No matter that it had only constituted a portion of why he had left, no question had ever made him feel quite so thick-headed before. He had thought he was well beyond blushing at this time of his life. Nevertheless, his cheeks warmed uncomfortably. “Well, it sounds ridiculous when you say it like that,” he grumbled.
“That is because itisridiculous,” she returned, with a flippancy that should have relieved his mind on the subject and yet did not. “I assure you, I have learned my lesson in regard to losing one’s heart, and shan’t be doing that again. No, I have no intention of falling in love with you.”
While he was relieved she thought the idea of falling in love with him was comical and completely without merit, he also felt an absolute idiot for even suggesting that he was so irresistible that she would fall in love with him after one night together.
But both of those emotions were forgotten in the face of her revelation that she had been in love before. Yes, her friend Miss Athwart had said as much yesterday when she had confronted him at Danesford after the wedding. But this was proof positive that someone had hurt Bronwyn, and badly. It woke something almost feral in him, a troubling emotion, indeed.
But Bronwyn continued, dragging his attention back from the edge of the cliff where he had been teetering. “Are you planning on falling in love with me?” she asked softly, her face turning a becoming shade of pink.
“No.” That one word burst from him, quick and certain.
She smiled brightly. “Well then, there is no danger. We may spend time together without fear, isn’t that right?”
There was a surge of warmth in his chest that might have worried him if they hadn’t just basically vowed that they would not fall in love with one another.
“Yes,” he answered with a small smile.
“Good,” she replied. She looked down to her skirts, smoothing them busily with suddenly nervous hands. “And…and we might continue to do the things we did last night without worry as well?”
How was it that one breathless question from her could affect him in such a physical way? He reached out and took her trembling hand in his, needing to touch her more than he needed anything just then. “Oh yes,” he rasped.
She looked at him, her eyes seeking out and snagging on his mouth. “Excellent.” She licked her lips, her breath coming faster. “Though do we really need to wait until tonight?”
“God, no,” he groaned, pulling her toward him, crushing her to him even as his lips found hers.
***
The following morning Bronwyn woke much the same as she had the day before: she was alone and quite naked in bed, the sun already beginning its ascent into the sky, Veronica bustling about the room and whistling merrily. Panic set in, an instinctual reaction as she once more clutched the sheets to her bosom. She had thought yesterday would change the way things would be going forward between them. But what if it had changed nothing at all?
“Good morning, Your Grace,” the maid said with a bright smile, once more delivering the silky dressing gown to her.
“Good morning,” Bronwyn managed. “Is…er, is His Grace up?”
“Oh, yes,” the maid said cheerfully, laying out a sea-green gown over a nearby chair and smoothing the delicate folds. “He’s an early riser, he is.”
So once more he had already left for the day. Bronwyn fought back the wave of disappointment. Of course their conversation and the increased intimacy of yesterday had not altered how things would be. And truly, she should be happy. He was here for only a short time, after all. There was no sense in getting used to his company when she would be without it soon enough.
Veronica’s next words, however, managed to decimate that small bit of reason.
“He asked to be informed when you woke so he might join you here for breakfast if you’re amenable.”
She really should be concerned that such news so quickly replaced her disappointment with joy. But she was too excited in that moment to care.
That did not mean, of course, that she had to advertise her excitement. Attempting to school her features to an expression of unconcern, she grabbed at the dressing gown and once more squirmed into it beneath the cover of the sheets. “Yes, I am amenable to such a plan,” she said with what she thought was impressive gravity. “Please inform His Grace I would like that very much.”
With a smile and curtsy the maid was off. The moment Veronica closed the door behind her, Bronwyn bolted from the bed. She raced into the adjoining washroom, taking a brush to her chaotic curls, scrubbing her face and teeth, and taking care of those more sensitive needs. She was no longer surprised at the slight soreness of her inner thighs; rather, she wondered how the rest of her was not equally sore as well.
With an enthusiasm that had delighted and excited her, Ash had taken to her suggestion to try out the different sexual positions she had read about. Even just remembering what they had done in the chair in her room the night before had her body aching in the most interesting manner. The washcloth she was briskly sponging herself off with slowed then, drifting lower, tracing the same path his mouth had taken. How was it, she wondered as her hand dipped between her legs, that the human body could contain such sensation? And how was it, she thought as she moved the washcloth against her suddenly aching flesh, that something touching one spot on her could be felt in every inch of her?
So focused was she on the faint abrasion of the cloth that she did not immediately hear the door open behind her. Suddenly strong arms came about her, and she was dragged back against a broad chest. She gasped and dropped the washcloth, embarrassed that she had been caught in such an act, and tried to close her dressing gown over herself even as she attempted to squirm from Ash’s embrace.
His hot mouth on the side of her neck and his large palm cupping her breast, however, banished all thoughts of escape. She felt his manhood pressing against her lower back, and the heat that had begun to build between her legs blossomed into something potent.
“Were you touching yourself, sweetheart?” he rasped, his breath caressing her skin, making her shiver. He took hold of her hand and guided it back between her thighs. She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder as sensation washed over her.
“Show me how you like to touch yourself,” he said. There was no demand in the words. Rather, he seemed to be begging her, desperation making the words come fast and breathless. He rocked against her, and she arched her back, pressing her buttocks against him. And then, because she could not have refused him even if she wanted to, she began to work her fingers over herself. Her folds were slick, the natural wetness from her body easing the path of her hand. He groaned, his mouth finding the sensitive place where her neck met her shoulder, sucking on the skin there, sending her spiraling even higher. And then he did the thing that sent her over the edge: pressing one hand as a support against her lower belly, he reached behind her with the other, searching for and finding the opening to her sex. Suddenly one finger was slipping inside her, then another, moving in and out of her even as she touched herself. And she broke apart in his arms.
But that was not the end of it. Not by any means. As her legs gave out from the force of her release, his arms slipped beneath her, lifting her against his chest. He strode back into the bedroom and to the still unmade bed, dropping her to the mussed sheets. One quick flick of his fingers at the fall of his breeches, and he was between her thighs with a hiss of pleasure, his manhood sinking into her.