Page 71 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Nudging her thighs apart with his knee, he moved between her legs. She could feel his erection prodding against her most tender, intimate skin, and she pressed upward, seeking satisfaction. Her action brought a low noise from him that stirred her even more.

She wanted more. She wanted everything. Slowly he pressed into her, his flesh separating hers, pushing deeper, until at last there was a burst of pain. She drew in a sharp breath, and he went still. He looked into her eyes questioningly, his breath hard and ragged.

“Don’t stop,” she said, her fingers pressing into his shoulders. “I want—” Her breath hitched as he eased farther inside her, filling her. “Yes. That. I want that.”

He began to move within her. Desire spiraled in her, all her senses aroused—the sound of Sloane’s ragged breath, the feel of his hot skin beneath her hands, the hunger in his eyes—all magnified the pleasure created by the slow, deep strokes. He filled and fulfilled her in a way she had never dreamed of, and once again that knot of yearning grew in her, the restless, hungry reaching for something more.

The overwhelming passion exploded in her once again, sweeping through her so that she cried out, but this time Sloane followed her into that bright burst of pleasure, joining with her in a soul-shattering moment of union.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ANNABETH OPENED HER EYES. She lay surrounded by heat, Sloane’s arms still around her. She smiled to herself. It didn’t feel strange at all to awaken here beside him. Indeed, she felt as if she had finally come home.

She turned toward him, and at the movement his arms tightened around her for an instant. Then he opened his eyes and gave her a drowsy smile. “Annabeth.”

Sloane’s voice was lazy and smooth, his vivid blue gaze soft, and he looked as boneless and contented as a cat stretched out in a patch of sunlight. He stroked his hand down her arm. “You are...completely perfect.”

Annabeth laughed. “I’ll remind you of that next time you argue with me.”

“Argue with you?” He grinned and took her hand, raising it to kiss her knuckles. “Never.”

She cupped his cheek in her hand and stretched over to kiss him. Her kiss was warm and deep, and she felt a familiar warmth stir in her. When she broke their kiss, Sloane reached up and sank his fingers into her hair. For a long moment he just looked at her, and then sighed.

“We should not...”

“Hush.” Annabeth put her forefinger across his lips, silencing him. “You never argue with me, remember?”

His eyes heated, and he rolled over, pulling her under him. “I remember.” He kissed her.

Their lovemaking was slow and deliberate this time, a matter of teasing and exploring, of long kisses and slow caresses, building gradually into a storm of passion as fierce as the night before.

Annabeth had thought nothing could equal the force that had swept her the first time, but amazingly, her anticipation of what was to come made it stronger, not weaker. And when they crashed into that wild and blissful abyss of pleasure, she felt even more tightly joined to Sloane.

He was hers. Forever. Whatever else might happen, this was the only man she wanted, the only man she could love.

ANNABETH FELT AS if she could simply float in this haze of pleasure forever, cocooned in Sloane’s house, while the rest of the world passed on. But they could not, of course. They must travel to the Lake District to find her father’s valet and examine the writing desk.

So after a rather late breakfast, they set off once more in Sloane’s curricle. But their trip this time was entirely different. As if by some unspoken agreement, they did not discuss the right or wrong of their lovemaking or ponder what would happen once the present problem was resolved. And though Sloane kept a sharp eye out for possible followers, they did not even talk a great deal about their hunt for the man who had killed Annabeth’s father.

The ride was filled with laughter and teasing, and the nights were filled with passion. It seemed like a time cut out from reality, sheltered and secluded, where there was no one but the two of them. Annabeth found herself wishing that their journey could take more time.

It did not, of course. They soon reached the village where Simpson lived and stopped at the small inn. The next morning they asked for directions to his house, and walked to it. Annabeth felt a curious reluctance to talk to the man. It would mean that after the return trip to London, they would once again have to live in the real world.

A girl answered the door and looked astonished when they asked for the valet, but she led them down the hall to a tidy parlor.

“Uncle Alfred, there’s someone here to see you,” the girl said, adding artlessly, “Fine folks, they are.”

Annabeth’s gaze went past her to the neatly dressed, bespectacled man sitting by the window, carefully plying a needle through fabric. He looked up at his niece’s words, removing his spectacles. “Miss Annabeth!”

“Hello, Simpson. I hope we are not interrupting.”

“No, no.” The small man set aside the material and hurried over to them. “I do a bit of work for a tailor now and then, just to pass the time.” He gave her a little bow. “This is such an honor, miss.” He turned toward the girl. “Some tea for our visitors, Jessie, and some biscuits as well.”

His cheeks were pink with pleasure, and his eyes sparkled as he ushered Annabeth and Sloane toward the grouping of chairs in front of the fireplace. “Please, sit down, miss.”

“You remember Mr. Rutherford,” Annabeth said, not quite a question.

The valet looked at Sloane with less delight than he’d shown at the sight of Annabeth, but he bowed politely. “Yes, of course. Mr. Rutherford. Please, sit down.”