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She drew him back, holding him to her chest. “As have I.”
The muscles in his back eased as she rubbed him slowly, his skin hot beneath her hands. He suckled with renewed ardor, and she arched her back. Switching attention, he fondled the abandoned breast as he nurtured the other. She squirmed with need. He slid sensuously down her body, pressing a trail of kisses to her stomach, growling in frustration when he reached her skirt. She felt his aggravation, her need equal. Sitting up slightly, she slipped the bodice and chemise off her shoulders, wriggling until she shed the entire ensemble. She lay back on the plush settee, closing her eyes, suddenly embarrassed by her brazenness now that she was naked.
She’d never fully disrobed for Nicholas before. They had played around the perimeter of lovemaking, but never once in their dalliances had she ever fully bared herself. Nor had he. Was he appalled at her wantonness? She dared a glance from under the cover of her eyelashes.
“My love,” he whispered.
He, too, had closed his eyes, his face pinched, looking discomforted. She was about to reach for her skirt, embarrassment warming her face, when he opened his eyes, his slow perusal from toe to face a caress over her body. When his fiery gaze reached hers, all trepidation deserted her, replaced by shivers of excitement.
“I have dreamed of this.” He swept her body with indigo awe. “But it was never as beautiful—” His voice caught in his throat.
She wanted to shout in triumph. She wanted to weep. Four years. So many barriers. Yet here they lay, bared in love. Well, no, not quite bared. He had only removed his shirt. Feeling a fresh rush of boldness, she pulled at his breeches.
“So my little Cat is no more immune to this dark draw than I.” His eyes twinkled, playfulness replacing solemnity.
It was her turn. She licked a slow path across his chest, taking his nipple and reciprocating the pleasure. He moaned and fumbled for his placard, frantically undoing its buttons. She murmured her approval as he sat up fully, methodically yanking at his boots, and tossing them to the floor. Quicker than she would have thought possible, he stood, squirmed out of his breeches, and pulled off his stockings.
He turned to her, his glorious form highlighted in the beams of light that crossed the room. Oh, but he was magnificent. He was bigger than she remembered—distracted by his scar, she’d not fully registered the change in his physique—his arms bulged with muscle, his abdomen rippled, his strength a powerful aphrodisiac. And his…what did you call it? She had touched it. Felt its strength beneath her hands. But always under cover. Now it was fully exposed, superb, and absolutely intimidating.
He smiled wickedly, crawled onto the chaise, leaned in, and took her mouth in a passionate siege. When she was senseless, he leaned back on his heels, stroking her breasts soothingly, sensuously with one hand. He took himself in hand with the other, languidly stroking up and down.
“It, too, has thought only of you. It, too, is full of love for you.” It glistened, crying for her, and her body wept in response.
“Let me give you pleasure. Let us be as we were destined to be.” He paused midstroke, waiting.
“Nicholas, my love.” It was all she could manage, and she hoped it said it all. He was everything she wanted in life. All she needed. Hewasher life.
