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She had known that he was well-formed, lean, and toned muscles creating the shape of his wide shoulders and taut abdomen. She had known, too, that he had scars. She’d felt them in their previous encounter, but she hadn’t been sure what they looked like.
There were a number of them, long thin lines, and some thicker ones that were still pink and appeared to be more recent. One up near his shoulder, the one she had seen on his forearm at their first session, and a long line across the base of his ribcage on one side. There were also puckered scars, like pale stars against tanned skin, that she thought might be the remains of bullet wounds. One or two oddly patterned shapes that looked as though they might have been burns or something else.
Scars. She knew there were some among the ton who might have scorned such marks, wanting their men whole and unblemished. But she saw the scars the shadows of war and the strength of his survival, the endurance of his spirit. Like marble carved to shape. The clean stone was magnificent, but carved and shaped and polished, chiseled and planed and textured, it became a thing of beauty and wonder, unmatched by any other splendor on earth.
And so it was with Daniel. Unblemished skin could not compare, in her mind, to the rough and raw marks of survival and strength that were mapped across his frame. The scars that others might think marred him, she thought enhanced his appearance, adding something undefinable and undeniable.
His eyes were dark now with emotions other than desire.Waiting. Waiting for judgment, waiting for her to turn away or lose interest.
She moved forward and stroked a finger along the ridge of scar tissue at the base of his ribcage, feeling his skin quiver under her touch with the effort of staying still.
She laid her hand flat on the scar, then pressed close, and teased a star-shaped mark on his shoulder with her tongue. He jumped, and she moved back a little to breathe across the mark. “Mine.”
Hands clenched on her shoulders as she bent to trace another scar. “My warrior, my artist, my lord.” She took his scarred arm and raised it to press her lips to the pulse point at the very end of it. “My desire.”
A groan wrenched from his throat. “Hetty…”
She raised her head to look into his eyes. “Did you think I would scorn you for your scars?” She smiled at him, tracing her fingers playfully over another mark. “Did you think that after all those days watching you work, I could not know the beauty of the marks of a master craftsman? These scars are marks of your forming to the man you are...and why should I not love all of them as I love you?”
She had known he was holding himself back for her, going slow and going gentle out of deference to her lack of experience. But it was passion she wanted, not caution. She flicked another teasing kiss lightly over the scar on his shoulder.
And Daniel’s control broke.
EPILOGUE
He had thought that she might hesitate at the sight of his scars, that she might show some dislike of them. He knew that many would consider such marks to be imperfections. But his Henrietta was not like many others. She was no shrinking violet, no delicate damsel.
She called his scars marks of craftsmanship. She touched and explored them without hesitation, without disgust, with admiring eyes and smiles and teasing kisses.
He had meant to go slow, to take his time, to guide her through a slow dance of gradual shedding layers and gentle touches.
But at her easy acceptance, all the restraints he had meant to hold himself to vanished in a flare of painful desire and overwhelming need.
He clutched her to him, trying for some control and failing. His hands clutched at her chemise, the only clothing she had left on, and she lifted her arms. He dragged the thin layer of cloth up and over her head and cast it away, then lifted her and laid her on his bed. She looked glorious, dark hair loose and free over his pillows, alabaster and rose skin shining against the blue of the quilt he had chosen to complement her shining eyes, darkened with desire now.
He removed his shoes, then fumbled with the buttons of his breeches until he managed to get them undone. He groaned as the painful pressure on his erection eased. His first impulse was to rip his trousers off and toss them aside, but Henrietta sat forward and kneeled on the bed, giving him a coy look and a crooked finger. He moved forward, obedient to her unspoken command, and he nearly lost all strength in his knees as she stroked her hands across the top of his trousers and slowly, seductively dragged them down his thighs, taking his drawers with them to free his straining member completely, until his trousers fell free, and he could kick them aside. Her eyes fastened on his cock, lust and uncertainty mingling in her eyes before they flickered up to his.
He set a knee on the bed and managed to speak, words rasping through the desire that nearly choked him. “Lie back for me, Hetty.”
She did as he asked, settling back against the sheets, laying trusting and bare before him. He shoved off with his other foot and flung himself onto the bed, moving to straddle her slender, lovely frame with his own, hands on either side of her head, erection heavy against her belly and his.
He longed to claim her, but she wasn’t ready, and he would not have her first time be rough.
He bent over her, his chest brushing the hardened and rosy nipples of her taut and slightly flushed breasts. “Trust me, my darling.”
“Always.”
He claimed her mouth in a searing kiss that made her arch against him, hands winding his hair and sending the hair tie somewhere—he neither knew nor cared. The pressure of her lithe and willing body against his was almost enough to tip him over the edge right there.
He repeated his actions before licking and nipping and kissing along the column of her neck and shoulder blades. He kissed across the hollow of her throat, then down until he could take her right breast into his mouth, suckling and licking until she was writhing underneath him, making soft sounds of desire as she arched upwards, seeking the relief he was not planning to give her just yet.
After a few moments, he moved to her left breast, giving it the same attention, then began to trace a line down the center of her, across her core. Down across the quivering and shivering muscles of her abdomen. Down to her delicate belly button. He explored the area with his tongue, plunging the tip of it to the base of her indentation while his teeth grazed gently at the sensitive flesh surrounding it. She squirmed and made a keening sound, knees drawing back as her back arched and her hands clutched at his hair.
A little lower, to the nest of dark chestnut curls at the junction of her thighs—the curls he had felt but not seen at their previous assignation. He breathed in her scent, the delicate orange blossom mingling with the heady musk of her arousal, the hair at the lowest point already damp with need.
He breathed out across her sex, and she arched with a gasping cry, her knees parting involuntarily as she sought for more pleasure before she fell back against the pillows and pressed her hips upward, seeking more of the same sensation.
He slid his hands down to grip her hips and keep them still. He turned his head and breathed along the delicate, nearly translucent skin of her thighs, before applying his tongue and his teeth until not even his firm grip could stop her from twisting and crying out his name or trying to grip his hair and pull him up.
