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A lady would never run off to the Continent and abandon every notion of familial support and love.
A lady would never curse, though if Elijah stalked away, Je
A hand settled on her shoulder, bringing warmth and ineffable relief. “Woman, you will send me to Bedlam.” He turned her into his embrace, just like that.
“You’re always warm, Elijah. I love that you’re warm.” She also loved that he was never in a hurry—usually, she loved this—but she could not allow him to deliberate his way out of the last lovemaking she might ever experience. “You will indulge me, then? I didn’t plan this, not even when I realized the staff—”
He cradled the back of her head in his palm and urged her to rest her cheek against his chest. She felt his mind come to a rest, felt him give up on common sense and gentlemanly scruples, felt him relinquish for a time the struggle of being both protective and proper.
“I will pleasure you. We’ll let everybody think we traveled the lanes, and take our time with each other here instead.”
“We left tracks.”
“The wind and weather will obliterate them easily.” He spoke so gently, Je
Je
And she wanted this stolen pleasure to last, so she kissed him slowly and gently, the way he often kissed her.
Gradually, his arms tightened around her. His fingers tu
“Bed, Elijah. On the bed, please.”
“Not please.” He growled the words against her mouth. “You don’t have to beg, only ask. Never beg.”
With that, he heaved her up, boots and all, and deposited her sitting on the edge of the bed. This was fortunate, because Je
Foolish words, but they made him smile, and Je
“You’re being insecure, rather, and you’ve no need to be.” He eased a boot off her foot then started on the other. “France will be good for you. French women do not suffer fools. They know how to enjoy themselves without guilt and hypocrisy, and French men—”
He fell silent, his brow against Je
“French men could never appeal to me.” She shifted, silently reminding him that she still wore a boot—and a great many other items of apparel.
The room wasn’t warm, but neither was it as frigid as the rest of the house. Because of the balcony overlooking the conservatory, the little chamber had the feel of a bower—a marvelous trysting place for a lady who’d given up her virginity in a dusty minstrel’s gallery nearly a decade ago.
Elijah soon had her down to her shift, and when Je
How stern and unyielding he sounded as he wrenched off his cravat. Je
This was Elijah Harrison in a hurry. With impressive dispatch, his boots, stockings, coat, shirt, waistcoat, and breeches ended up in a haphazard pile on a chair. Je
“You are aroused, Elijah.” The longing for her sketchbook evaporated in a longing for him. “You are quite, quite aroused.”
His stride across the room blended a prowl and a swagger. Je
Except she couldn’t quite find the words. She instead reclined against the pillows, while Elijah climbed directly onto the bed and commenced kissing her.
Really, truly kissing her. Kissing her while he positioned himself on all fours over her, kissing her while she twined her arms around his neck and let herself kiss him back.
He pulled back, frowning down at her. “Your hair—”
Je
“I want it down, Genevieve, and you don’t fool me. When you’re about your pleasures, you’re about as modest and demure as a tempest. Sit up.”
Elijah, dear, reserved, composed Elijah, was very managing when naked. Maybe that was the cause of her witlessness, because in this context, she quite liked him giving orders—and she sat up.
“How many pins does it take to hold up a single braid?”
“Twenty four.” Twenty-two of which were piled up on the night table in an instant, and as for the other two, Je
Elijah lifted the covers and joined her beneath them, the bed rocking and bouncing with his movements like a heaving sea. “You are very bold, Genevieve, but you haven’t let yourself acknowledge this yet. Make love with me.” He wrestled her into his arms then rolled with her so she was straddling him, her hair streaming down around them like so much swagged Christmas greenery.
“Make love with you.”
Splendid notion, particularly with his erect member very much in evidence against her sex. He traced her hairline, pushing her errant locks back, the movement slow and sweet.
Abruptly, sadness threaded through the glee and anticipation fueling Je
“You should not consign yourself to Paris. And as for your hair, I love it down. I love every single—” The look in his eyes shifted, as if Je
His hands cradled her breasts, and lest he embroider further on his metaphor—for it was a metaphor—Je
For he’d applied a sweet, steady pressure to her nipples, the exact right touch to illuminate her insides like one of her German grandmother’s decorated Christmas trees—all candles and sparkle, sentiment and joy.
“Elijah—I love…”
He was wiser than she. Before she could let fly with her folly, he leaned up and kissed her, nothing tucked up or pi
“Love me, Genevieve. You asked for what you wanted, and I intend to see that you get it.”
When had she started to move? When had she begun to drag the slick, secret folds of her sex over him, to initiate the true prelude to their joining? Je
Elijah’s hands slid to her hips. “Minx. Tease. Siren. Houri. Mad woman. Brilliant, talented, daft, mad—”
He might have aired his vocabulary the livelong afternoon, but Je