Page 69 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
His arms had been empty for too long, his mind a red rage that he had emptied and filled now with her essence, her strength, her dedication.
She kissed his jaw, blessed the hollow behind his ear, and put her lips to his cheek.
Lured, he turned and found her mouth. This was what he’d craved—her soft surrender, her vibrant demand of his lips, his tongue.
She broke away with a start. Her dark eyes wide with want, she grabbed his hand and led him to the door, to the hall, the stairs, and up, up, up to her rooms, and privacy.
He went like a man in a trance. She needed him, and he was hers to have.
In her sitting room, she spun and closed the door.
Inside her bedroom, he turned and locked the door.
She led him on. Her fingers were busy on his cravat, his frock coat, pulling his shirt from his breeches.
He spun her around, his fingers nimble, her gown gone, all else whisked from her and thrown to the floor.
He walked her backward to the bed, where she promptly sat and admired him as he dispensed with his breeches.
She reached out to cup him with one hand and stroke his length with the other.
He sucked in air and told his conscience to go hide. Her mouth was on him. Her body, his wine. Her pleasure, his only heaven.
For tonight, she was his.
*
The feel ofhim, the smell, the sounds of pleasure that stirred in his throat blended together and poured into her soul. For months, she had more than missed him. She had pined for his care, his affections, and his love.
He did love her. He didn’t have to tell her. She’d known for months.
Perhaps from the very start.
His reverence as he kissed the hollow of her throat and that between her breasts spoke of his sorrows. His ardor as he blessed her nipples with sweet kisses told of his passion for her. But as he wended his way down her ribs to her hips, then urged her to open wide, his tenderness expressed his sole desire to make this moment the expression of all that she was to him—and all they would never realize beyond this night.
The torment of that knowledge had her sinking her fingers into his long hair and winding her arms down around his shoulders to hold him close.
Even that was not enough of him.
His mouth on her, she writhed in the ecstasy to be possessed by him once more. He rose, hovered above her, and kissed her. The taste of herself on his lips had her lifting her legs and twining them around him.
He sank into her, and a sob left her throat. This love would be the last she’d know from him. This would be her memory to carry her onward.
He slid more deeply inside her and held. With one hand he brushed her long hair from her cheeks to fan upon the pillows. As if he painted a portrait of her, he paused and smiled with a benevolence that defied the reality that they were parting. This was the last time he would make love to her.
She broke into sobs, gasping for breath.
He brushed her tears from her cheeks with flicks of his fingers. “Don’t,” he whispered—and began the rhythm that would make her his.
She arched, taking him, wanting more.
He gave it with a quickening cadence that told the story of their love upon her body in fierce, pounding thrusts.
She came in a rush, her cry as loud as his.
Then they were silent, still, replete.
And there was no more.
