Picking up his glass from the bedside table, he lifted the covers and climbed in beside her. His weight bowed the bed; the nearness of his hard body, always so warm, the promise inherent in his naked presence beside her, no barriers of any sort between, sent tendrils of anticipation snaking through her.
Now that she had a much better idea of what that promise entailed, the anticipation had only grown sharper and sweeter. She sipped, and savored.
Closing her eyes, she mentally stretched, reached, assessed. Her body thrummed gently, all but purring; her mind was an unusually calm sea. She truly couldn’t recall any time in her life she’d felt so completely satisfied in the moment, so truly content. Even though frustration over their lack of progress in finding her missing boys irked and worried her, in this moment the frustration and worry were distant. Beyond the bed curtains, outside this room.
Within this room, within the private confines of his bed, she’d experienced not just pleasure and delight, but in their wake a deeper, more powerful sense of peace.
Beside her, Barnaby sank against the pillows, sipped his wine, and eyed her profile. She was thinking; he couldn’t guess the subject, although judging from her serene expression it wasn’t their case. They’d dealt with what little there was to discuss concerning the investigation before he’d got her up the stairs. With no news, no progress, no possible useful activity to occupy them, she’d been gratifyingly eager to fall in with his plans for their mutual distraction.
With his latest, more subtle direction in mind, he’d allowed his natural, dominant side to show—not completely, just enough to intrigue and challenge her; after an initial moment of surprise, he’d been rewarded with her complete and utter attention.
Exactly as he’d hoped, her curiosity had stirred.
He’d waltzed her into the room, kicked the door shut, then proceeded to waltz her to the bed, stripping her as they went.
She’d responded with gratifying eagerness, although at one point her insistence on divesting him of his shirt had caused a moment of confusion—at least for him. He hadn’t expected her to filch the reins back, but she had. Even though he’d retrieved them again, later she’d wanted them back; passing control back and forth—sharing it, switching from leading to following and then back again—wasn’t what he was used to, but he’d managed to adjust.
By the time he’d had her spread naked across his bed, all he’d been able to think about was sinking his by-then throbbing staff into her luscious body. As she’d been similarly urgent and insistent, wantonly writhing, seductively beckoning, he’d done just that, setting aside his wish to spend considerably longer exploring her naked curves.
In daylight. At length.
He glanced at her, sipped, and promised himself he would. Soon.
All in all, he’d judged her correctly: knowledge was indeed her price. In this sphere, it was a currency in which, compared to her, he had bottomless coffers.
Unsurprisingly, she was more adventurous than the norm. Ladies of the ton tended to invite, instigate, and then acquiesce; she did the first two, but not the third—she actively engaged, expected to contribute if not equally then nevertheless definitely to the outcome, to defining the landscape through which their passions took them, and at what rate and by what route they scaled the peak.
She was keen, applied herself to the task, and was steadily learning.
And while he preferred to remain firmly in charge, he was starting to suspect that he might enjoy at least some of the benefits of occasionally sharing the reins.
Sipping the crisp amontillado, he shifted his gaze to the fire, evaluating where on his path to a wedding they now were.
A step or two further along than they had been last night.
It was, perhaps, time to seed a few more notions into her receptive and fertile mind.
Draining his glass, he reached out and set it on the bedside table, then turned to her, stretching out beside her.
Her lids cracked open; he caught the glint of her dark eyes beneath the lush curve of her lashes.
Picking up her hand from where it lay on the covers, he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed—then drew her arm up and placed her hand on the pillows above her head.
He had her complete attention, but didn’t meet her eyes. Sliding his arm beneath the covers, he set his fingers to one side of her throat, lightly tracing the curve from just beneath her ear to her collarbone.
She tensed fractionally, watching. He raised his hand to repeat the caress, easing back the covers as he did, then he leaned in and set his lips to trace the same line, and her breath shivered.
He shifted and repeated the caress on her other side; she tilted her head to give him better access, lips lightly curving as she sighed.
Moving on, he subjected her shoulders to the same exploring touch, first with his fingers, then with his lips and tongue.
The covers had dropped to lie just above her breasts. Sliding his hand beneath the edge, he closed it about one breast. He didn’t try to hide his possessiveness, simply closed his fingers about the firm mound and claimed. Then he set his fingers stroking, circling the tightening nipple until it was taut, then catching and rolling it between finger and thumb.
Her breathing broke, fractured.
Leaning closer, with the back of his hand he nudged the covers aside so he could examine the flesh he was fondling. View it, study it; then he bent his head and slowly licked.
She sucked in a breath.
