Page 79 of The Redemption of the Shrew

For a while he was silent, and she curled up on the sofa next to him, watching him, reveling in their closeness. On her dressing table, the bouquet of heart’s ease gave her hope for a new life and a new beginning. Please. Oh, please . . .

Her fingers itched to touch him. To caress him—his cheek, his hand, his knee—and to tell him all would be well. But he might take it amiss. She just didn’t know.

He raised his eyes to hers. The yearning in them shook her. She uttered a helpless little moan.

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He gave up and gave in. If he was a fool, so be it. Her delicate fingers, so restless in her lap, stirred him to action. He took her hand in his and raised it to his cheek. He turned his face into her palm, kissing it, and closed his eyes. He bathed his senses in her aroma. There is no more dangerous intoxication than a woman, and he had resisted this one long enough.

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He leaned in and kissed her, and with a heart’s leap of relief, Gloriana kissed him back. Shyly at first—for a few moments she was the innocent girl of years earlier—she returned featherlight brushes of the lips. But this wasn’t the same as before. Then, she had quivered with girlish passion, but now she was a mature woman. The manly scent that was Philippe’s and his alone sent tremors of desire to her core.

His large, warm hand cupped the back of her head. He kissed her hungrily, probing between her lips with his tongue. His mouth explored her ear, lingered on her throat, then returned to her lips. He pursued her with kiss after kiss, heady and erotic.

And aggressive. Demanding. Requiring her participation and consent. “Yes?” he asked huskily.

“Yes,” she whispered, aflame with joy, “Oh, yes.” She caressed his cheek and ran her fingers into his hair. I love you so much. But she didn’t say it aloud, because he might feel obliged to say the same, and she sensed that there was something fragile about his decision to lie with her.

He laid her on the sofa and kissed her again. He lowered himself onto her, and she twined her arms around his neck. She squirmed under him, impossibly aroused by the heat of their bodies pressed so close together. She ran her hands over the broad expanse of his back, savored his firm shoulders and powerful arms, and tentatively let her hands drift toward his bottom.

He hissed, and she froze, but immediately his knee nudged her legs apart, and she opened beneath him with a rush of pleasure. His arousal pressed against her mound, firm and insistent through the fabric of his breeches.

“Let us rid ourselves of all this clothing.” He raised himself off her and lifted her to her feet.

“I’m not wearing much,” Gloriana said.

“I could not help but notice.” With one swift movement, he gathered up her nightdress and pulled it over her head. His gaze, hot and dark, drank her in.

She had to force her arms to stay at her sides, for her instinct was to cover herself—to conceal the breasts he stared at in evident admiration, and to cover the patch of soft hair below. Why did she feel so shy? He had initiated this. He wasn’t going to reject her now.

She swallowed down her nerves and made herself watch him in return. He removed his coat, his gaze still fixed upon her. He wore no cravat, merely a colored neckerchief—a man of the people, just like when they’d met in the Spotted Dragon. His shirt was frayed at the cuffs, and his breeches . . . At the sight of the telltale bulge there, a rush of heat assailed her.

She uttered a tiny groan. No, it was a whimper!

“Are you frightened, ma belle? Don’t be.”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, not frightened.”

He laughed and kissed her. He shucked his shirt, and a wafting of male aroma made her sway with heat. She put out a hand to touch his bare chest. A line of dark hair led to the waistband of his breeches. Her heart sped frantically at the prospect of what lay below. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

She didn’t have long to stare. He kicked off his shoes, rid himself of his breeches and small clothes, and then he pulled her close and kissed her again. “Let me worship you, my darling,” he said, and she trembled while his hands explored her.

He was trembling a little, too.

He pleasured her breasts first, smiling at her hardened nipples, bestowing kisses and delicate nips and suckles upon them one by one. She shivered with delight. Golden streams of pleasure rippled and coursed through her, sending shimmering trails of arousal all the way to her fingers and toes. She dug her fingers into his hair and clung to him.

He gave a low laugh and trailed his hands to her waist, then her hips and her bottom, kneading gently, and murmuring endearments in both English and French. His fingers slid gently between her legs from behind, and explored her core with soft, insistent caresses. She clutched him, shaking with yearning for more and more and more. “Please, Philippe, please.”

“We have waited a long time for this, non? I am in no mind to hurry.” He nudged her toward the bed, and soon they were wrapped in one another’s arms, limbs entwined. Never in her dreams had she imagined the thrill of skin to hot, smooth skin. They wallowed in heat and touch and open-mouthed kisses, and helplessly she gave in to the mounting pleasure.

At last he slowly entered her, easing himself in until he was deep inside and filling her. She closed her eyes, suffused with joy. She had never been so happy in her life.

He withdrew a little, and then moved in again. And again. And suddenly he paused, utterly still. “Je t’aime, ma belle,” he said softly. “Je t’aime de tout mon coeur.” I love you with all my heart.

Gloriana burst into tears.

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