Page 66 of Miss Delectable
The magnificence faded like summer thunder, and Orion gathered her close. She needed his embrace to keep her from flying into a million iridescent pieces, and she needed his arms around her because tears threatened.
“Catch your breath,” he said, stroking her hair. “I certainly need to catch mine.”
How gracious he was, particularly for a man who’d denied himself satisfaction, the better to please his lover.
Ann burrowed closer, a greater act of surrender than even what had passed before. “I am all in a muddle.” Scattered to the four winds and keenly dreading what a reassembling of wits and dignity would entail.I need this. I need this man.
But she did not need the complications that came with such an admission.
“Let’s undo you a little more.” Orion eased back, and Ann nearly shrieked at him not to leave her yet. She should have trusted him, for he surged forward again, setting up a steady rhythm. “This is not like tea biscuits, Annie, where you must be careful not to overindulge in company. Gobble me up, devour me, and with a little time and inspiration, you can have me all over again.”
She had no breath with which to argue, because when she’d hiked her knees the better to wiggle closer to him, he’d taken hold of her foot, his grasp warm and firm. As the abyss of satisfaction loomed before her again, he pressed his thumb into her arch, and several forms of pleasure coalesced.
Sherelaxedinto completion, let it wash through her rather than struggling to endure it, and the result was a relief so profound as to defy words. She was satisfied, whole, at peace.
Spent and amazed, to use Orion’s words.
“I have been selfish,” she said before sleep could drag her under.
“You have been magnificent, but now I must be selfish. Kiss me farewell.”
She kissed him, languid heat threatening to flare into another bonfire, even as he slid from her body. He pressed near, rocking against her slowly.
“Someday…” He drifted into French again, the words too soft for Ann to translate. His pleasure came quietly while she hugged him close, grateful that she’d been spared his more tender sentiments.
Ann didn’t have a lot of experience, but she had enough to know that Orion Goddard was special. For the closeness he offered her, for the spectacular pleasure, and the simple consideration of a shawl draped over her knees, she would give up much.
Not everything, but much. Much indeed, and that was a problem.
* * *
A first encounterwith a new lover was supposed to be a little awkward, a little sweet, and something to be got through as pleasurably as possible. The true indulgence came later, when habits and needs were familiar, and the lovemaking could be adventurous or comforting at the whim of the lovers.
Not so, making love with Ann Pearson.
She held nothing back, not her kisses, not her passion, not her affection. Rye had withdrawn, of course, and she’d clung to him through the inevitable mess and lassitude. Her hands were marvelous—both callused and tender, a novel sensation—and she was comfortable with silence. She’d pulled the covers up over his shoulders, stroked his hair, even let him doze off.
When had he ever, ever,everfallen asleep in a lover’s arms? The words sounded romantic, the reality was fifteen stone of weary lout snoring away atop his lady. Rye had awoken to the feel of Ann’s hands moving on his back, the fragrance of lilacs teasing his nose.
In addition to the lovely sense of repletion, he’d also felt—the word both fascinated and unnerved him—safe. With Ann, he felt safe. Safe enough to doze off, safe enough to linger.
Safe from what or whom? He pondered that question while wrapped around Ann spoon-fashion, inordinately pleased that he wasn’t the only one who’d needed a nap.
He was dreaming of gingerbread when Ann stirred in his embrace, faced him, and tucked a leg over his hip. “You are so warm and lavender-y. I dreamed of Provence, and I have never been there.”
I’ll take you.She would delight in the herbs, the sunshine, and garden-scented breezes.
“Would you like to go?” A wedding journey came to mind, more evidence that Rye had lost his wits. One tumble, however glorious, did not a betrothal make when a man’s business was faltering and his enemies massing their forces.
“My home is in England. A cook cannot gallivant about the Continent on a whim, and who would look after Hannah in my absence?”
“I did not mean leave this minute, I meant…” A long courtship, perhaps? Hannah would be apprenticed for the next seven years.
Ann regarded him in the dim light of the bedroom. “I know what you meant. It’s a sweet thought. I think of taking you to see my little manor. Papa left me land in Surrey, and he was wise enough not to sell off all of our trees. We have a proper wood, where I fought every battle in history and lived out every fairy tale ever told by old women to fractious grandchildren.”
“You own property?” Perhaps it was the context—naked, under the covers, replete with spent passion—but Ann’s admission had the quality of a confidence.
“I lease it out, or my solicitors do. The proceeds go into the cent-per-cents.”
