Chapter 16
Sixteen
THE NEXT THING Claire knew, she was flat on the sofa beneath Jonathan’s delicious weight.
It happened so fast. If she felt any surprise, it was promptly subsumed by onrushing desire. This wasn’t the Jonathan she remembered, but the one she’d imagined. As wild and demanding as he’d been in her dream, possessing her and possessed by her.
Yet the reality was even better. For the onslaught of sensation—his hard body crushing her into the cushions, his mouth covering hers, the intrusion of his tongue and of his hands ransacking her skirts—was more vivid and thrilling than anything she could have dreamt up.
She could scarcely keep pace, for he seemed to be everywhere at once.
She buried her hands in his hair, that thick, silky mass more luscious than any woman’s. It seemed to glow in the golden candlelight of the room. But her focus shifted instantly when she felt the heat of his palm through her stocking.
Gliding up her bare thigh…
Nearing the place where her legs met…
When his fingertips grazed her there, she heard herself whimper. Then she was fumbling at his trousers with desperate urgency, making quick work of the fastenings before he could stay her hands.
He pinned them above her head. “Not yet.”
Though his denial was firm and his hold on her like iron, the touch of his fingers below was anything but: fiendishly soft, maddeningly slow…
“Please,” she breathed, squirming against him, trying to press herself closer. “I want you now.”
“Shall I tell you what I want? All the many things I’ve dreamt of all year?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I dreamt of doing this,” he told her, teasing her ear with his gruff voice and his hot, damp, shivery words.
And he slipped a finger inside her.
She arched and cried out, and he silenced her with a kiss. She felt his wicked smile against her lips. “Hush, or the footmen will hear…”
But she couldn’t hush amid the sensations building within her, and she especially couldn’t hush when his thumb found her most sensitive spot.
“And I dreamt of doing this,” he whispered against her mouth, caressing that spot in a rhythm that felt exquisite, that threatened to send her over the edge...
That did send her over the edge.
He released her arms so he could clasp her face to his neck, holding her there as she unravelled, muffling her cries until they subsided. Until she went limp upon the cushions, her breathing ragged, her trembling fingers once again twined in the silk of his hair.
He dropped kisses on her forehead, her neck, her earlobe. “Are you ready for more?” he whispered there. “Because I dreamt of doing more. Much more.”
Still breathless, she could only nod, relishing the feel of his slightly rough cheek against her smooth one.
The next moment he was moving over her with purpose, pushing up her skirts, raising her leg. Her eyes fluttered open to find his intent on her face. In their fathomless depths she saw hunger and fire and just a hint of remaining worry.
Still Jonathan, she thought with wry affection.
He maneuvered to meet her, and whilst he was ill-positioned to stop her, she seized him by his hips and shoved.
And though there was some discomfort attending his entrance, there was so much more pleasure that a full-throated moan escaped her lips. “Sorry,” she gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth.
He half laughed, half groaned. “Forget the damned footmen. Given your reaction, I take it you’re not hurting this time?”
“Not at all.” The momentary pain was gone, not even worth mentioning. “You feel glorious,” she added.
“So do you. So much better than a dream…”
Once again he took charge of her body, using his hands and his hips and whispered words to issue commands.
Where they touched each other, when and how they kissed, the speed and style of their escalating rhythm: He dictated every detail with aplomb.
And she obeyed every dictate with eager excitement.
And not only because she found this new, authoritative streak in Jonathan wildly attractive and compelling. He also seemed to have a knack for anticipating her desires, sometimes before they’d revealed themselves even to her.
Was this evidence of his skill in the bedchamber? Proof of how well they suited one another? Or just a result of how unreservedly he was giving her his full attention?
She couldn’t decide, because she couldn’t think straight.
Those deep blue eyes never left hers. When she searched them now, she saw a satisfying change. Though the hunger and fire remained, they were no longer tinged with even the tiniest trace of worry. Instead there was a golden glow of joy, adoration, and love.
His love was so palpable that her heart suddenly swelled. Like molten metal filled a jeweler’s mold, the golden glow seemed to flow right into her. Smoothing over jagged edges, lighting all the shadowed corners. Chasing away the darkness and emptiness of the past year.
Tears of happy relief pricked at Claire’s eyes. She tried to hold them back, fearing they’d upset Jonathan. But he sensed the emotional shift at once and eased back a little.
When a tear overflowed and streaked down her temple, he bent to kiss it away. “Don’t cry, my love,” he murmured. “This feels too good and too right for sorrow, don’t you think?”
She nodded fervently. “Th-that’s why I’m crying.”
“Ah.” A smile tugging at his lips, he drew away and sat up. “I suppose it’s all right, then.”
“Are we stopping?” she asked in dismay.
“Not for the world.”
“Then why—”
“Trust me,” he said, “I dreamt of doing this, too.” And as if she weighed nothing, he lifted her and arranged her astride his lap, spreading her skirts all around them.
Her curiosity turned to appreciation as he raised and then lowered her down upon him, slowly, slowly. At the bottom she encountered a new feeling, an almost-too-fullness she found queer although not unpleasant. A little sound escaped her throat at the same time a shuddering breath escaped his.
The odd feeling could not be endured for long. Instinctively she leaned into Jonathan and used his wide shoulders to push herself up. With his hands spanning her waist, he assisted as much as directed her rise and fall, slowly, slowly…then faster, faster.
Claire didn’t know who was driving the escalation—nor at present did she care.
All she knew was the dizzying whirl of sensation: his sleek hair feathering her cheek, his hot mouth teasing any bare skin it could reach, her thigh muscles straining with effort, the urgency building where his body joined hers.
When his hands left her waist to bring her head down to his, she feared her legs might give out for want of support. His kiss was frantic and unending, and though it stoked her urgency, she felt herself tiring.
He must have felt it too, for his murmured, “Keep going,” was nearly a growl. A shivery thrill raced down her spine, imparting a burst of renewed energy.
In the next instant he was crushing her to him.
She felt him quaking, and the turbulence in his body made her own body flood with heat.
She heard him gasp her name and felt his fingers burrow between them.
And when they found her tenderest place, she felt the unbearable contrast of deft, feather-light caresses amid rough and fevered straining. ..
This time her unravelling was so complete she feared her cries were too loud. For some moments she scarcely remembered her own name or where she was.
Upon knitting herself back together, she found that she was Claire (albeit, a much happier and lighter Claire than she’d been of late), and her current location was in Jonathan’s arms. Her head was tucked under his chin; her face was engulfed in his cravat (which was sadly bedraggled, though it still smelled as forest-fresh as the rest of him); and all her limbs were enfolding him, clinging to his reassuringly solid form.
When her breathing had evened, she exerted herself so far as to turn her head. “I didn’t know you could be so…” Groping for a word that wouldn’t make her blush, at length she chose: “Assertive.”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to be,” he replied archly.
She gave a contented sigh, and he settled his lips in her hair, and they didn’t move or speak again for some time. The only sounds were the crackling fire and Jonathan humming snatches of some indistinct melody, his throat vibrating pleasantly against her forehead.
“What are you humming?”
“You can’t tell? It’s one of your favorite songs.”
Claire frowned, listening closer. “I don’t recognize it.”
“How could you fail to recognize Sir Christèmas?”
A laugh bubbled in her throat. “You’ve got the melody all wrong. It goes like this—” She demonstrated.
“Mine sounded just the same!”
“Poor Jonathan,” she clucked. “You really can’t carry a tune.”
“How dare you, madam?”
“Dear me, have you changed your mind? Am I to shut my eyes to your foibles after all?”
“That may depend on the number of foibles you mean to discover.”
“Oh, very few, I should think.” She shifted her hips suggestively. “In most respects I find you more than adequate.”
“Mmm. A gratifying sentiment. Some might even prefer it to ‘I love you.’”
She found a lock of his hair to tug. “I love you, too.”
Though he merely grunted, she could tell he was pleased. “But will you still love me after I’m forced to dispatch your brother in a duel?”
“Oh, you need have no fear of that. Mr. Evans is the soul of discretion.”
“And his footmen?”
“Would never dare cross him.”
“Hmmph. Let us pray you are right.”
“Of course I’m right. And even if I’m wrong…” She lost her train of thought; she was still toying with his hair, enjoying the feel of it slithering through her fingers.
“It was worth the risk?” he prompted her.
“Hmm? Oh, right. Don’t you think so?”
“Without question. In fact, I foresee us taking many such risks through the years. Twineham is full of sofas languishing in disuse…”
She giggled. “There’s a rather comfortable one here in the saloon. Later, we could—”
“No,” he cut her off firmly. “Later we are meeting in your chamber, where I’ll remove every stitch of your clothing, and you’ll have a proper deflowering at last.”
“Yes, your grace.” Anticipation fluttered in her stomach. “But is it true that a woman must be nude to consider herself properly deflowered? I’ve never heard that said.”
He chuckled. “Not true. In my estimation, proper deflowering has more to do with taking one’s time.”
“Then why are you so fixed upon the notion of undressing me?”
“If a man is forced to go about his daily life whilst knowing what Claire Chase looks like undressed—”
“I knew it!” She sat bolt upright. “You were envisioning me all year, weren’t you?”
He looked unrepentant. “Constantly.”
She gasped. “And had I banished you again, would you have continued the practice?”
His eyes danced. “For the rest of my life.”
“Well!” She regarded him with wonder. “I can only thank God it all came out right in the end.”
“Because we’re together now, you mean?”
“Oh, yes, that too. But imagine if I had undressed before other men, and they were all out there seeing me nude to their dying days?”
“All?” He raised a brow. “Just how many other men have you contemplated undressing for?”
“None, of course,” she squeaked, and disappeared back under his chin.
“Claire.” His voice was suddenly an octave lower. “Are you telling me the truth?”
She shivered despite herself. “That tone is only to be used for—” Her face heating, she gestured at their current position.
“Claire,” he growled, “fetch me my cloak. And be sure you order the lamb for Christmas dinner. I’ll have no prawns on my table, Claire.”
She elbowed him, laughing. “Speaking of Christmas, I suppose we ought to join the others.”
“Not yet.” He gathered her closer. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Very well,” she agreed, snuggling into him. She tightened her arms around him, matching his breathing. And for the first time in a year she felt wholly content. Wholly warm. Wholly, well—
Whole.