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"This is not the kind of need I meant," Aurora protested, shaking her head.
"I know." Julian grasped handfuls of her gown, dragging them up in hard, purposeful motions. "But this is the kind I can silence along with all your fears, your doubts, your worries. This is the way I can combat your pain, fill all your emptiness."
"And yours?" Aurora asked softly, searching his face.
"Yes," he admitted hoarsely. "And mine." He lowered her to the cushions, crumpling her gown about her waist, his fingers lingering briefly on her naked thighs before shifting to tear at the buttons of his breeches. "Don't turn me away."
"I couldn't," Aurora whispered, her heart in her eyes.
Julian drew a harsh breath—then expelled it. "I don't think I can wait."
"Then don't." She opened her arms to him.
He made love to her like a wild man, driving himself into her with a hammering need and a frenzied hunger he could neither curb nor fathom. He shouted her name when he climaxed, flooding her with his seed even as he absorbed her exquisite spasms of completion.
Afterward he lay on her, in her, more overcome by what had just happened than he'd been by all his enemies combined. The melding of their passion with the emotional words that had preceded it was more than he could bear.
He took slow, steadying breaths, his heart racing—and not only from the unimaginable intensity of his climax.
Long minutes passed.
Aurora's slow, even breathing told Julian she was asleep. Slowly he eased himself to his elbows, gazing into her beautiful face, her damp lashes fanning her cheeks like spikes of red-gold flame.
God help him, he was in over his head.
What had begun as an exciting adventure—passion and purpose necessitating an enticing, crucial union—had in a matter of days escalated into something much greater, something he'd never fathomed in his wildest dreams.
His wife was in love with him.
Just reflecting on Aurora's declaration made Julian's chest tighten, made a shambles of all the ludicrous denials he'd silently issued with regard to his own detachment. It was absurd to pretend nothing was changed, that Aurora's profession—while heartfelt and moving—altered nothing, deepened nothing, ignited nothing.
He'd be a liar and a fool.
Slowly Julian's hand came up, his knuckles caressing the smooth contour of his wife's cheek. The truth was, he wanted those words—and the emotion that spawned them. He relished the fact that Aurora had given him her heart, reveled in hearing her speak the words aloud. Even his body reacted fiercely, erupting more powerfull
y each time she gave voice to her feelings.
So much for his rationalization that the dynamic sexual pull between them was rooted in something purely physical—that Aurora's fiery spirit and beauty alone were responsible for arousing this unprecedented and insatiable craving inside him.
Clearly it was much more.
Sexual desire, no matter how intense, couldn't explain the tenderness he felt as he watched her discover the world, taste her first adventure, her first triumph, her first passion. Nor could it explain his own growing need to share her life and to have her share his, to keep her beside him every second—including instances when he'd never before allowed his domain to be invaded, much less invited someone to invade it: meetings with Stone, expeditions to uncover his prizes, gleanings into his past.
Lord help him, he'd even discussed Hugh with her, something he'd never felt compelled to do with anyone, partly because it hurt too bloody much and partly because he'd never found anyone to whom he wanted to divulge something so personal. Physical intimacy was one thing, emotional intimacy another.
Although with Aurora both were beyond comprehension.
She'd even made walking into Morland Manor bearable. From this point on, whenever he reflected on the mausoleum in which he'd grown up, the house that until now had signified naught but emptiness and pain, he would envision not the angry battles with his father, but the enthralling moments in Aurora's arms.
Moments during which she'd told him she loved him.
He didn't doubt that it was true. Especially after what had just transpired in this room—not their lovemaking, but the fervent discourse Aurora had delivered just prior to it. The poignant way she'd confronted his self-censure, urging him to accept Hugh's death, to let go of a past he couldn't change—and all because she wanted him to attain a peace that had until now eluded him. Her insight into his thoughts, his motivations, was staggering—even he himself had never realized just how deeply Hugh's death had impacted his outlook, the choices he'd made, the intensity of his commitment to those for whom he felt responsible.
She wanted him safe … no, she'd ordered him to be safe, in the way only Aurora had of doing. And she'd made no effort to conceal why. It was because she loved him, needed him. She'd admitted it without the slightest hesitation, offered him the kind of emotional openness he'd never believed possible.
But then, this was Aurora—utterly and refreshingly forthright, vibrant, impetuous. And so bloody passionate she scalded him down to his soul.
In over his head? Hell, he was drowning.
