Page 57 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
She flattened her palms on the large worktable behind her to hold her weight, but they too had lost their strength. She collapsed backward onto the same table she sat at every day, the table where she spread wire and jewels and tools and paper and ink designs and tried to create something of her own that would not ruin her. Hard and cold, provided a solid surface, changing only with the years, only when the work done upon etched its mark.
Would they mark this table, too? She certainly would never look at it without a blush again because here he spread her open and created her anew—skin of diamonds and hair of twisted gold, eyes of emerald and ruby lips, a woman crafted to receive pleasure, whose every nerve screamed his name and whose fingers had found the silk of his hair, tugged it, urging onward, toward more.
And oh, he gave more.
He nipped the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, and her fingernails dug into the wood, the only outlet for her ferocious need and wanting, for the desire he flamed higher with each lick and suck and puff of warm breath. He kept his hands busy, too, caressing up the outside of her thighs, fingernails scraping the worn linen of her shift down her skin then back up, a roughness of sensation to counter the delicate whirls of pleasure at her center.
Delicate? No. They screamed and cursed and demanded, and her hands found his shoulders, dug into linen to flesh and muscle as he did at her thighs, and had he called himself imperfect? A bad man with no talent? Ignorant, is what he was, of his own worth. Of his… of his…
Her back arched off the table, and she cried out his name as pleasure took every diamond of her body and ruby of her mind and broke them, scattered them, left her open and raw and tingling. Breathless and boneless, all her thoughts went the way of the jewels. That is, gone entirely.
His mouth left her body, and his hands dug tight into her legs, and for a moment, his rapid breathing gave the room a heartbeat. Then his body covered hers, large and warm, and he gathered her off the table and carried her across the room. He settled her in the armchair by the grate and left her. He did not go far, only to find a tinderbox and light a fire, then he picked her up once more and settled in the chair with her on his lap.
Sleep or hold him to her tight so he could not walk away? A true conundrum as drowsiness took her.
“Don’t leave,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Not yet.” But the two words sounded more like a single one.
Soon.
Eighteen
Fiona woke warm and cozy and cuddling against something rather hard. Should be uncomfortable. Felt like heaven, but where…? Ah, yes. Now she remembered.
Zander had laid her bare on the worktable and poured her body to brimming with pure pleasure. And it wasn’t enough. As her body came to full wakefulness, all bits of her touching all bits of him, she wanted more, knew she would not let him go until she had it. Had him. She nuzzled his chest and scratched her fingers down his chest, stretching against him. If she were a cat, she would have purred. She felt like purring. Finally, she opened her eyes and lifted her face to his, found him looking at her, his dark eyes hard and glittering.
“You didn’t leave,” she said.
He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and where his fingertips brushed her skin, she burned. “Not yet.”
Not yetmeant something else, especially with the surety of time—soon. She licked her lips and found her courage and spoke. “Zander, thank you.”
“For ruining you?” No humor there.
She took a deep breath to decimate her hesitation. “For making me feel so wonderful, for trusting me that I know what I want for my body and my life.” He nodded, his jaw tight. “Zander?” No movement, as if he’d turned to stone. “Would you give me more if I asked for it? Would it… hurt you to give me more?” She rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. “That’s not precisely what I mean. What I mean, I suppose is, will you feel much guilt if you show me more? Because I want more. From you.” Only from him.
“And where would I do that,” he said finally, his voice hard. “On the table again?”
She winced, feeling the promise of bruises from earlier. “If that is what we must do.”
“There are other ways. You could straddle me in this chair.”
“Oh.” Her hand fluttered to her lips as she tried to imagine the pose. “Yes, that seems… nice.”
“Nice?” He inched closer, those dark eyes feral now. “What if I took you against the wall? Would that benice?”
“I’m not positive since I’ve not tried, but—”
“Or if I laid you on the floor before this cold grate and thrust into you?”
She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, trying to soften him. “I have a pelisse that might soften things a bit.”
He growled and turned away from her. “I have no bed to offer you, Fiona. Not even a room that belongs to me. We are locked up in a workroom in your father’s shop because I have nothing. Do you understand?”
She thought she did, so she took his hand and uncurled it from its hard fist shape and placed it on her chest, just above her beating heart. He did not speak of the current moment only. He spoke of all his moments, his every day before he met her and all the days he expected in the future. And that made what she wanted seem less scandalous, less wrong. Because she did not want him for what he could provide her outside of their two bodies together. She had no need for a man who owned a home but who would never understand why she had done the things she’d done in her past. She would never marry because she’d have to confess her sins, have to burden her husband with them, mark him.
But she was a woman awakening, and she finally understood what she would lose by giving up on the marriage bed. Strong arms and a chest to sleep on, soft kisses on the forehead, and hard eyes glittering with lust. More important, he knew her, knew her sins and her failures, knew her quirks and her flaws. And he still wanted to treasure her like he did that bit of broken glass in his pocket.
