“Every hour, such wonders, scents and sights assail me that my quill can never do justice to them.
All I wish, is that it may encourage, inspire and impart hope.”
The Journal of Gwen Cadogan.
June 1817.
Slender fingers stole over his naked chest.
Tristan opened one eye but maintained a light breath as though he slumbered still.
Mild air drifted through the open window while moonbeams like phantoms shimmered across the bed.
All was at peace, not a sound to be heard.
Yet those slender fingers were not at peace: they caressed the pendant that lay at his neck, circled to his shoulder, down his upper arm, wrist, stroked the back of his hand.
They weaved to his stomach and he nigh betrayed himself with a hitch of breath.
How many times in Ireland had he laid abed – alone, fearful to dream? Restless and lost.
Now he savoured.
Cherished the light pressure of the woman whose head rested on his shoulder, whose nude body pressed against his side, whose lavender scented the sheets.
Her fingers lowered and–
He pounced, seizing her wrist, rolling to bring her beneath him and without words, he kissed her – deep andmore…
His beloved Gwen gasped, fingers thrust to his hair, meeting his passion.
Skin slid against skin as their mouths sought and hands roamed, desperate for each other. Tristan glided his lips to her earlobe, throat and collarbone – fine and delicate – roamed lower to luscious and delicate breasts and seized the tip between his lips.
With a moan, she arched beneath him, moonlight striking skin, and hell, he could hardly draw breath as her legs parted and he sunk against her.
The loathsome barrier of sheets was thrown to the floor and he groaned as her nails scored his back.
More…
His Gwen was no longer a shy maiden, knew what she wanted, and as he reared to gaze upon her beauty, those slender hands slid down his stomach with teasing ardour.
He’d been ready for her even before he’d awoken to her caress, and he grabbed her hands before they could cause mischief.
“Gwen,” he breathed, bringing her hands to her sides, letting his body settle firmly upon hers. “My bold and beautiful Gwen.”
“Tristan,” she whispered with a siren’s smile. “Let us make another memory.”
Searing need coursed through Gwen,for the weight of Tristan upon her – strong and muscular – for his coarse gasp in her ear as he thrust, for his growl of satisfaction and for the shattering intoxication that only he could provide.
Awaking not long ago, she’d needed to touch him, know it was not a dream – that her husband lay beside her, breathing measured and tranquil in his rest. But it was never enough, and her hands had stolen out to touch and press and tease…
And now she felt him there, nudging and fierce, and she yanked her hands from his grip and tugged his mouth to hers.
More…
He complied, hips swaying, flirting.
Yet such teasing could not be bourn for long, and with a groan, Tristan seized her thigh and thrust.
