Ainsley assumed Cameron would lift her out of the bed to make love to her on a chair or the long sofa, or on the floor in front of the built-up fire. But Cameron tossed the towel away and pressed Ainsley back into the mattress.
Cameron licked her mouth, his damp, warm body so wonderfully heavy on hers. “I almost lost you,” he said, voice harsh. “I never want to lose you. Never.”
Ainsley’s heart beat thick and fast. He’ll tire of her in a sixmonth, she’d heard people say in Paris and again in Monte Carlo.
Cameron didn’t look tired of her now. He feathered kisses to her chin and neck before he moved down to her br**sts. He suckled her, his mouth hot and wet, then parted her legs and slid himself into her.
The towel had rubbed her hot, but when Cameron thrust into her, all was wet and slick.
He stopped, their faces together, and Cameron looked into her eyes. She saw so much need there, and pain, so much loneliness. Fear. The powerful, dangerous Lord Cameron Mackenzie was afraid.
Ainsley couldn’t speak, the sensation of him stiff inside her robbing her of words. She responded to his stark fear the only way she could, by loving him.
Cameron moved slowly, the first thrust followed by another equally as slow. He was so big, but she loved the feeling of him inside her. The wide bed was at her back, and Cameron’s warm, solid body was on top of hers. As always, he held himself back, muscles bunching as he took his weight on his fists.
Nothing existed but the heat of Cameron’s skin against hers, his arousal spreading her wonderfully, his damp hair trickling water to her cheek. They rocked together, back and forth, Cameron moving faster now and then faster.
Finally he was driving into her in desperation, their bodies slick together, the joining fierce. Wild waves of climax rolled over Ainsley and lifted her into him. Cameron grunted with it, and Ainsley’s pleasure rang through the room.
“My Ainsley,” Cameron whispered brokenly. “I can’t lose you. Never. Never, never. . .” His words moved with his body, Cameron losing control. “My sweet, tight, beautiful wife.”
Ainsley cried his name, loving the sound of it. Cameron kept on, their bodies coming together, Cameron’s words drifting into groans.
Then they were falling together, body to body, into the wide, comforting embrace of the marriage bed.
Cameron caressed Ainsley’s skin, wondering again at how incredibly soft she was. Ainsley was a strong woman, but there was nothing coarse about her. Her skin was like satin, sleek now with perspiration and water from the bath.
He’d almost lost her today. When Cameron had watched the stallion swing his huge body right for Ainsley, and Ainsley stranded in that corner, his entire world had died.
He’d known he’d never reach her in time. He’d have to stand and watch the woman he loved be trampled to death, all because Cameron Mackenzie had coveted a horse. Only Angelo’s quickness had saved her, a deed Cameron could never repay.
Cameron had screamed at Lord Pierson, but he knew blame lay at his own feet. If he hadn’t bullied Pierson into bringing back Jasmine, Ainsley would never have been standing there, crooning over Jasmine, while a ton of dangerous horseflesh did its best to kill her.
Cameron’s hand shook as he tucked the covers around her, and Ainsley smiled sleepily. The smile he might never have seen again, because of his selfishness.
When Pierson had shouted that he’d remove Jasmine as well as the stallion, the decision to let them go had been easy. Ainsley was worth far more than a damned horse, and she always would be.
Ainsley’s smile remained, though her eyes drifted closed. Cameron felt his own body relax, the crash of exhaustion after panic, coupled with intense loving. His eyelids grew heavy, everything in him willing him to let go, descend into oblivion, sleep . . .
Panic touched him. Cameron started to slide from the bed, but Ainsley’s eyes snapped open. She caught his hand.
“No, not yet,” she said in alarm.
Cameron kissed her forehead. “I have to go, sweet. I don’t want to hurt you.” He wasn’t certain he could trust his own reflexes tonight, even with Ainsley.
Ainsley’s grip tightened. “Please, not yet. I’m still shaky. Just until I fall asleep. Please.”
Cameron saw the stark fear in her face. Ainsley might protest that she was fine, that all was well, that Angelo had been in time, but Cameron saw that the incident had scared the hell out of her.
She was asking for his comfort. Even while a cold finger of dread stole down Cameron’s spine, he knew he couldn’t walk away from her, not now. At this moment, when he had to choose between her peace of mind and his, he chose Ainsley’s.
Without a word, Cameron nodded.
Ainsley visibly relaxed. Cameron pulled the covers over them both, curling into the warmth of her and drawing her back against him. Ainsley closed her eyes, sweetly trusting.
Cameron waited while the fire crackled and the window darkened with coming night. Ainsley slid into sleep while he held her, her body moving gently with her even, slow breaths.
He could leave now. Cameron could slide out of bed and pad to the door, slipping to his own room to crawl into bed and welcome exhausted sleep.
He didn’t move. The silence of the room was soothing, as was the hiss of the burning coals and the rising wind that flowed under the house’s eaves. He and Ainsley were safe together in this nest, warm and comforting each other. Stillness, that was what Cameron needed. Stillness to be with Ainsley.
His body relaxed as the room grew darker. Soon Cameron knew nothing but Ainsley’s warmth, her presence, her scent. Then, oblivion.
Ainsley opened her eyes to sunlight and found herself nose-to-nose with her husband. Cameron lay on his side, cheek on the pillow, the covers kicked off in the stuffy room. His eyes were closed, his hair a mess. A faint snore issued from his slightly open mouth.
Lord Cameron Mackenzie was sleeping with her.
Chapter 25
Ainsley rose on her elbow to study him. Cameron lay like a recumbent beast, arms curled under his pillow, bare legs splayed. Morning sunlight pooled on the backs of his thighs, curls of wiry hair dusting his skin between the scars.
She’d not seen his body laid out for her like this before, showing plainly where his skin had been broken and gouged. Scars snaked from his thighs up and over his bu**ocks, dipping between the tight mounds of his backside. At the cleave, the skin had been scraped away entirely.
Cameron must have lain very much like this that horrible day about which Count Durand had taunted him—facedown, sprawled in sleep. Ainsley wondered how long it had taken for Cameron to feel safe sleeping in this position again, even behind the bedroom door he locked every night. A long time, she thought.