He groaned and pulled her hard against him, then lavished her with tiny kisses: her face, her eyelids, down the line of her jaw. His fingers speared through her curls, tilting her head as, under his guidance, she parted her lips and he deepened the kiss.
Oh, the taste of him…She’d never imagined it could be like this. Hot. Darkly spicy. Dangerously addictive. It raced through her, flickering along her veins like fire. Every part of her was alive, responsive…even as she felt herself melting against him like thick, rich cream, like honey.
The moon drifted behind clouds, one moment basting the world in silver, and the next in darkness. The autumnal scent of drying leaves and damp earth was all around them, spiced with the faint acid tendrils of smoke from the dying fire. A time of change…
He looked down at her, stroking his thumbs along her jawline. She stood still, expectant, gazing back at him, her lovely eyes wide and dark in the dusky evening. And inviting. Her lips were full and moist. He swallowed, looking at them. His body tightened.
In the distance he heard a fox scream. She heard it too and smiled a little, acknowledging their shared understanding, inviting him to share it with her. Ah, but she was special, this woman. A gift.
Her skin was warm, moon-pale and silken to the touch. He lavished light, tender kisses on her at first, wanting to devour her but needing more to take his time, to savor every moment, every gesture. She was an innocent.
She smelled clean and sweet, like fresh-baked bread. Her mouth was warm and satin-soft like dark rose petals.He brushed his mouth over hers and felt her breath hitch. Her lips parted slightly and he deepened the kiss.
She tasted like spiced, wine-dark honey, sweet, slightly sharp, addictive. She reached up and pulled him closer, returning his kisses eagerly, a little clumsily, driving him wild.
Slowly, unable to stop kissing, they moved together toward the caravan.
He opened the door. “After you, my lady.” But before she could climb in, Hamish reappeared and shoved his cold nose in between them.
She laughed, saying, “Not inside, sweetheart,” and for a second he thought she might be talking to him. But the dog flumped gloomily down in front of the steps and laid his head on his paws.
“He’s keeping watch,” she said, and turned back to him. Her eyes darkened and she ran her tongue over her lips. He swallowed. His body, already aroused, tightened. Silently she held out her hand to him and led him, stepping carefully over the sprawled dog, up the steps into the caravan. She’d made it ready, he saw, with everything tidy and the bed neatly turned back. Several candles were lit, throwing out small pools of golden light and dancing shadows.
He was glad she hadn’t decided to do this in the dark. He ached to see her.
She was looking a little uncertain, so he kissed her again, and soon they were lying on the bed, kissing and kissing and kissing. He could never get enough of her, and she was all luscious heat and sweet, intoxicating acceptance. But he wasn’t going to rush this, rush her. Her first time—their first time: it had to be special and it was up to him to make it so.
He pulled back and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were a little dazed, full of questions.
“Do you need help getting out of that dress?”
She blinked, and then gave a shaky laugh. “No, maids’ dresses are not as complicated as ladies’ ones. Just a drawstring here, and another one there.” She pulled the ties at the neck and waist undone, and the neckline instantly drooped, revealing creamy skin and an enticing shadow of cleavage.
She wriggled off the bed, took a deep breath, pulled the dress off over her head and tossed it aside, leaving herself clad only in a worn, thin and many-patched chemise. The fabric was so thin he could see through it, see the dark V-shaped shadow at the apex of her thighs, and the rosy circles of her areolae. As he watched, her nipples lifted and tightened: small needy points of desire. He reached up and brushed his knuckles slowly across them. She shuddered and sat down suddenly on the bed. “Now you,” she gasped. “Do you need help undressing?”
“No.” He wouldn’t have minded letting her undress him, but he was full and hard and didn’t know how much longer he could wait.
He tossed his coat aside, pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside too. His chest was bare—vagabond artists wore no undershirts—and he was very aware of her gaze running slowly and appreciatively over him. He sat on the edge of the bed, yanked off his boots and socks, then stood and reached for the buttons on the fall of his breeches.
They dropped to the floor. Her eyes widened. He was wearing cotton drawers—this vagabond artist did wear drawers—but they did nothing to disguise his very definite and insistent arousal.
She eyed it curiously. She didn’t seem worried or anxious, which he might have expected from a virgin. But Vita was no ordinary girl.
He sat beside her on the bed, kissed her, slowly and leisurely, then bent and placed his mouth over her breast and, through the threadbare chemise, teased her nipple with his tongue. She gasped and arched and clutched his head to her. “Do that again.”
Smiling, he obliged, until she was gasping and moving restlessly against his mouth. “Lift up,” he said, and pulled off her chemise. He gazed at her for a long moment, devouring her with his eyes. She watched him watching her, her expression a little shy, a little uncertain.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured.
“Now you,” she said, indicating his drawers.
He pulled them off and kicked them aside. It was her turn to gaze at him then, not at all shyly, but curious and fascinated.
“You are beautiful, too,” she said.
He gave a huff of laughter. “Men aren’t beautiful.”
“You are to me.” She put out a hand as if to touch him, then hesitated and glanced at him.
