Her lips parted but naught emerged.
“And I would wait as long as it takes, Hebe,” he whispered before seeking the heavens with his eyes.
The constellations winked in seductive accord, the crescent moon painted the land in her light and the Milky Way trailed a silver haze, the temperate air redolent with the scent of summer.
A soft touch to his chest and his gaze tumbled faster than a falling star.
“A fire does tear through me,” she rasped, moistening her lips with a slip of tongue. “But I have been afraid. Of my desire. Of letting you near. But you should know I have dreamed of touching you like this, of allowing my hands to wander at will.” From beneath blond lashes, her eyes caught his. “I am tired of dreaming, Ernest.”
So he tugged her near, gazes clinging, pent desire unbinding in a rush as he kissed his pagan sprite. Hebe’s hands were no longer quiescent but searching and silken and tormenting while her lips were soft, tasting of honey and mint.
Urgency blasted his veins and he thrust fingers through her hair as he’d yearned, the tresses flowing like the river water at dawn – cool and unending.
The time for words was at an end and his lips found her throat, scented with rosemary, and then down to her bodice, fingers now busy at the hooks and ties to the back of her dress, unravelling knots and plucking at buttons, all pretence of patience abandoned. To be replaced by unconstrained need.
The gown sagged and a throaty female gasp emerged. “Should we not…descend to…to your bedchamber?”
He peered up over his glasses. “My bedchamber for tonight is here, Hebe.” And he motioned to the thick mattress, Moroccan cushions and mulberry coverlet in the corner. And he couldn’t think of a better place – not in stifling chambers as Hebe had suffered with that oaf of a husband, but free and unveiled to the warm endless night above.
Hebe stared, eyes as bright as the Pole Star. “I… But… Er…”
With care, he removed the garland from her head, the oak leaves not wishing to relinquish their hold. “I can promise you won’t be cold.”
He led her forth and dropped to his knees, tugging her with him till they were both hidden by the stone parapet, with only the stars to witness the ravishing kiss that tumbled her to the mattress, her hands clasping his nape.
Shoving her bodice down, palms curving to her waist and hip, he sought her breasts with his lips, nipping and kissing – gentle as he could muster. She arched and moaned as he laved the tip through the linen, thighs brushing his loins, hands clutching his shoulders, head thrown back upon the mulberry coverlet.
He flung his glasses off, and then he was yanking at her dress, unknotting and tossing her stays aside till she lay in solely her chemise.
But that had to go too and he grasped the straps, peeling downwards and kissing the glorious shoulders revealed.
“My chemise,” she gasped.
“So it is.” And he yanked it to her waist to reveal Hebe in all her moonlit glory – divine and lithe, creamy meadowsweet flowers caught in her hair like pearls.
Savage yearning surged.
“I’ve never… I mean… Don’t look.”
His head shot up.What?
“Hebe,” he said hoarsely, “you are exquisite.” And he ran roughened fingers from neck to waist and everywhere in between, firm sweet breasts and silken ribcage. “Feel how my heart thunders for you.” He tugged her hand to his chest but her palm freely wandered lower, down his abdomen, then further, over the band of his breeches before she cupped his arousal.
He choked back a curse as she caressed, bit his tongue as she explored and understood his need.
But enough was enough as her fingers commenced renting the buttons asunder, and he yanked the chemise from beneath her hips. Hurled it aside. All those nights of unslaked lust, dips in the moat and restless dreams fumbling his fingers and mocking his rakish skill.
His breath was lost but trepidation enlarged her eyes, so without ado, he kissed her, covering her pearlescent body with his own, not even granting the stars a jealous glance. He kissed her till she was breathless, his fingers lingering on hip then thighs. They parted for him with a tremulous sigh, and he caressed, stroked, found her wanting and eager.
Then at last, he brought his hands to the mattress either side of her head and rocked his buckskin-clad hips in leisure, for now merely grazing and pressing, sought her eyes which fluttered closed on a moan as he retreated and pressed once more.
Ernest knew he’d not last, so flinging himself to the side, he yanked at his breeches, heard a tear but didn’t give a damn and threw them behind before coming to rest upon her – naked skin binding.
His name was a gasp upon her lips, before he tugged her leg high, kissed her, thrust forward in an agony of want, his brutal arousal butting against her.
She was silken yet…
Yet tense beneath him, breath gasping and fists… Tight fists were held to his back, face twisted to the side and eyes fastened shut.
