Chapter Thirty
T he long day had taken its toll. Sander entered Verda’s bedchamber without so much as a knock. He needed to hold her. He needed to touch her. She was the strongest person he’d ever known.
She was sitting before the hearth, running her fingers through the dark fire of her hair. “Mr. Oshea—”
He stormed to her, yanked her to her feet, and took her mouth. Harshly, completely. Once she’d melted against him, he broke away. “ Never call me that again.”
“Sander?” she breathed.
The hair raised on his skin. He fell to one knee, tightening his hand on hers. “I love you, Verda. We shall soon be man and wife. We leave for Scotland in the morning and be home by afternoon.”
She brought his hand to her lips. “I love you too.” Her brilliant emerald gaze never wavered from his. “But—”
He tugged her to her knees with his hands secured on her upper arms, their chests nearly touching. “No buts.” He slid his mouth over hers in a kiss that promised sunrise and sunset with all the colors that brightened his world no matter the weather in the wilds of the winter Northumberland.
She tasted of spun sugar sweetness, her lips plump and molding to his, giving what he demanded, and demanding from him in return.
“I’m never letting you go.” He licked the space where her shoulder curved into her neck. Took great satisfaction in her rapid breaths stirring the hair over his ear. “Never.”
“You say that quite often,” she whispered.
He smiled against her skin. “What?”
“Never.”
“Yet I’m a man of my word.” He came to his feet then pulled her to hers. With deft fingers, he dispelled with her wrapper. Untied her virginal white gown at the neck. “This is no longer needed.”
She raised her arms and he eased it over her head. Dropping back to his knees, he buried his face in her abdomen and licked her stomach. The spicy aroma of sex filled his nostrils, overpowering the soft, powdery violet scent that was all her. He urged her legs apart and touched the apex with his tongue. Licked his way to heaven until her knees shook and threatened to give way.
With a quick spin, he had her on the settee and his tongue delving deep inside her. He suckled and bit and tasted. She writhed beneath his ministrations until he thought he would come in his breeches. It was her that flew apart, whispering his name over and over. And not one “Mr. Oshea.”
He stood and tore off his waistcoat and his lawn shirt, then kicked off his boots and moved his hand to the placket—
Her fingers stayed him. “Let me.” The husky tonality was almost enough to do him in, but he lowered his hands to the fire of her hair.
She may not have been as adept as him, but he resisted tearing at the buttons, sucking in his stomach to make things easier for her. Cool fingers touched the blazing heat of his skin as she pushed his trousers over his hips. He wore no short pants. It would be skin against skin in mere seconds—
Hot breath feathered his cock and he nearly lost all control. The damp touch of her tongue traced his length and all thought crashed from him like the so-prevalent waves against the rocks. He had to stop her or…
“I can’t,” he moaned.
She froze. “Can’t?”
Sander pulled her up. He turned and fell on the settee with her hands in his. “Put your knees on either side of me. Hurry. I can’t wait.”
She didn’t argue.
He positioned himself for her. “Lower on me.”
Her hands moved to his shoulders, and her eyes were cast down to where their bodies were joining, her hair hiding her face. The tight sheath of her swallowed him and he moaned again. “I can’t wait,” he said again. He surged up until she gasped. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.” He pumped until she exploded and pulsed and suctioned against the fire branding rod his cock until he too flew over into the abyss that was her.
This love, now, was his life. She was his life.
Verda fell against his chest, the perfect synchronization of their breath, the only sound but the crackling fire that stretched and blanketed Sander with something deep and indefinable.
She was the first to break the silence. “About Scotland…”
*
The road into Scotland jarred Sander’s brain nearly from his head. This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind for his intimate marriage to Verda—him sitting atop the crowded barouche with Dermid, and Fletcher, the cold wind biting through his greatcoat. But truly? He knew he would never be cold again, not with Verda at his side, in his bed, in his life.
The trap door banged and he opened it.
Noah’s furrowed brows peered from the dark. “Are we there yet, Uncle Sander? My Julius is quite tired of riding.”
“You should have thought of that before organizing the entire family in accompanying me to my wedding,” Sander told him. In truth? Sander wouldn’t have it any other way. The only dark spot on his heart was the absence of Damien. “We’ll be there within the hour, son.”
The door shut with a clap. Sander threw off the melancholy thought of his troubled brother. A small burst of unadulterated laughter erupted from him. Verda would soon be his before God and family.
Fletcher turned a wary look on him. “Sir?”
Sander clapped him on the back. “Don’t you realize, Fletcher? This is the first adventure of my new life.” He embraced the cold air with zeal. With hope. With love.
Thirty minutes later, Sander stood at the altar of the small chapel in Paxton with Verda’s hand clasped in his. Lucius, Noah, and Julius stood at his side with Docia and Maura at Verda’s.
The vicar was a hearty Scot with a thick head of light-red hair, bushy beard, and twinkling, blue eyes. “You may kiss your bride.”
“Finally,” Sander breathed.
“Finally,” Verda murmured.
Sander lowered his head to Verda’s raised lips. This was forever.