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'Only because this is important.' He tugged his neckcloth loose and shrugged out of coat and waistcoat together, then came and knelt in front of her. 'At any time if you want to stop, to leave, you have only to say.'
Rowan nodded. She might be innocent of a man's embraces, but she had picked up much about what actually happened, and she knew that for a man, once launched on this particular activity, stopping suddenly was not an easy or pleasant thing.
Then he kissed her, and she ceased to worry about whether he could or should stop-or about anything at all. There was only Lucas and his heat and his strength, and the edge of fear and the knowledge of safety and the scent of aroused man in her nostrils.
It was not a particularly easy dress to unfasten, but he had managed it without her realizing. His big hand was cupping her right breast, warm through the thin shift, and the silk was pooling around her hips. She moaned as his other hand slid down, under her, lifting so that he could tug the gown free, and she was clinging to him, only her undergarments and his shirt between her breast and his chest.
He had not stopped kissing her, his mouth hot and excitingly moist and arrogantly demanding. She thought hazily that if she wanted to stop she would have to box his ears to gain his attention, for he seemed intent on nothing more than reducing her to a quivering puddle on the bed.
Rowan found she could squeeze a hand between their bodies and found buttons, dragging his shirt open until her hand could slide inside against skin that was silk over muscle. She explored, fascinated, aroused, until with a growl he brought her down onto the bed beneath his weight, his fingers teasing her nipples until she gasped for mercy against his mouth.
'Too much?' Lucas raised his head and looked down at her.
'Yes… No. I just need to touch you.' He shrugged out of his shirt and she lay and looked at the firelight on his skin. It seemed to hold the remnants of the golden tan it must have had a few months ago-or perhaps her love gilded her sight. 'Take everything off,' she asked, greedy for him.
'I had planned to be more discreet,' he said, getting to his feet, his hands at the fastening of his silk evening breeches. He stripped without bravado and without any apparent shyness, standing there as though waiting for her reaction before touching her again.
'Oh.' He is beautiful. And frightening. Part of her wanted him inside her. Part was grateful he would not be. She had not realised that men were quite so…so… At least he seemed to find her arousing. To hide her confusion Rowan tugged her petticoat and shift over her head, then bent up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. That felt…safe. She was not sure what to do about her stockings.
'You are a lovely woman,' Lucas said slowly. 'But that is not what I love about you. I love you and your courage and your grace and your fierce loyalty and your humour. And your eyes and your skin, and how I imagine it will feel when I loose your hair, and your scent.'
He was sitting on the end of the bed now, and it was apparent he knew exactly what to do about her stockings. They were rolled down, snagging now and again against the skin of his strong rider's hands, then they were off and those hands were smoothing down the curve of her calves, up to her knees. 'Lie back, sweetheart.'
She swallowed hard, but obeyed, almost soothed by his gentling hands, still quivering in anticipation. She knew where this was leading, but Lucas did not seem to be in any hurry to get there. Up the outside of her thighs to the curve of her hip, down to the soft skin behind her knees, up again, until she relaxed and her legs became limp. The next smooth stroke brought his palm to cup the hot, moist triangle of hair and his fingers slid in to touch her, stroke her.
Rowan arched against the pressure, gasped, and one finger slid deeper, just where she was aching the most, just inside, and she cried out as the world spun and shattered.
She came to, to find herself full-length against him, cradled so that she could hear his heart under her cheek. 'I'm sorry.'
'Sorry? Have you any idea how flattering it is that I touch you and it has that effect?' His voice rumbled in her ear and his breath stirred her hair.
'No.' She felt bonelessly heavy, and yet something was stirring again where he had touched her. Her breasts were aching and she wanted to move against him.
'Believe me.' Lucas's hand was moving again, down over her flank.
Bold, she moved her own hand from his chest, her fingertips riffling through the crisp hair down to his navel, finding an intriguing trail of coarser hair to follow.
'Ah.' He sighed as she found the hard, unsatisfied length of him, her fingertips tentative as she stroked the unexpectedly soft skin.
'Show me how.'
He did not speak, simply took her hand and wrapped it firmly around, moving it within his own until she found a rhythm. It was powerfully erotic, feeling a man react to her touch, feeling the elemental sexuality of him, the heat, the shifting of their bodies together, the tantalising caress of his hands as they shifted their position so that he could pleasure her, too.
The power of his climax, his gasp of release, her own shuddering pleasure swept her away utterly. She had no idea where she was, only with whom, only that they loved. Only, finally, that they slept.
December 26th
'Sweetheart, wake up.' Lucas's mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm.
'No.' Rowan snuggled closer, denying his efforts to pull the covers down. He was warm and comfortable and all hers, and she was not going to be dislodged from this blissful dream.
She heard a muffled snort of laughter, then he slid out of bed. There was a brief tug of war while she lay there, bedding gripped in her fists, eyes tight closed, then he seemed to give up.
'Come back to bed,' she mumble
d. He was moving about. Rowan cracked open one lid and found the room almost dark. Lucas, in his shirt, had lit one candle and was pulling on his breeches. 'It is too early yet.'
'It is four o'clock. You must get back to bed.' Rowan dragged the sheets over her head, then yelped in protest as he picked her up, bedding and all, her clothes tangled on top. 'My love, all the magic has run out. It is the morning.'
