Page 58 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Lips could say more when not speaking, so she pressed hers against his and whispered into the kiss, “Please. Wherever you take me, just take all of me.”
He hesitated to meet her lips fully, breathing hard, staring down at her, his arms like steel, binding her close, strong ribs holding in his heart. “I shouldn’t.”
Such hard words, but they held such hope with their unspokenbut.
Another growl, then he showed her what he would do in spite of what he shouldn’t, closing the distance between them, turning the hesitant hovering of his lips over hers into a hard claiming of her mouth.
Then he ripped away from her, stood, and dropped her into the warm hollow of the chair. He used the tinderbox to light the fire, and once it was roaring, he found her pelisse where it had dropped beside the worktable and stretched it out before the flames at a safe enough distance so it—they?—wouldn’t get scorched.
Too late. Watching his long, lean body work efficiently and with speed to carry out what he clearly saw as practical necessities fired her, having him take care of her comfort, as he saw it, reassured her. She’d made the right decision. She would never regret what happened tonight.
Finished with his tasks, he knelt before her, head bowed, big hands rubbing up and down her thighs. “I will not do anything to get you with child.”
“As my mother tells it, you must be inside me for that to happen.”
“Your mother is an informative woman.”
Fiona outlined his ear and pinched his earlobe. Still, he kept his head bowed. “She is,” Fiona said. “Thankfully. But… Zander… I want it all. All of you. That means I want—”
His hands curled into fists on top of her legs. “Yes.” A hiss of a word. “But I’ll guard against a babe.” Finally, he lifted his head and met her gaze.
She offered him a smile, small but confident, and he swept an arm under her legs, placed the other behind her back, and lifted her, carried her to the thin pelisse stretched before the flames and laid her down. His knees hit the floor on either side of her legs, and she sat up to meet him, to tug the buttons of his waistcoat loose, to push it off his shoulders, to lick her lips as she reached for the band of his trousers and fisted her hand into the linen tucked tight there. Up. A good direction for a shirt to go, for his shirt to go, revealing skin pulled taut against hard planes of muscle, dark hair lightly dusted across abdomen, and high across this chest.
He lifted his arms to allow her to do as she wished—toss the shirt over his head. He caught it, though, at the last moment, and bundled it up, reached behind her and settled it on the floor. A makeshift pillow? Her comfort his focus? The man knew how to wrench her heart from her chest without even trying.
Her focus? Him. She outlined the contours of his muscles, the dips and cliffs, and marveled at discovering a love for the texture of the hair around his navel, the hair that arrowed lower toward parts yet unseen. Quite… crisp. She wanted to paint him. Felt inspired. She might have found the one thing she could render with any passion on her own—Lysander Bromley’s body. So much better than a still life composed of fruit. So much more enticing than copying a dead man’s work. If she could paint Zander, she might actually enjoy painting.
Where was her reticence? She should have some, yes? But she seemed to lack it entirely. A thought, a desire, popped into her head, and her fingers answered the call, tracing the narrow shape of his waist, smoothing over his ribs, admiring the slabs of muscle at his chest, the hard rounds of his shoulders. Marble come to life, more beautiful than any art she’d ever seen.
His hands, hot and gentle, wrapped around her shoulders. “Have you changed your mind? You can, you know. Just say the word at any time, and I’ll—”
“No!” She lunged for him, wrapped her arms around his bare middle. “No.” That one a whisper against his skin. “I have not changed my mind, and I will not change it. It is only that I’ve never seen a male form before. Well… one made of real flesh and bone. I was taking my time. Admiring. Savoring.”
“Minx,” he chuckled. Then his hands cupped her face and tilted it up for another kiss. May there always be other kisses.
There likely would not be. A thought to break her heart, and she had no time for heartbreak this night. It was not part of the tale she was weaving for herself. So she kissed him back hard, shoving away the shadows, and hooked her hands in the band of his trousers.
Those, oh yes, those were next. He had her all but naked under him, and she wanted reciprocity. One button and one slightly trembling hand and one corner of his fall loosed. And she almost lost focus because he had pulled the neck of her shift down over her shoulder and had begun a seduction there with his mouth.
“I love the way you taste,” he said, nipping her collarbone.
She swallowed and took care of another button.
He licked his way up her neck.
She flicked open another.
He tilted her head to the side and tugged her earlobe between his teeth.
Enough. No more. Buttons all done, she shoved his trousers down his lean hips and looked her fill.
“Change your mind yet?” he grumbled near her ear.
“No. Never.”
Then the sight of him, long and thick—and frankly a bit unnerving—disappeared because he bound his arms around her like iron, and the length of him pressed into her belly, only the thin cotton of her shift between them. She liked the feel of that, though she’d missed her chance to touch.
She broke their kiss to look up at him, to hold his face still and meet his gaze. “Have you changed your mind? I want everything you can give me, but I do not want you to regret any of it.”
