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He didn’t want to argue. He wanted to remember how it had felt to move inside her magnificent body and know she was irrevocably his. He wanted to remember her wholehearted participation. Never had he known a woman who sought her delight with such openness.
Above all, he wanted to contemplate doing it all again.
She shifted gingerly and a faint whimper escaped her. A needle of guilt pierced his well-being. She must be uncomfortable. He’d hammered into her like a battering ram at the end. He should be bloody ashamed. Instead he felt like he owned the world.
As though his arm weighed a hundredweight, he lifted it and laid it across her naked belly. Her skirts bunched beneath her breasts. He hadn’t even bothered to undress her, he was such a barbarian.
A very happy barbarian. She’d drained him to the lees. No woman had ever done that. He loved sex but a niggling dissatisfaction had always remained.
As if there should be more.
It took defiant, difficult spinster Antonia Smith to show him more.
God bless her.
Under his arm, he felt her uneven breathing. Awe wouldn’t silence her long. Not his spirited Antonia.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against her shoulder. He drew a great breath, filling his lungs with her. He adored the way she smelled. That fresh scent, combined with musky essence of pleasured woman.
If only life was always like this.
She touched his hair with a hesitant caress, then lifted her hand. When he made an inarticulate sound of encouragement, she stroked his hair again. He was a fool, but the caress seemed to convey more about what had happened tonight than words ever could.
For an immeasurably long time, they lay unmoving. Ranelaw’s mind settled into a drowsy dream. At his side, Antonia slid her hand to his nape. The gesture felt absurdly protective. Nobody had protected him since Eloise.
Lying here was utterly delicious. Peace was too rare in his life to sacrifice it precipitately. How odd that of all the gifts Antonia offered, including spectacular pleasure, this peace was the sweetest.
He let himself float. Savoring the woman’s quiet nearness.
And realized something that pleasure had blanked from awareness.
Defiant, difficult spinster Antonia Smith hadn’t been a virgin.
The fact was so astounding, he hardly credited it.
Another man had possessed her. He guessed some time ago. For all her passion, her unpracticed response indicated she wasn’t used to lying under a lover.
Not a virgin. . .
When he looked at Antonia, he’d prided himself on seeing more than anyone else. His arrogance had been misplaced.
He wasn’t sure what he felt. Shock, certainly. He’d always known she concealed secrets upon secrets. Layers remained hidden, perhaps would always remain hidden.
He’d wondered if possessing Antonia would shatter her mystery. Whether once she opened her legs to him, she’d become like every other woman. He’d hoped she would. He resented the way she affected his decisions, kept him awake at night, made him desperate to have her.
Sampling her lush, beautiful body only made him crazy for more. He wanted to strip her naked. He wanted to watch her when he slid into her. He wanted to touch every inch of her. He wanted to pleasure her in all the ways he knew.
Her lack of innocence made her more intriguing.
If tonight was supposed to break her spell, it had proven a rank failure. The last hour just meshed him deeper in enchantment.
Still without speaking, she slid her hand from his neck. Pulling her skirts down, she shifted to sit with her elbow bent on the windowsill. He couldn’t help but feel her movement as absence.
Neither he nor Antonia was created for tranquil communion. He couldn’t bask in recollected bliss forever. Still, only with the greatest reluctance did he lift himself up to lean against the wall at his back.
The stars through the summerhouse windows showed Antonia with the sky as her background. She raised her knees and linked her hands around them. Her moonlight hair hung loose around her shoulders, shadowy and soft in the darkness.
He couldn’t remember unpinning it. He’d been so eager, he didn’t remember much apart from the exquisite delight of taking her. He really had been a savage.
