Page 51 of Miss Desirable
Catherine gave Fournier an odd look, as if she recognized him, but could not recall his name. “The things you say… Take me to bed, please.”
He rose with her in his arms. “Are you again being rebellious, Catherine?” He would have to finesse the moment if she was. Rebellions ended, and Fournier did not want to be a casualty of the return of her good sense.
“You talk to me,” she said. “You demand nothing. You are patient and kind and blazingly honest. You brought me Caesar. You worry over my choice of wines. You haven’t even inquired into the extent of my appallingly large fortune. As rebellions go, you are a miserable failure.”
“Delighted to hear it, but if thisliaisonis not a rebellion for you, then what is it?” He laid her on the bed and sat at her hip.
“I am with you for joy and pleasure, my friend. The candles, Fournier. Please.”
He hoped to be more to Catherine Fairchild, and he wasn’t about to waste this opportunity to make progress in the direction of greater intimacy with her. He tended to the candles and the fire while Catherine wrestled free of her dressing gown and drew up the covers.
Fournier left the bedside candle burning while he disrobed, and Catherine frankly gawked at him. He met her gaze, blew out the candle, and got a quiet chuckle for his reward.
“My lady asked me to extinguish the candles.”
“I was enjoying the view.”
“Enjoy the whole man,” he said, climbing beneath the covers and lacing an arm beneath her neck. “Be bold, Catherine. Be greedy and curious and have your pleasure of me.”
Kettering’s words, about earning Catherine’s trust, echoed in the silence. Fournier had puzzled over those words, examining them from all directions. Catherine’s trust had been abused in the past, but she had found her courage again.
What was needed was patience. She managed best when allowed to follow her own instincts, without hurry or expectation. She managed best, in other words, when Fournier trustedher.
“Where do I start, Xavier?”
His name. In bed, she usedhis name. “Wherever you please. If I find your attentions objectionable, I will inform you. If you were, for example, to cuddle up along my side and run your hands over every inch of my naked flesh, I would be amenable to your caresses.”
“Good to know. Likewise, of course.”
His great displays of articulation came to an end as Catherine traced his features with deft fingers, explored his chest and belly, sniffed his shoulder, and straddled him. She pinned his wrists to the pillow beside his head and commenced kissing him with such a blend of curiosity and boldness that he was soon in a state of raging arousal.
How long had he contented himself with passing self-gratification and hard work? He wanted for nothing by the standards of either French or English societies, and yet, he had been starving.
For tenderness, for closeness, for honest desire.
The fog of pleasure revealed another truth to him. A woman who kissed with Catherine’s fire and passion, a woman who took her lover’s hand and placed it over her breast, who fondled him with diabolical gentleness… Such a woman might very well delight in the earthy, robust joy of a good Cahors wine.
The Mayfair damsel Catherine showed to the world was not a lie, exactly, but she disguised the true lady, with whom Fournier was delighted to share a bed.
As Fournier learned what touches Catherine liked and what touches she adored, regret tried to edge out his joy. This might be their only encounter. Why hadn’t he met Catherine years ago, before she’d staged her ill-fated rebellion, and he’d embarked on his ill-fated marriage? Why must the woman he loved struggle against the betrayal she’d suffered from a dishonorable rogue years ago?
Catherine crouched over him and snuggled close. “Xavier, I need…”
“I am yours.” He’d spoken French.Je suis à vous. Then the import of her hesitation became clear. “We can make love like this, Catherine. You need not be on your back.”
“How…?”
“Your rebellion was undertaken withun idiot. You simply take me inside you. You control matters in this position, while I lie in a pool of unbearable pleasure.”
In the shadowed firelight, her expression became determined, though her intimate touch remained careful.
“Like that,” he whispered. “Precisely like…Mon Dieu, Catherine.”
She drew out the moment of joining, sinking and retreating, pausing, feinting. Fencing analogies came to mind and just as quickly dissolved in that pool of unbearable pleasure. Thatoceanof unbearable pleasure.
“I like this,” Catherine said. “I like this much better than being half smothered and mashed and… Oh, I like this so very much.”
Fournier could not recall how to sayone rejoices to hear itin English. He was too busy contending with the rising tide of desire threatening to swamp his self-restraint. That Catherine was still wearing her nightgown was only the smallest boon. When he thought he could endure no more, Catherine’s rhythm shifted, and her undulations became purposeful.
