Chapter 22 #2
He shook his head. “No, Claire, she can’t, because I won’t let her, and neither will you.
” With his thumbs, he rubbed her palms until her trembling stopped and another emotion fired in her eyes.
He pulled Claire to him and bent his head.
He stopped just before their lips met, waited a heartbeat so that she could sense his hunger.
“That game with Agatha is over, and we’ve won.
She cannot steal what we have found again this day. True happiness has no end.”
He closed the gap between them, pressing soft kisses to her lips, kisses that hinted at the passion he held in check, kisses filled with promise for the future.
He teased her lips until he felt her relax in his arms, until her nerves were as taut as his own, and until she was as desperate to return to the paradise only the two of them could enter.
Her eyes on his, she drew back, caught his hand in her own, and led him from the room. She led him up the stairs to the bedchamber she occupied at Brightwood Hall. “I cannot wait until we return to Kildare Manor,” she said, her voice rough with passion.
He shut the door and pulled her into his arms. The place did not matter. She was all that mattered. “Neither can I.” Light from the late afternoon sun shone through the window, illuminating the chamber in hues of pale gold.
She met his gaze in the pale light, and he felt rather than saw her desire flare. He took a moment to savor the sensation. Raising both hands, he framed her face, tipped it up to his. He looked down for one long moment, searching those lovely eyes, then bent his head to kiss her.
Claire knew the moment his lips touched hers that this was a new beginning. While Jules deepened his kiss, his hands moved to the ties of her paint-splattered dress, and slowly he slipped the garment from her shoulders, down her hips, until finally it pooled about her ankles.
Time seemed to slow as he lifted her in his arms and carried her the short distance to the bed.
Gently, he set her there, then bent to remove his boots.
He dispensed with his waistcoat and breeches, setting them aside, then, as if the slowness of his other motions cost him his restraint, he yanked at his shirt, loosening his cuffs as he slipped beside her on the bed in his full naked glory.
He reached for her, wrapped her in his arms, and instead of acting on his passion, he simply held her.
“I promise you, Claire,” he whispered against her ear, “no one will ever hurt you again, especially me.”
She pressed her cheek to his, and drew in the scent of mint and man.
She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of his body as it warmed her own.
“That is not something you can promise and keep.” She pulled back and looked into his eyes.
“We will hurt each other. It is part of trusting each other with our lives. We’ll make mistakes, but we’ll learn from them. ”
“Ever the wise one.” A hint of a smile came to his lips.
“Then let me promise that if I do hurt you, I will make it up to you with my lips.” He kissed her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose, until finally he kissed her lips.
The kiss was gentle, patient, as though he waited for a response.
When she gave it to him, he coaxed her into more until her body melted against his.
He kissed her longingly. Hungrily. Yet his hunger was restrained as he let her taste his wanting.
Holding back, he gave to her without taking.
When the tide of her longing matched his own, he broke the kiss, his voice rough with need as he whispered, “With my heart.” His gaze never leaving hers, he brought his hand down to cover her chest above her heart where that organ fluttered beneath his touch. “And with my body.”
Jules wove what he felt for her into each gentle caress as his hands sculpted to her back, her hips, her thighs.
He let her feel his need of her in each slow kiss, each press of his hand against her heated flesh.
He continued his assault with a slow, steady stroke, creating his own masterpiece with her as his muse.
Their lovemaking before had been passionate and intense, and a part of her grew restless, waiting for the fulfillment of the promise he created with each tender touch.
She reached for him, trying to caress him in return, but he pressed her back into the pillows, evading her touch, gently anchoring her wrists with one hand above her head.
With his free hand he stroked from the hollow of her throat, over her breasts, along the flat of her stomach, to her woman’s core, branding her with an unspoken promise. He touched her with reverent possession, as if he still couldn’t quite believe she was his.
She tried to shift into him. He held her back. “Don’t,” he whispered with passion thickening his voice. “I want to be the one who brings you pleasure, pleasure so intense that it is close to pain. I want you to feel in my arms the way you feel when you’re painting.”
“You bring me that kind of pleasure every day that you weave your hand with mine.” Merciful heavens, he was beautiful. The candlelight bathed him in a golden glow, delineating each feature of his face, the tough, sinewy grace of his chest and shoulders.
“Tonight, I want to make you feel as if we are the only two people in the world.”
“We are,” she breathed and pressed back against the linen.
“Yes, we are,” he echoed, and she felt the brush of his fingers as they traced the underside of her breast, the side, the top.
Moving slowly, smoothly, he palmed the fullness, then traced her nipple with his thumb.
Flames leapt with each movement against her heated skin, desire flared, and yet he continued to explore first one breast, then the other, with infinite deliberation.
It felt as though he were discovering her anew, claiming her for the first time.
Or making amends for all that they’d been through. With every caress of his hands, with every sweep of his fingers, with every inch of his thorough exploration, he left no doubt about his feelings. He laid his heart bare before her. Her breath caught at the realization.
“Jules . . .” His name was part prayer, part plea. “I love you,” she whispered.
He found her lips and covered them with his. She arched into him, inviting his touch. He was her valiant warrior, her husband, her laird. He loved her, she knew, even if he failed to say the words. He made her ache. He teased her senses, and took slow, unhurried possession of her body.
Her heart sang, and her body thrummed when he finally released her wrists.
He moved over her and gently parted her thighs.
He entered her slowly, carefully, until he filled her entirely.
Her nails dug into the linen beneath her.
His very slowness and deliberateness were unbearably erotic and sensual.
He used his knowledge of her body to arouse and sustain her pleasure.
He roused her to a frenzy of passion and then gave her an equally fiery release.
But he never allowed himself that final climax of passion, never permitted himself to lose control.
The realization fueled her with a new purpose.
The time for penance was over. She no longer cared about his purpose—only her own, and that was to make him relinquish that control and give himself over to her.
Jules tried to surface from the sensual plane she had driven him to with the softness of her body enveloping him. Having held himself back for too long, now he craved her touch, longed for it like she was rain and he a square of parched land.
She slid her hands over his chest, down his sides, and around him to cup his buttocks, to urge him forward.
He drove inside her, deeper, thrusting to her core with swift and powerful strokes.
She moaned her pleasure as she continued her silken caress across his hands, up his arms, to his shoulders, and through his hair.
He leaned his head back as she worked her way back down his chest, and lower, stroking his skin as well as his soul.
She was raw passion and need, a bright flame he would never be able to live without. Opening his senses, he drank her in, soaked up every drop of pleasure until his hunger overflowed. She made no move to guide or direct; she simply urged him on with her legs around his thighs.
The hunger between them built, their bodies clenched, desire coiled tighter and tighter driving them both to that plane of total abandon. He could feel his ecstasy mounting, tried to hold back until they crested that peak together.
She cried out as she reached that pinnacle and fell into the void. Feeling her contract around him sent him reeling along with her as they fractured into bliss and floated.
In perfect sync, cocooned in golden glory, they drifted back to the here and now. Spent, he slumped upon her, then shifted to the side, taking her with him. They lay there entwined as he listened to her heart racing, matching his own.
The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Her arms slid around him, and she held him possessively, protectively, as though she never wanted to let him go.
He reached up and gently brushed back the hair from her temple, feeling closer to her at this moment than he had ever thought possible, and yet he still had one more thing he longed to give her—something he had denied her before. “Claire?”
“Hmmm,” she nearly purred.
He pulled back and studied her eyes, then leaned closer, gently framed her face with one hand. He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. “Your name really is Claire, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She brought her hand up and laid it over his.
He smiled slowly, as his chest swelled with emotion. He kissed her again—a longer kiss, one that stirred the flames between them once more. “Good,” he said against her lips. “Because suddenly it is the only name I desire.”
She grinned, and his heart felt achingly full.
“That settles it. Three days from now we will be married again.”
“Three days?”
“Two.”
She laughed. “I believe we can arrange the entire affair in two days.”
“If only it could be tomorrow.” He pressed another, more urgent kiss to her lips.
“Jules,” she said his name in a breath that was part sigh, part moan. And then, there was no talking at all.