Chapter Twenty #2
“This way. There’s a door to the hidden stairs, so no one will see you.
Two flights down to your bedchamber.” He opened a narrow door in the hallway paneling to reveal the dark, curving staircase, and went ahead, candle held high.
Christina realized he meant to catch her if she stumbled. “Careful, now.”
“Always,” she said, and heard his quiet laugh. Following him, she lifted her hemline to move cautiously downward. He led the way, candlelight illuminating the curving stone walls, their footsteps making a quiet cadence.
Descending past Aedan’s door, Christina paused on the darkened landing by her bedroom door.
She glanced at Aedan. The solitude in the tower stairs felt intimate, and her blood fairly steamed with the memory of the kisses they had so freely shared.
She wanted to go into his arms, but his hands were full—and she could not risk succumbing until she was sure.
Years ago, she had mistaken lust for love.
Now she reminded herself to be cautious, no matter what her feelings insisted.
Was it lust with a hint of affection, or love melded with desire?
What she felt for Aedan seemed a deeper expanse of feeling, beyond lust and passion.
Soul deep, the words came to her. No matter that she had not known him for long, she loved him.
The certainty of those simple words stunned her.
It was as if she had been born loving him and had only needed to find him.
All that in an instant, but her feelings were clear. She was unsure how he felt, for he could be passionate and then aloof. Something clearly troubled him. Either he did not love her—or he would not allow himself to love her, and she knew why.
But here, now, she needed to know more before going alone to her room.
“Aedan,” she began.
“Christina.” His voice in the close space held quiet power.
“Do you still feel—impervious, as you said once? When we—touch, is it just for the moment?” Her heart pounded. “Or is it—more?” Do you love me as I love you, or am I a fool? But she could not say it.
He sighed, silent, and set the candle in a wall niche. Reaching past her, he opened the door to her bedroom and dropped the bundle of clothing inside. She waited, need and hope and uncertainty weaving through her.
“Impervious?” he asked. “I did try.”
“And?” Her heart thumped.
Silently, he reached out. Catching her breath, she stepped into the circle of his arms. He bent toward her, and as his mouth sought hers, she looped her arms around his neck.
Strong, hot, giving, the kiss bloomed, hot and sweet, his lips sure over hers. Glad for the buttress of his arms, she sensed the dizzy fall of the stairs below and their soaring rise above. Aedan was her anchor point.
He lifted her suddenly, and she gasped as he carried her over the threshold. She floated in his arms, kisses deepening until he set her down and she pressed her body to his, leaning her head back, feeling his fingers slip through her hair.
“Aedan,” she breathed.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Just for now, love.”
Those simple words made her limbs sink a little, made her willing and wanton in his arms. Anything for him, just for now, anything, she thought.
Sliding her fingers through his thick, raven-dark hair, she cupped his bristled cheek, whiskers like sand beneath her fingertips, and renewed a kiss, another.
His hands slid along her back to her waist, up again over the sides of her breasts, her body tingling so that her knees went weak and her breathy little moan echoed.
His jacket, resting on her shoulders, slid to the floor.
Her tunic and his kilt and shirt were just thin layers between them, and she arched and pressed and urged against him, seeking more, wanting barriers erased between them.
She knew what she wanted, knew consequences might come later, but she could not think past this moment.
She could only feel, crave, move, and open herself to him.
She loved him, a secret not yet spoken, though her body told him.
And selfishly, if this fire and pull between them was not possible in the ordinary world, she wanted to take a memory with her into a lonely future without him.
They were so alone here, and that privacy brought a wild sense of freedom that urged her on. As he gently traced over one breast, the other, she gasped and leaned back, allowing his touch there, anywhere. His breath, his heart, raced as fast as hers.
She kissed the shell of his ear, felt him groan low against her throat.
He framed her head in his hands, kissed her deeply, tasted her as she tasted him.
Turning with her, he braced her shoulders and back against the door, and as she tilted her head, sighing, he traced his lips along her jaw, kissed the arch of her throat, teased over her collarbones.
His breath warmed her breasts, filled the silk with his heat, sweeping her toward a sort of madness and deep need.
She sighed, kittenish, as his fingers shaped and caged her breast.
At that marvelous touch, she felt beautiful, strong, cherished—she felt wanton and free, allowing him whatever he dared.
His hands explored, pushed her gown upward, slipped beneath, lightning touches that sparked through her.
Now his hand was on her hip, her thigh, floating the tunic away and with it the short, lace-edged cotton chemise beneath, fingers tugging, finding purchase, warm and teasing and intent on her skin now.
The wool of his kilt was warm and soft against her tender skin as his touch sought, paused, as she pulsed and breathed and could not hold back a whimper of want so deep, she nearly cried out—
Then he broke away, drew his hand back, flattened both hands against the door where she leaned. He was breathing as hard as she was. “I cannot—”
She lifted fingers lips. “Hush. I want to. So do you.”
“I cannot.” He groaned, took her mouth deeply, inhaling as if he would take in all of her, her very soul. But he pulled away again, like a man fighting for air. “This is madness, what I feel for you. But I will not disgrace you, ruin you, or risk you.”
“This is not disgrace. I have lived through that. This is joy,” she whispered against his cheek. “Joy, the only passion I have…ever…truly known,” she breathed, taking his face in hers. “Aedan, this is—good—between us. There is no ruin. No risk.”
“More than you know.” His voice was ragged.
“Please, love—” The words were out. “My love.”
He gave a low growl, took her lips fiercely with his kiss, catching her tight to him with one arm and capturing her breast with the other, kneading, teasing, stirring her to flame inside so that she ached, budded, cried out with the need.
Bunching silk and cotton and lace, his fingers caged her freed breasts, one and the other, sending a current through her body, and as she moved against him, feeling his woolen kilt slip, his thigh pressed to hers, his body, his core, against her.
Then as he kissed her again, fingers exploring, slipping swiftly, lightly down, caressing her secretly, she moaned, swayed, and sought his body, broad shoulders, hard-muscled back, sinewed arms beneath linen.
Pulling at his shirt, she traced over the rock-hard planes of his abdomen, seeking him just as he sought her.
His fingers were sure now, cupping, slipping upward where she ached so much for him, and as she arched, wanting to weep at the exquisite feeling he brought her. She found him then, velvet hard and taut, sleeved him in her hand there, let her body plead against his.
Spanning his hands, strong and sure and gentle, he lifted her, pushing fabrics away, letting skin find skin. Until with a breath and a gasp, he slipped within—
This, this felt right and good and necessary, and she moved with him in unison, with soft, ragged, whispered sounds, passion drunk, without thought. Here in the dark and silent room, there were no doubts, only trust and secret freedom. Here, she loved and was loved.
Out there, beyond the door, she felt no certainty. Here was safety and deep love expressed, created. He drew away, kissed her again, wrapped her in his arms and held her for a while in silence. His breath was fast, hers too, and when both calmed, he kissed her forehead and drew back.
“Christina, I—”
She shushed him with a finger to his mouth, then kissed him lightly.
Something told her they needed to separate now, just as strongly as they had needed to unite.
They needed to ponder and then return to the fire and the feeling between them to understand it, with its implications.
She felt as if love had opened a portal; they must either enter or turn away.
“Love,” he said, “we will talk. But now I must—”
“You must go,” she replied. “For now.” She unlatched the door and stepped aside.
“Aye then.” He traced his fingers over her cheek, then left. When the door had closed, she pressed her head against the wood, trembling. She sensed him on the other side, standing silent for a long moment.
Then he was gone, and she felt the fierce ache of his absence.