Page 67 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Now I know.What could be. What they could make together. The world opened up. Her heart was full. They had become the hero and heroine of their own tale.
The candle went out, and the only light in the room came from the fire and soft moonlight streaming in through the small window above the bed. The taproom below was silent—it was late, and everyone must have gone home to find the shelter of their own beds. Sarah had no desire to leave the bed she lay in now, wrapped close to her husband, aglow with the pleasure they’d made together.
He nuzzled her neck, his lips seeking, and she laughed throatily. “Again?” They’d made love once more—that final time, he’d taken her from behind, with her on her hands and knees. Like animals. It had been . . . wonderful.
“Again and again and again,” he murmured. “Always. Forever.” His hand trailed over her breast, stroking her flesh. Her nipple made an obliging point, roused by histouch, but she hadn’t any strength left to do more but accept his touch.
“I want more,” she breathed. “After a little rest.”
“Alittlerest.” He sounded only half serious. But he seemed to have spoken truly—too much passion existed between them, too much wanting to let more time pass before they loved each other again. “You’ve built a fire in me.”
“And you in me. Though I had my concerns,” she admitted, stroking her hand down his muscled back.
He grimaced. “All my grand plans for our first time. They didn’t amount to much.”
She smiled gently. Then, hesitantly, “Where . . . did you learn to do those things. With your . . . mouth. And your fingers . . . ?”
Despite everything, he still blushed adorably, sensuously. “Can I tell you a secret?”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “You can tell me anything at all.”
“It’s a little embarrassing to admit this, but . . .” Uncurling his body from around hers, he rose from the bed, then walked to his valise. She watched with a puzzled frown as he produced a small book. He sat on the edge of the bed and handed the volume to her.
“Pages one fifty-four and two thirty-six are particularly enlightening,” he said as she flipped open the book to its discreet title page. “Though I’d like to try page seventy-five when you’re feeling more rested.”
She stared at the paper, dumbfounded. Shocked.
The Highwayman’s Seduction,by A Lady of Dubious Quality.
For several long moments, she could only gape atthe book in her hands, frozen in fear. Did he know? Was this his way of telling her that he’d uncovered her other identity?
But perhaps he interpreted her silence as something else, because he said quickly, “My cousin gave it to me. The book, I mean. He thought I might find it . . . instructional. And I have.”
“There’s no other reason why you have it?” she finally asked.
His brow furrowed. Yet he hesitated for a moment. “Should there be?”
“No,” she answered at once. “It’s not usual for vicars to read such things.”
“Not usual,” he confessed, “no.”
“I was just curious.”
“It’s harmless,” he said, plucking the book from her hands and setting it aside.
“Harmless.” An interesting choice of words for something over which she’d labored so intensely and with such purpose. But in this context, she couldn’t be too concerned. He seemed unknowing of her identity as the Lady of Dubious Quality—and for that, she was grateful. The fear ebbed slightly.
“You think less of me for owning it,” he said flatly, turning away slightly. “That I’m one of those sad, twisted men who lurk in dark alleyways and leer at women’s ankles. Some filthy vicar who lusts after his congregation.”
“Those words never left my mouth.” Now that she knew aboutThe Highwayman’s Seduction,it made sense that there had been a vague sense of familiarity when she and Jeremy had been making love thesecond time tonight. His mouth on her, his fingers. Then the third time, when he’d mounted her from behind. They had all been acts described inher very own book.
She almost laughed, but she thought better of it and suppressed her smile.
“Actually,” she continued, placing her hand on the firm curve of his shoulder, “I’m glad.”
He glanced at her questioningly but said nothing.
“I think it shows you’re broad-minded,” she went on. “That you don’t shut yourself off from the breadth of human experience. If you thought books like that one were repugnant or immoral . . . then we might have more to be concerned about. But the works by this . . . what’s her name?”
