Chapter 17 #2
He nodded.
“You do… what?” she asked cautiously, certain she must have missed something, because otherwise—
He let out a sound of sheer exasperation. “I love you, you witless creature, though how you can fail to have realised it is beyond me.”
Cilly’s throat was too tight to speak, so she just stared at him in stunned silence, her entire body alight with joy and such overwhelming relief she hardly knew how to contain it.
He loved her.
His gaze remained focused on the fire, his expression almost annoyed, and if Cilly had not already been head over ears in love with him, that would have been the final straw. He was simply adorable, and she was a lost cause.
“Oh, finally. If I’d known it would stun you into silence, I might have admitted it sooner,” he grumbled, though there was an uncertain look in his eyes, as if he regretted saying it.
Cilly tried to gather the shattered pieces of her wits and cobble together something resembling a sensible answer, too aware that if she said the wrong thing, she might ruin everything.
“Damian,” Cilly managed, somehow forcing her poor brain to form coherent words. “You… You do not know what that means to me, to hear you say so.”
“Yes, I do,” he said softly. “I felt it myself. I knew how you felt in church this morning, when you looked at me and…. Oh, God, Celia, I don’t know why you love me. You’re a mad fool and I don’t deserve it, not even a little, but I want it. I want you to love me, but I—”
He took a deep breath before the emotion of his words could run away with him.
“You do deserve it, you always have, and I know you are scared. I am too. But if we are open and—”
“Honest,” he said, his mouth quirking. “Yes, I know. I believe I have finally understood that much.”
They sat in silence for a long moment.
“I cannot give you a child, Celia. I will not.”
Cilly’s heart clenched, disappointment lancing through her, but it was not a surprise, and he had given her so much already, how she could demand more of him when it was the source of such fear and angst? She would accept his decision with good grace and focus on all the things they could have.
“I know. I understand, and I accept your decision.” She spoke clearly, holding his gaze so he knew she meant it and would not try to dissuade him.
“I would give anything to have a family with you,” he said, and tears filled her eyes as she heard the gravity of his words, the sincerity.
“I only pray that… that you do not regret your decision. If I were a better man, I would give you leave to take a lover, but… I cannot do that, Celia. I won’t,” he added vehemently, passionately, and he reached for her, pulling her mouth down to his and kissing her as she had dreamed of being kissed by him.
His mouth devoured hers, as a starving man falling upon a feast. One hand sank into her long hair, fisting the tresses as he held her head in place.
The other slid down her back, over the curve of waist and hip, and grasped her backside, tugging her hard against him.
Cilly’s breath caught as she felt the proof of his arousal, the depths of his desire for her.
Cupping his face in both hands, she deepened the kiss, pressing closer as Damian sighed. He trailed a finger along the neckline of her gown, raising goosebumps and making her shiver.
His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded and sinful, and Cilly knew he was weighing up his options: what he was prepared to give her, how far he would allow this to go.
“What now?” she asked, aware she sounded breathless.
He considered for a long moment. “I believe I should like to look upon my lady wife, if you have no objections.”
Cilly gave an indelicate snort. “I had thought my nightgown was invitation enough to look at me.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “It is far too demure, love. I want to see all of you, to discover just how outrageously fortune has smiled upon me.”
“Very well.” Cilly got up and stood before him, suddenly a little bashful, yet his eyes were warm and encouraging, so she gathered her nerves and reached for the first tie.
It slid undone easily and his heated gaze tracked the movement of her hands.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said, sliding her palms over the sheer material, watching his eyes follow the movement over her breasts, her waist and hips.
“It’s the devil’s work, is what it is, but still not as lovely as you, Celia.”
She smiled at that, a blush warming her cheeks as her hands reached for the next tie, and the next, as a column of skin appeared at the opening.
Watching him closely, she heard his breathing quicken, becoming deeper, and noticed with pleasure the flush of colour that told her he was far from unmoved.
Finally, all the ties were unfastened, and his darkened eyes slid over her, from her face, down past the full swell of her breasts, over her belly, and lingered on the thatch of dark curls at her thighs.
Swallowing, she forced herself to meet his eyes as he looked back at her.
“I’ve seen nothing like you in my life before. No one could come close, love, and I… I want so much—”
She flew to him, kneeling before the settee and pressing her mouth to his. He kissed her, bearing her down to the floor, his hands impatient as he pushed aside the nightgown.
“Beautiful,” he growled. “So very lovely.”
Cilly gasped as one hand gently squeezed her breast and his mouth covered the peak, suckling and pulling as sensations lanced to her very core, setting her alight.
Her hands sank into his hair, holding him to her as he teased her with teeth and tongue until she thought she might run mad. Yet just as it became too much, he switched his attention to her other breast and began all over again.
Sighing with delight, with relief that he would not leave her alone and untouched as she had feared, she gave herself into his hands, allowing him to do what he would.
That he had shared this with many other women before her was an idea that drifted into her mind only to be firmly batted away again.
That was before. He had not loved them, had not touched them in the same way he touched her, and if he had learned such skills with them, she could only be grateful, and thankful too that they had showed him tenderness when he had needed it.
For he needed love and compassion so badly, and understanding, and she would ensure he never felt the lack of it again.
She sucked in a breath and laughed as he worked his way down her body, wriggling his tongue into her belly button. Cilly squirmed and shrieked and he grabbed her wrists, holding her down.
“Ticklish, love?” he asked, all innocence.
“So, it would appear.” She gazed up at him, his eyes brimming with love and laughter, and it was hard to believe they could ever look so frosty and disdainful.
Her heart was so full it seemed to press at the confines of her chest, as if there was simply not space enough to contain all she felt for him.
“I could do dreadful things with a ticklish wife,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.
“I shall scream,” she said primly, attempting to look as though she hated the idea.
Damian leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Yes, you shall,” he promised before releasing her wrists.
He continued his path down her body, kissing and painting patterns with his tongue as she gasped and squeezed her eyes shut with the effort of not screaming, as he had promised she should.
As he descended lower, closer to the apex of her thighs, Cilly ceased breathing.
Her blood fizzed in her veins as he nuzzled into the soft curls, pressing a kiss there.
Anticipation and scandalised curiosity lit fires in her blood.
Nichols had warned her he would probably enjoy kissing her in places that she might consider indecent, and the idea had been intriguing, but the reality was beyond anything she could have believed.
“Let me taste you, Celia.” His voice was a wicked growl and Cilly could not answer, too shocked to speak, but not so shocked that she was unwilling to do as he wanted. She widened her thighs, her own pulse ratcheting higher as she saw the look in his eyes, the need for her.
He bent his head again and licked along the crease of her sex, then slid his tongue inside.
Celia gave a little shriek and clutched the leg of the settee, feeling the need to hold on to something.
She felt rather than saw the smile that curved over his mouth as he did it again and again, turning the little fires into an inferno that threatened to devour her body and soul and creating an insistent, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse through her to her bones.
Damian sat back, gazing down at her, satisfaction glinting in his eyes as Cilly raised her head, staring at him in consternation.
“Why did you stop?” she demanded, unable to keep the indignation from her voice.
He smiled, his sensual mouth curving in a way that made her pulse thrum beneath her skin.
“Because I want to make one thing very clear, love. I am trusting you to be honest with me. If you want me to stop, or if you don’t like something, you must say so.
I would be unhappy if you didn’t tell me. Do you understand?”
“Did it sound or look like I didn’t like it?” she asked, aware she sounded impatient and cross but unable to do otherwise.
His smile widened and the dreadful man looked so smug she could not help but laugh. “No, but a fellow likes to be certain.”
“You may be quite certain,” she told him succinctly.
“Well, then,” he replied and returned to the work of making her lose her mind. “So beautiful,” he murmured, and his warm breath fluttered over her most private skin, making her shiver, his voice deep and husky. “Every part of you is perfection.”
He trailed his fingers along the tender skin at apex of her thigh before bending to follow the same line with his tongue.
“Here is sweetest of all,” he added, pushing her thighs wider and parting her with gentle fingers.