to dissuade me then?” she whispered and tasted the flesh at the base of his throat.
“Whenever possible.” His lips met hers, and passion flared once more between them.
Reason vanished, dashed aside by need and desire. She wanted him here. Now. And knew he wanted her. She wondered if they would sink down on this very spot on the top of the roof, entwined in each other’s arms, to lay together high above the ancestral lands of the Earls of Shelbrooke with only soaring hawks and blue skies as witness. How wanton. How wonderful.
Sheer delight swept through her. Laughter echoed in her head. Delicate and high in pitch, like bells of silver or the clinking sound of fragile, costly crystal.
Richard stilled. His lips spoke against hers. “Someone is laughing at us.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She sighed the words. How could he hear what was only in her head? “It was nothing at all.” She laughed softly, the sound distinctly different than a moment ago.
Muffled giggles sounded from the direction of the attic door. A resigned grin lifted the corners of Richard’s mouth.
“We are no longer alone, Gillian.”
“Could it be Marianne’s fairy folk?” She smiled up at him.
“Worse.”
“Worse than fairies?”
“Much worse. Sisters. I would wager on at least two of them, possibly all three.”
“What? No Aunt Louella among them?” Her teasing tone belied any disappointment at the knowledge that the sky and hawks would have to wait a time to bear witness to whatever might have passed between them.
“No need. She will certainly receive a full report.” He drew away from her and directed a firm voice toward the opening. “You may come out now.”
Silence greeted him.
“It’s no use pretending. We know you’re there. You might as well come up.”
“You’re not angry, are you?” A hesitant voice drifted from the door.
“Probably not.” His voice was unyielding in spite of the smile on his face.
Becky scrambled onto the roof. “Are you showing her all of Shelbrooke Park?”
Jocelyn’s head popped up in the door opening, but she made no move to join them. “Or are you doing something else altogether?” Richard narrowed his eyes, and Jocelyn stared back innocently. “Fixing the roof, perhaps?”
Richard slanted a quick glance at Gillian, then nodded. “Perhaps.”
“You can see everything up here.” Becky moved to the rooftop’s edge with an unconcerned manner.
“It’s quite wonderful. Don’t you think so?”
“It is lovely.” Gillian smiled and turned her attention to Jocelyn. “Aren’t you joining us?”
Jocelyn heaved a theatrical sigh. “I am not permitted on the roof.”
“In point of fact,” Richard said, “no one is allowed up here unless I am with them.”
“But Jocelyn doesn’t get to come up even then.” Becky’s voice was smug. “The view is rather wasted on her, she can’t see past the nose on her face.”
“I most certainly can,” Jocelyn snapped.
Becky snorted. “Hardly. Besides, she’s more than likely to walk right off the edge.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Jocelyn said in a haughty manner. “It’s always nice to know one’s sisters have only one’s best interests at heart.”
“Indeed I do. Always.” Becky’s eyes widened with feigned concern. “I should hate for you to unknowingly stroll off the roof and plunge to the ground. Why, it would most certainly make a nasty mess for the rest of us to have to clean up.”
“And I should pray all the way down to make the biggest mess possible,” Jocelyn said in an overly sweet manner.
“That’s quite enough,” Richard said sharply.
Gillian stifled a laugh. Richard certainly did have his hands full with these two.
“You’re right, of course, Richard.” Jocelyn traded a quick glance with her sister. Despite their bickering, it was apparent to Gillian they were allies of a sort. Richard’s youngest siblings might squabble endlessly, but they were no doubt cohorts when it came to serious matters. She wondered if he realized as much. “Lady Gillian, we do apologize for our behavior, don’t we, Becky?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Becky said. “And we weren’t trying to spy on you or anything of that nature.”
“Oh, we would never suspect anything of the kind,” Richard said solemnly.
“No, never.” Gillian nodded.
“Still, I am curious as to what drew you up here.” Richard’s gaze shifted from one sister to the next and back.
“We were just wondering”—Becky seemed to choose her words with care—“that is, we were curious—”
“Just say it, Becky,” Jocelyn huffed impatiently. “Lady Gillian, why exactly are you here?”
Gillian started with surprise. “I thought I’d mentioned earlier—”
“Oh, you said something vague about an invitation.” Jocelyn waved dismissively.
“But we think it must be rather important for you to come all this way,” Becky said. “Even though it’s barely half a day’s ride from London.”
“Still,” Jocelyn said pointedly, “it’s not as if we were right around the corner.”
“So we were wondering what kind of invitation.” Curiosity colored Becky’s words.
“Well, not what kind exactly,” Jocelyn corrected. “But to what. Exactly.”
Becky nodded. “And precisely whom you were inviting.”
“Precisely.” Jocelyn leaned forward eagerly.
In spite of the differences in their coloring and manners, at this moment they shared the exact same expectant expression, and there was no doubt they were sisters.
“Actually,” Gillian said with a touch of regret, “the invitation is for Lord Shelbrooke.”
“Richard?” Becky said.
“Just Richard?” Disappointment broke on Jocelyn’s face.
“To what?” Richard said mildly.
Gillian hesitated, then plunged ahead. “My grandmother has a party every year at Effington Hall. It’s a rather involved occasion with a ball and, of course, the Roxborough Ride.”
“Ah, yes, the Ride. I have heard of it.” Richard nodded.
“What is the Roxborough Ride?” Becky asked.
“It’s a somewhat unusual equestrian event put on by Lady Gillian’s family. Best described, from what I’ve heard, as a fox hunt without the fox.”
“Just horses and riders then?” Becky’s eyes widened. Gillian nodded. “How delightful.”
Gillian smiled at the girl. “Perhaps we can arrange for you to come next year.” She turned back to Richard. “It’s expected that everyone in the family will attend. I should very much like for you to accompany me.”
“You wish for me to escort you to this family gathering?” He raised a brow. “Are you certain you’re quite ready for that?”
She swallowed hard. “Not at all, but I really have little choice. My birthday is fast approaching, and if indeed we are to ...”
“To what?” Jocelyn's gaze flicked from Gillian to Richard and back.
“None of your concern,” Richard said coolly. Gillian’s gaze met his, and once again unanswered questions hung heavy between them.
“No one ever tells us anything,” Jocelyn said under her breath.
“Well, I should be on my way,” Gillian said. “I had planned to travel back to London.”
“Oh, but you must stay the night,” Jocelyn cried. “We haven’t had even a moment to talk.”
“Please stay.” Becky hooked her arm through Gillian’s. “I can’t remember the last time we had a guest, and we have any number of things to ask you.”
“Well, I hadn’t planned—”
“Do stay, Gillian,” Richard said. “Even if you leave now, it will be dark before you arrive home, and I prefer not to consider the hazards of an unprotected woman on these roads at night. Granted our accommodations are not as grand as they once were—”
“But we have any number of unused bedchambers,” Jocelyn said.
Becky nodded. “And it will take no time at all to prepare one for you.”
“Besides, if you leave I will have to deal with their disappointment.” Richard chuckled. “You cannot abandon me to such a dire fate.”
She laughed. “Very well, then. I’ll stay.”
“Wonderful.” Becky led her toward the roof door. “You can tell us everything about the city.”
“And everything about the season,” Jocelyn added, then disappeared into the attic, her voice trailing after her. “The balls and the routs and what grand gowns the women are wearing.”
“And London itself.” Becky released Gillian’s arm and started down the ladder. “I want to hear all about riding in the park and Astley’s Amphitheatre and Vauxhall...” Becky vanished after her sister.
Gillian turned to start down the ladder.
“Thank you for staying.” Richard smiled. “I don’t wish to think of the weeping and wailing I should have had to endure if I’d let you go.”
Gillian laughed. “I quite like your sisters, Richard, all of them. And since I don’t think it’s wise, given everything else, to invite them to grandmother’s party, staying the night is the least I can do to ease their disappointment.”
“Their disappointment?” His tone was light-hearted, but his eyes gleamed. “Why, Gillian, I was talking about me.”
Where was the blasted man?
Gillian paced across the chamber allocated to her, with only the moonlight from the tall windows illuminating her path. She’d extinguished the lone candle long ago, suspecting it was something of a luxury in this house to bum candles indiscriminately. Besides, she had no need of candlelight. There was not much of anything to get in her way here.
Furnishings at Shelbrooke Manor were adequate but sparse, no doubt sold through the years by Richard’s father. A pang shot through her at the thought. Regardless of Richard’s assertion that he was a better man for his family’s trials, she still regretted the difficult path he’d had to take.
Of course, all his problems would be solved if they wed.
When
they wed. And she would marry him. How could she live without him?
But was this need to be with him every moment of every day love? It certainly wasn’t at all what she remembered with Charles. That had been a gentle longing, a bonding of two souls meant to be as one from the moment they first played together as mere children. They were, from the start, halves of the same whole with the same desires and needs. Their lives had fit together as perfectly as if intended by nature herself. There had never been so much as a moment of doubt, a glimmer of hesitation, a single tremor of fear.
There was scarcely a moment with Richard when there weren’t questions or unease or fear. Or excitement or adventure or passion. If this was indeed love, it wasn’t what she’d known before and not at all what she’d ever anticipated. So how on earth was she expected to recognize it?
She glanced at the door. She’d left it open a crack to avoid undue noise when Richard arrived. If he arrived. Oh, certainly she hadn’t invited him to her room aloud, but surely he’d understood the meaning in her manner. And she couldn’t possibly have mistaken the smoldering promise in his eyes.
She blew a long, frustrated breath. It was entirely possible it wasn’t love at all. It might be nothing more than lust. Incredible, uncontrollable, mind-numbing lust. Desire that made her senses reel and overwhelmed all notion of propriety and restraint. Why, just look at her now. Waiting in the dark for him to appear and make her his. Over and over and over again.
She gasped. How could she think such things? This wasn’t at all like her. Perhaps she was wanton after all. Could it be she just hadn’t realized it before now?
Certainly men had made advances, but she had not had as much at stake with other men as she did with Richard. Perhaps their arrangement, coupled with those long years of celibacy, had left her as ready for his touch as a ripened fruit was for picking.
But hadn’t Toussaint’s touch done much the same to her? Hadn’t he too sent chills down her spine and weakened her knees and left her gasping for breath? And didn’t she live only when he was near and count the minutes and hours until she saw him again?
Of course not. What an absurd thought.
Gillian stopped short.
That was the difference, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to be merely in Richard’s arms but in his presence, too. She didn’t want to share just his bed but his life as well. She wanted to study his face when he spoke of his home, watch the way he tried not to smile when he chastised his sisters, hear his laughter ring in her ears. She wanted to debate with him and fight with him and graciously accept his apology. She grinned at the very idea.
A quiet knock sounded at the door, and it creaked open. Richard’s dark silhouette appeared in the entry. “Gillian?”
She grabbed him and pulled him into the room. He resisted only long enough to close the door firmly behind him, and then she was in his arms.
“You’re late,” she whispered between frantic kisses.
“Am I?” he murmured against her neck. “My apologies.”
“Accepted,” she said breathlessly and ran her hands over his chest and the thin fabric of his shirt.
“Is there some reason why we are in the dark?” He pushed her nightrail over her shoulders and followed its progress with his lips.
“No.” Her head dropped back, and it was hard to form a lucid sentence. “Although... there is something rather ... thrilling about all this ... in the dark.”
“What is more mysterious and exciting than a man whose face is hidden?” He gathered the fabric of her nightclothes in one hand until his fingers met the bare flesh of her leg. “Or a man with secrets?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?” she said more to herself than to him.
“I don’t know.” His voice was ragged. “Why?”
His question made as little sense as the comment preceding it, and she ignored it. Ignored everything but the sensations of his lips against her skin.
“Richard?” Her fingers slipped across his stomach and lower, to trail over the hard bulge of his breeches.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his answer scarcely more than a gasp.
“Yes?”
“Am I wanton?” She bit the lobe of his ear in emphasis.
“If there is a just and merciful God,” he mumbled, pulling her nightrail up and over her head to toss it aside in one quick motion. He scooped her into his arms and strode across the room.
“I’m serious, Richard.”
He dropped her on the bed. “As am I.”
“Richard.”
“No.” His voice sounded impatiently amid the rustle of clothes being removed. “You are not wanton.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and stared at his dark form. “Are you certain?”
“I suspect I can still recognize wanton when I see it.”
“Of course.” Still... “Not even a bit?”
“Perhaps a bit.” He climbed onto the bed and pulled her hard against him. His naked skin pressed to hers, warm and irresistible. “However, any skill can be improved with hard work and practice.”
“Even wantonness?”
“Especially wantonness.”
His lips crushed hers in a frantic greeting of hunger and greed and she met him in kind. Then, without words, each acknowledged the need for more than mere release and his kiss became a slow, measured promise of the passion to come. His mouth caressed hers with a deliberate ease that belied his arousal and the hard length of him pressing against her.
His hands trailed over her breasts, her stomach, her hips in a leisurely, teasing manner until her existence centered only on the sensations he aroused with touch and tongue. A delicious torture of sensual awareness and anticipation.
She explored him in return, running her palm over the hard planes of his chest and savoring the feel of the muscles that tensed beneath her touch. She trailed her fingers down the valley along the length of his spine and traced circles on the firm mounds of his buttocks. She kissed his lips, his neck, his shoulders and reveled in the taste of him until she knew his body with an intimacy she’d never dreamed of.
And with each passing moment, every caress, every touch her excitement grew until she could bear no more. Restraint vanished amidst an onslaught of searing heat and spiraling desire. Nothing existed, nothing mattered beyond the sheer pleasure of his touch. She lost herself in the delicious pleasure of hard work and practice. He was an unrelenting taskmaster, and she, a more than willing apprentice. Or was she the master craftsman and he a humble disciple? His heart thudded against hers and her blood throbbed in unison with his, and the differences between them blurred and melted with their union until the world itself exploded around them.
Much later, secure in his arms, she wondered if she would ever truly know all this man’s secrets and realized she now had at least one of her own.
And with a smile to herself, she realized as well that there was a great deal to be said for hard work and practice.