Page 89 of Seductive Reprise
“And you’re mine.”
Rose responded with a hum of pleasure, backing into him.
“No,” he said, his voice ragged, his fingers digging into her hips. “Say it. Tell me.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered, low and husky.
He drove into her. She gasped.
“Tell me you’ll say yes,” he said, pulling back slowly, then filling her once more with another thrust.
“I have said yes,” she protested between breaths, pushing backward, wanting more of the delicious sensation.
He mumbled something in another language, and increased his speed, slowing only to bend over her and fondle her breast. They moved together, but still Rose wished they might be closer, for even this was not enough, not enough of what she wanted. For all she wanted was him—handsome, perfect, elegant, arroganthim. She wanted to be his. She wanted to be his wife. She wanted to bring him to heel, begging at her feet, begging for her cunt. And she wanted to kneel before him in turn, taking him in her mouth, allowing him the reins. Together, as two sides to a whole, the light and the shadow.
And then he hissed, aggressively pulling her back onto him, and her breath caught in her throat, her mind caught on the tightness in her core. With a shout he withdrew, one hand still holding her in place as he found his release, warmth pooling low on her back.The sacrum triangle, she thought, recalling her anatomy lessons. After a moment he cursed, not in anger but in awe. He left the bed to fetch a bit of toweling from the washstand, then returned to clean her off.
Afterward they collapsed on the bed together, naked and sweaty, her hair a tangled mess. Yusef reached for her hand; Rose laced her fingers between his. Together they sought one another’s comfort, vulnerable in every sense of the word, but safe with each other. He would always be with her now. She would never have to sleep alone, or walk the streets of London alone; hell, she didn’t have to walk anymore at all, if she didn’t wish to. She’d soon have her own showing. She’d even be as rich as Croesus, as if she knew what to do with so much wealth. Instead of a mounting dread, the thought brought a wry smile to her lips. How things had changed in a few short months.
“This is nice,” she said, and sighed. “I don’t know…” she began, then stopped short, not wanting to speak any more of what had transpired between them so long ago.
“What?” he asked, his voice low and reverent.
Had she ever heard him sound like that? She found herself overcome with joy, tears filling her eyes. She laughed, and brought her hand up to wipe them away, only for Yusef to catch it.
“What’s this? Are you crying?” He pushed himself up from the bed, thick brows knit. “What’s wrong?” He placed a kiss on her forehead, his thumb wiping her tears away. “Is it Walter’s portrait again?”
“Oh goodness, no.”
“Is it the way I orchestrated seeing you once more?”
“No. It’s nothing, I just,” she laughed again. “It’s easy, isn’t it? You and me, together. How did it ever become so fraught? Why am I so hardheaded and proud? Why couldn’t I accept it?” She choked back a sob, startled by this overwhelming feeling.
Yusef hushed her, gathering her against his chest, so warm and firm. He didn’t speak, just held her there as she cried, smoothing her hair. Years of emotions sorted themselves out in her heart, finding relief now that the floodgates had opened.
In time he spoke, his voice low. “Because you’re you. And that’s who I love. Stubborn, proud you. Rose Verdier.”
She took a shuddering breath, slightly embarrassed at what was no doubt a very red and snotty nose. His chest was slick with her tears, and she brought her hand up in a vain attempt to wipe them away.
“I see now. That you were right. Wearethe same. And I don’t regret it, not anymore. That the duke and, well…” She paused to bite her lip and think before continuing. His hand stilled at the back of her head, waiting. “It shouldn’t matter, the circumstances of our birth. But I’m glad of it. That I’m who I am,whether I wished it so or not. For if Ipsley hadn’t invited me that day, we’d have never met. And you—I’m glad that you’re who you are.” She sat up, staring at him, her heart in her throat. “For I love you, Yusef Ghali… I love you. Arrogant, entitled you.”
He looked so solemn, pinning her with those intense, dark eyes, his impressive lips set in an implacable line. And then he smiled.
A small smile, to be sure. But one that Rose knew he saved only for her. She grinned back, her heart full. Then they kissed again. The dreamy, heady kiss of lovers who’d finally understood one another.
Epilogue
London, March 1873
“To say it surprisedthe dickens out of me would be a vast understatement. I suppose he must have fancied a change,” Marcus Hartley quipped, then lifted the delicate cup, pinched awkwardly between his thumb and forefinger. He glanced up at Yusef. “Er, this is coffee?”
“Yes,” Rickard interjected from across the room, where he stood with one hand in pocket, the other holding a cup of his own as he stared out the window, watching the traffic in the street below. Yusef hadn’t seen much of the man since autumn, when his wife had delivered a howling baby girl. In the months since, the infant had sorted things out and was now charming enough, but Yusef gave the young family their space, not knowing much about children and not caring to learn.
“The Duke of Marbury as a social reformer. I suppose I should have paidyoufor that,” Yusef said as he stared at the tray before him, laid with a manner of pastries and delicacies. Rose had insisted their cook travel with them to London rather than remain at Sarnesfield Hall. Not that Yusef minded. A steady diet ofbasbousahad added flesh to her in the most pleasant manner.He selected one, bringing to mind both memories of childhood and now visions of Rose, licking the syrup from her fingers.
“Well, given that you conveniently lost that portrait of Walter, consider yourself paid up. It’s given Mama something else to fret over besides me for at least the next year,” Marcus said, his relief obvious. Then he looked into his cup and said, “It’s a bit thick, isn’t it?” He frowned and tilted the cup back and forth, moving on from politics and talk of his mother.
“For the love of God, Hartley, it’s coffee. Bloody good stuff, too,” Rickard said, then muttered, “Nothing like the swill you find here.” He took another swallow from his own cup, as if to make his point.
