Page 104 of A Rogue in Firelight
He half laughed. “Dearest girl,” he murmured, lips on hers, now tracing along to the delicate curl of her ear, “thank you for the tea.”
“Welcome,” but the word was lost in a kiss that shook him to his core, and her body, her hips, pushed against him, so that he had to move away or have no secrets.
Just then the squat little clock on the mantel chimed out—one, two—four times. So late, yet so early. The sound made him pause, cleared the fog from his thinking.
He drew back. “Ellison, this is not how I would want to treat you. Not—”
She leaned to kiss and silence him, and he surrendered, hungry, then gathered himself again. “Not gentlemanly.”
She looked at him. “We have no time for lessons. We just have part of the day.”
“Lessons be damned, then.” Snugging her small waist in his hands, feeling her hips against him, so willing, he felt too the deep pulse in her body and in his.
“You need no lessons from me. You never did.”
“I did,” he said, tipping his head to take her mouth in a deep, rich kiss that plunged through him body and soul. “I am learning—that I have a heart after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“This,” he said, dipping his head to kiss her so thoroughly that he tasted her soft groan, felt her sink a little in his arms. Lifting her against him, he leaned back so that her feet cleared the floor, her body planed softly to his. “If you like.”
Pressing her cheek to his, she put her lips to his ear. “The household is asleep,” she said. “I do not need to go back just yet.”
He shifted to carry her full in his arms. “Sure?”
“Oh aye,” she whispered. “I think we did claim to be betrothed.”
“Oh well, then,” he breathed, and set her on the bed. As she shoved the coverlet aside, he leaned over her, keeping his weight on his hands as he kissed her.
Stormy darkness filled the room, the single candle burning like a bright star. Thunder rolled in the distance. Under the canopy of the stout old bed, rounded mattress sinking under his weight, he lay beside her, curving a hand along her jaw, then letting his fingers seek the buttons at the ruffled throat of the shapeless dressing gown. Her trembling fingers went ahead of his hands to find others, to open the folds. Just a night-rail beneath, he found, all gauze and lace, the veil of it sliding away beneath his hands and hers together.
“Sure, now?” he asked again.
She gave a soft laugh and pulled him down to recline in the cool, deep nest of pillows and linens beside her. He rolled to his side and she turned too, allowing him to sweep his hand down along her bared arm, the skin supple, warm as he kissed her, as she returned it, pulling him toward her, over her. His fingers found her breast, cupped, and he caught his breath as his heart pounded, body swelled for her.
Nuzzling her ear, then the line of her throat, he sank down until his lips found the pearling center of her breast. He heard her gasp, felt her fingers slip through the thickness of his hair, still damp from the washing in the moments before she came into his life in this profound way, a way he had not expected nor dared dream.
He tasted her, felt her pull in a breath of deepest pleasure, and she arched to invite him further. She knew where this could lead—he knew that, and as her hands found the wooly fabric of his plaid, sliding upward, he knew she was not surprised, that she had more courage in the moment, helping him to breach and break whatever was reserved and formal between them. Nothing, now, would be the same, all for the better.
Sliding a hand along the smoothness of her thigh, the light shift gathering like flower petals under his hand, he shaped her hip, followed the sweet curve of her abdomen, the delicate mound that made her gasp anew against his lips on hers. Every part of her was exquisite, warm, welcoming, soft and slippery as his fingertips found her, rocked her, took her little cries into his lips, her breath and his breath, in and out again. Then her fingers seeking, shaping him, deft and then soft and bold again, until he pulsed for her, his body echoing his heart, wanting, yearning, the sweet power of her touch shuddering through him. She was soft, golden, lush in his hands, all grace and satin where he was taut and hard with need. Her touch had mischief in it, easing him along as he eased her, until he could hold back no longer. Now the thunder was the pounding of his heart and hers together.
Breaths, and resting together, but too soon she rose, kissed him, and whispered something. Thanks? Love? He thought he heard that soft, wonderful word. It was time.
“My love,” he murmured. Fatigue swamped him, and so truth prevailed. He could no longer hold up falseness like a curtain between them. “Tha gaol agam ort,”he whispered in Gaelic. My love is upon you; I love you.
“Mo graidh,”she said.My love. She kissed him. Before the door closed behind her, he slept.
Long into theday, she saw him at last, her heart near bounding out of her breast when he stepped out of the larger library just as she walked through the passage. She had thought to be discreet upon seeing him, yet a hot blush spilled into her cheeks with the sweet memory of the hour before dawn. He had been gone much of the day, riding out with Donal, so she did not know until now that he had returned.
As he emerged and saw her, he tipped his head, and gave a crooked, almost wicked smile. “Come in here,” he said low, holding the door open.
“It is nearly tea time.” She paused, trying to hide her smile. “Come up to the parlor. You have been out all day and must be hungry.”
“That is the least of what I feel just now. Come here.” He took her hand, pulled her inside, shut the door.
Setting her hand on his shoulder, she leaned in expecting to share a kiss while they had privacy. Instead, he put a hand to her waist, and, standing tall, stretched her right hand out with his left arm. “Miss Graham, will you dance with me?”
She laughed. “You need no lessons. We established that.”
