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He took her hand and laid it flat upon his chest. “You make me complete,” he said.
Tears pricked at the backs of her lashes, and she blinked quickly to blink them away.
“The house. And Mr. Pritchens. And chambers for my father.”
“On a lower level,” he whispered. “Not up here with us.”
He spun her so that her back faced him, and he began to unfasten her dress. As he worked at the fastenings, he kissed his way down the center of her back. “If this thing wasn’t my mother’s, I’d have to rip it off you,” he growled. He nibbled on a tiny freckle on her shoulder. How many of those did she have? He would have to count them after he got her naked. He would count them again and again.
He shoved her gown and her dress down over her hips and tapped her leg, saying, “Step,” so she would move out of it. He tossed the dress onto a nearby chair.
Cecelia crossed her arms in front of her chest. He pulled the ribbon of her drawers and repeated the motion, the silk sliding along the inside of her thighs like fire, followed by his hand, which slipped up her thigh. She opened her thighs to give him access, but he just chuckled and said, “Not yet,” as he untied her garters and rolled her stockings down her legs.
“I’m naked and you’re
not,” she protested.
“I can remedy that quickly,” he said, as he began to tear at his own clothing. He was breathless and hard when he stopped, his manhood arching up toward his stomach. Or toward her—she wasn’t certain which. “Would you like to avail yourself of that bath?” he asked.
“Only if you’ll join me,” she taunted.
His brow arched. “A bath? With you? Nothing would please me more.” He took her hand and walked with her to the bathing room, his footsteps quiet beside hers. She wasn’t even feeling self-conscious. “How should we accomplish this?” he asked.
The claw-foot tub was huge, not one of the simple bathing tubs some houses had. It was large enough for two. “How should I know?” she asked. “I’ve never bathed with anyone before.”
“I saw you, you know,” he said as he settled into the tub, his back to the wall. He opened his thighs and motioned for her to get between them. “Come on,” he encouraged.
“You saw me do what?” she asked.
“On the night I returned to the land of the fae, I came directly to see you. You were in the bath and you were crying.”
She nodded. “I spent a lot of time crying back then.”
She laid her head back on his shoulder, and he wrapped around her. The water lapped at her breasts, and his manhood pressed hard and insistent against her bottom. Marcus reached over and picked up a bar of soap from a nearby table. “I have a feeling I’m going to smell like roses by the end of the bath.”
She flipped over so that she was on her knees between his, and she took the soap from him. “You’re going to smell like me,” she warned fiercely.
“I should have come to you immediately and asked why you were crying,” he said as she began to soap his chest. He stopped her hand with his, looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known, Marcus. But why didn’t you come to me when you saw me crying? Why did you leave? I missed you so much.”
“I didn’t know why you were crying,” he admitted. “And you were naked. Totally naked.” He reached out and caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it gently. “Much like now. Minus the crying.”
Her breath left her quickly, and she forced herself to focus on her task. Focus on the bath, Cecelia. “I’m not crying now,” she said.
His brown gaze caught hers and held. “I never want you to cry again.”
“I can’t promise that,” she warned. “There will be events like births and marriages and anniversaries that might make me weepy. I’m warning you.”
“Those I can tolerate,” he admitted. “But I never want you to be sad again. Not like you were then.”
Cecelia soaped her hand and ticked his abdomen with it, and the muscles of his stomach rippled beneath her touch. “Enough of that,” he warned playfully, grabbing for her slick hands. He drew her to lie on his chest, one of his thighs between hers, and he took the soap from her, running it up and down her spine, and down her arms slowly. If they didn’t get out of the tub soon, she would go mad.
“Marcus,” Cecelia said. “Do you think we’re clean enough?” she asked.
“Clean enough for what?” he asked, flipping her over so that she lay atop him again.
“Clean enough to get out of this tub.”
