Chapter 24 #2
“It’s a night of celebration,” he said with a shrug and a grin, and Scarlett was momentarily shocked. “Though,” he continued. “We may be the only married couple to find ourselves ensconced together in one of the Totnes’ drawing rooms.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she said, stepping closer to him, her fingers fisting in his shirt.
That was all he seemed to need to swoop down on her, his lips descending on hers as though he had been starved of her for days — which, she supposed he was, as they hadn’t made love since her fall.
Their hands were everywhere as they explored one another as though they were strangers, a rush descending upon them in a new setting, in costumes, in a place where someone could walk in on them at any moment.
And yet, despite all of the differences from their previous times together, what mattered most — Hunter, her husband — remained constant.
Scarlett could sense how carefully he handled her, the lightness of his hands causing all of her nerves to jump on edge, bumps to rise on her skin.
She wasn’t sure if it was the roaring fire or Hunter’s ministrations, but she felt flushed all over, from her head to her toes.
Her hair, arranged according to her character, already cascaded around her shoulders, and Hunter took full advantage of that fact, weaving his fingers into it, digging them into her scalp as he took her lips in his, tasting, teasing, promising more to come.
“Hunter,” she gasped.
He broke away from her to murmur, “That is Samuel Strutt to you, my love,” causing her to laugh, and a thrill coursed through her at the thought that this man would be teasing her for the rest of her life.
It was worth it, to be with him, by his side at all times.
It was worth it to leave her home for a time, and, more than she could have ever thought possible, it was worth it to risk her heart.
For if one didn't give it at all, there really was nothing to lose, and that was the greatest tragedy of all.
Could a man possibly be any luckier?
The frigid woman he had thought he married those months ago had entirely disappeared, melted away by the fire that was truly Scarlett.
She kissed him now with more passion than he would have thought possible for any woman to hold within her, and the restraint of holding himself back, to keep from aggravating her injuries, was killing him.
Hunter slowed down for a moment, bringing his hands to Scarlett’s back, grateful to find that this costume dress was laced down the back.
With one swift motion, he had the ties undone, and the gown slipped easily from her shoulders, where it had been just hanging on.
The sleeves dipped down the satiny skin of her arms, the round tops of her breasts peeking out from above her chemise.
He groaned as he brushed his fingers against their cushiony tops, wanting more — needing more.
As much as he yearned to completely undress her, in the recesses of his mind he knew how much difficulty it would cause if his wife had to hurriedly redress.
Instead, he picked up Scarlett as gently as he could and laid her on the chesterfield which bracketed the fireplace.
He slid his hands up her legs, the garters of her stockings causing him a thrill as he navigated his way through the folds of her gown.
“What are you doing?” she breathed.
“Do not worry so much about that,” he murmured. “Simply enjoy.”
For once, she listened to him, as he found her small nub of pleasure and began to stroke it, first with his fingers, and then with his mouth. He made love to her, taking great pleasure in her groans and cries of delight, until she was kicking at him, calling his name.
“Hunter, I can’t … I can’t take it any longer. I want to feel you — please?”
He could certainly comply with that request.
“Well,” he said, quickly unfastening the fall of his trousers, sending them to the floor as he leaned over her, “since you asked so nicely.”
And in nearly one motion he sheathed himself within her, groaning at the feel of her, tight and wet. He gripped her firm bottom in both hands, moving in and out of her slowly, not wanting to jostle her, to cause pain to her ribs.
“Scarlett,” he groaned, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in her, but knowing he had to be as tender as possible.
“Faster,” she said, urging him on, and when he kept himself in control, she began to move against him, impatient that he wouldn’t comply.
“Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” he said, bringing his hands to her hips, which seemed so small under his long fingers, but he began to do as she asked, thrusting quicker, in and out.
He brought his thumb back to her most sensitive place, and the moment he touched her she cried out his name, convulsing around him, sending him over the edge himself, as he poured himself into her with a bellow.
He collapsed over her, keeping his weight on his elbows, which framed her head.
“My God, Scarlett,” he said, trying to bring his breathing back under control. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“Me?” she said with a startled laugh. “You did all of the work!”
“Yes,” he said with a half grin of self-satisfaction. “I suppose I did.”
He sat up, bringing her with him, and despite her protestations that she could dress, he helped her to fasten and straighten her gown, to rearrange her hair.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Stunning,” he said sincerely, and while she laughed at him, he could see the gratitude in her eyes.
“Well, my love,” he asked. “How has London met with your expectations so far?”
“It has been altogether lovely,” she said. “Better than anything I could have ever imagined.”
“And your memories now?”
“Of the most wonderful Twelfth Night I could have asked for, and a husband I didn’t know was waiting for me.”
At the earnest look in her eyes, in the midst of her imperfect yet, at the same time, so utterly perfect face, Hunter dropped his forehead to hers. “I shall always be faithful to you. Forever and always,” he promised.
“And I to you. I love you, Hunter Tannon.”
“And I you, Scarlett Tannon.”