Chapter Forty-one
Physically exhausted and emotionally spent, Angus shrugged off his coat and draped it over the chair by the fire as he stalked back into the familiar room of his youth.
A single lamp still burned beside the bed, and he stood bathed in the soft light, unwinding his cravat, watching the gentle rise and fall of the bedcovers as his beautiful wife slept beneath.
She stirred, murmuring softly as she rolled over.
He shook his head, moving back towards the fire, guilt pricking him for watching her, and the quiet pleasure it gave.
Sinking into the chair, he somehow summoned the energy to tug off his boots before collapsing back, closing his eyes. He hated conflict. He hated drama. If only all his problems could be solved in the ring. There was nothing like a good fist fight or a good f…
* * *
“Angus?”
His eyes flew open. For a moment, he was unsure of where he was until he saw Sylvie standing before him, a mere wisp of fabric shrouding her body.
“What… um, what time is it?” he asked sleepily.
“It’s still early.”
“Oh… um, how do you feel?”
“I… I feel all hot and fluttery.”
Rubbing the back of his neck as he sat up, he glanced around the room. “Are you going to be ill again? I’ll fetch you a bowl.”
“No, not that kind of fluttery, I am quite recovered from… from last evening.”
His gaze snapped back to her, confused.
“I… I was dreaming,” she whispered, “of you, of when you… when you kissed me, and put your mouth…”
“Sylvie!”
“And… and all these strange sensations,” she rushed on, “… making me restless and breathless… and… fluttery.”
“Sylvie… you should not speak of such…”
“Why not? Who else can I tell, if not my husband?”
He felt his jaw slacken as she tentatively stepped closer. The candlelight, just enough to offer a tantalising hint of dusky pink brushing against the near-see-through nightgown. He dared hardly breathe, knowing he was on the brink of doom.
“And… and I thought,” she said softly, “if you could just kiss me… it… it might help.”
“Where?” he rasped, the sound almost unrecognisable as his own voice. His body and desire finally betraying him. “Where do you want my kisses?”
Sylvie’s eyes widened as her fingers fluttered to her lips. “Here,” she breathed.
In one fluid motion, he was on his feet, drawing her to him. “Here?” he whispered hoarsely, brushing his thumb seductively across her bottom lip. “Only here?”
“No,” she whispered back, hand trembling as it drifted down over her collarbone, fingers brushing delicately over her chest.
He groaned softly as he caught her hand, turning her palm upwards beneath the curve of her soft, full breast. “You want my touch here?”
“Oh… yes, and….”
“Show me,” he murmured, eyes fixed on her hand as he guided her thumb in slow, tentative strokes, watching as her tantalising nipple sprang out from beneath.
He swallowed. Hard. “Again,” he rasped, heat surging through him, no longer able to temper his desire.
“Oh,” she gasped, shifting slightly away. “You’re… you’re growing!”
All too aware that his manhood was straining the front of his trousers, he finally allowed himself to touch her, replacing her thumb with his own. “I’m growing hard for you, as you have grown hard for me.”
“Oh…” she breathed, “is… does… is it…?”
“Normal? Yes,” he breathed against her lips. “When two people want each other’s touch.”
“Do you want my touch too?” she whispered back.
“I… I shouldn’t,” he managed, “but I do. Though it can change nothing, Sylvie.”
Her hand moved towards him. He caught her wrist, but instead of pushing it aside, he raised it, pressing his lips to her palm.
“I know,” she whispered. “Ours is not that kind of marriage.”
“No.”
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“No. It’s… excruciating.”
“Really?”
“In a good way,” he said, voice low. “An excruciatingly good way, but…” he murmured, placing his hand behind her head, drawing her closer, “you asked only for kisses.”
Their mouths met — hungry, urgent — her tongue seeking his in a breathless clash. His body throbbing with a primal need to claim her as his bride.
She whimpered beneath him, like a siren singing to his desire. He broke from her lips, trailing kisses along her jaw.
“Promise me,” he breathed against her skin, “if we do this, you understand, it changes nothing.”
“Yes, I promise,” she panted as his tongue toyed with her earlobe before finally grazing it between his teeth. Her head fell back, exposing her elegant neck to him, breaths quickening.
“Oh, Angus,” she whispered, “is it indecent to want to feel your skin against mine? I… I always thought I would be shy of such a thing, but…”
Aroused nearly beyond reason, he pulled back suddenly and stared at her.
“Is… is this still the champagne talking?”
“Gosh, no, no,” she gasped, then hesitated, colour rising high in her cheeks. “I… I’ve thought of little else since our wedding night. Is it terribly wrong… that I should want to… to look at you? Touch you? Feel your touch?”
He had no words, nor the willpower to resist. With one swift motion, he pulled his shirt free from his trousers and over his head, casting it aside.
Her gaze travelled over him, wide and bright, the wonder and fascination in her eyes, more erotic than anything he had experienced.
He held his breath as she reached out, fingertips, feather-like as they traced the contours of his chest, his shoulders, down the taut line of muscle to his stomach.
Biting her bottom lip, she hesitated at the edge of the fine trail of hair leading lower.
His hand fell on hers, stilling the exploration.
“My turn,” he murmured as his fingers brushed seductively over her collarbone, tracing the neckline of her nightdress, savouring the thrill of anticipation. Letting his fingers hover above the seed pearl buttons, he made her meet his eyes, one brow lifting in question.
“Yes,” she whispered, barely a breath. “Yes.”
Three buttons. That was all it took before the nightgown started to slip from her shoulders.
Every nerve in his body screamed to tear it away — but he forced himself to go slowly, teasing the silk inch by inch until her breasts were finally bared to him, soft and full, the dusky pink peaks tightening under his gaze.
She quivered. “How you look at me,” she whispered breathlessly, “it… makes me even more fluttery…”
Nearly dizzy with desire, he exhaled sharply and let the nightdress fall and pool at her feet. The sight of her stole his breath — her feminine curves, the pale gleam of her skin, the soft blonde triangle at her juncture.
Her hand fluttered instinctively to cover herself, and he caught and gently drew it around his neck, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. His hand slid beneath her knees, fingers sinking into the warm satin of her thigh.
“Beyond beautiful,” he murmured into her neck, his voice unsteady. “You are perfection.”
“Beautiful?” she breathed nervously, almost disbelieving. “But I thought… I thought I must not be to your liking… That I did not please you?”
“Please me?” His mouth brushed her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Oh, my little temptress…”