“Touch me however you like,” he said, hoping his control would hold.
She ran a careful finger down the length of him, her eyes widening as his erection grew even more. He gritted his teeth as, with another glance at him for permission, she wrapped her fingers around the length of him and then squeezed very gently.
He moaned. She dropped him like a hot coal.
“It’s all right,” he assured her, his voice a little hoarse. “That was a pleasure moan.”
Zoë gave him a doubtful glance. A pleasure moan? Was there such a thing? Or was he being tactful?
He must have seen her doubt, because the next minute he was pushing her gently back on the bed. “I’ll show you.”
He explored her then, thoroughly, with hands and mouth. He started with her breasts, licking and nibbling and teasing her nipples, which were already hard and aching, with his teeth. Shivers of heat, of indescribable sensations, shuddered through her, and she found herself writhing, at first pleasurably, but soon it was more thanpleasure, almost pain, except it wasn’t. She needed…she didn’t know what, but she ached for it.
His hands were everywhere, caressing, arousing. He slipped his fingers between her thighs, and she stiffened. He soothed and stroked, and gradually she relaxed, but the more he stroked, alternately teasing and soothing, the tenser she became, writhing against his hand. The sensations built, first ripples washing through her body, then shudders racking her.
She heard a moan, and it wasn’t from him, but she didn’t care, she just wanted…needed…craved…she didn’t know what.
He moved over her then, and her legs fell apart, trembling with anticipation. With need. She felt him, heavy and blunt at her entrance, and her body clenched with recognition and longing.
“Sorry about this,” he murmured, and before she could collect her scattered wits to ask him what he meant, he entered her with a long, hard thrust.
A sharp pain shot though her and she gasped. He lay, buried within her for a moment. The pain faded to a tiny sting, and she felt her body stretching to accommodate him.
His fingers dropped to where they were joined and resumed their cunning dance, soothing and arousing, and before she knew it her body was closing around him, clenching, tightening.
He began to pull out of her. “No,” she gasped and locked her legs around him, hauling him closer, taking him deeper.
Then he was moving inside her, plunging…thrusting…driving her…to frantic need. Desperation. And ecstasy.
Sensation built and built. She shuddered and thrashed around him. He gave a final, husky groan, and she felt a gush of warmth within her. She trembled on the pinnacle of…something…and then…and then…
She woke slowly, golden shards of sunlight piercing the interior of the caravan. She lay curled on her side, Reynard’s body curved around her, skin against skin, one arm across her waist. Protective. Possessive.
She lay quietly, taking stock of how she felt. Alive, she felt gloriously alive, warm and safe and deliciously relaxed.
Parts of her body ached a little, but they were small aches, she decided, and they made her happy. She’d made love with Reynard, and it had been like nothing she had expected and yet everything she’d unknowingly craved. It had been exciting. A little bit shocking. The raw intimacy of it. And slightly…animal, the way she’d lost all control. As had he, she thought. But then, they were all animals, in a way, weren’t they? And she felt wonderful. Freed in some fashion, she wasn’t sure how.
She lay quietly, enjoying the feeling of the man breathing soft and steady beside her, reliving the night before. This was how she wanted to wake every morning for the rest of her life.
There wasn’t just one bubble of happiness in her chest now, there were dozens. Like champagne, like soap bubbles filled with sunshine. She’d made up her mind: she was staying. She would live with this man, this funny, charming, twisty, kind man, with all his stories.
Her sisters would understand, she told herself. They’d be disappointed, but once they saw how happy he made her, they would understand.
She felt him stirring, and turned in his embrace and watched his eyes open and the light come into them. He smiled, slow, warm, intimate. “Good morning, Vita my sweet. How do you feel?”
“Wonderful.” She kissed him, and would have done more, but he pulled back slightly.
“Not this morning, love. You’re still too tender. Besides—” Her stomach rumbled and he laughed. “There, your stomach spoke for you. Stay there and relax. I’ll make breakfast and bring it to you here.” He kissed her again and then slid out of bed and pulled on his clothes.
She lay back in a dreamy haze of contentment, hearing him move around the camp, getting the fire going, talking to Hamish, feeding Rocinante.
Some time later the door opened and he entered, carrying a plate and a steaming mug. “Here you are, my lady, scrambled eggs on toast and a mug of tea.”
She sat up, tucking the bedclothes around her, feeling a little self-conscious to be naked when he was fully dressed. He fetched his own breakfast and they ate it together, planning the day.
It was a little disconcerting to realize that while her world had changed completely, his seemed to be going on as usual. But she supposed that was what life was like. It couldn’t all be lovemaking. Unfortunately. He had a living to earn. She understood that.
“I have one more old painting to collect,” he said, “then this afternoon I’ll set about removing them from their frames and replacing them with the new paintings. People will be anxious to see them displayed in all their golden glory.” He collected the plates and set them on a narrow bench. “Do you want to come with me?”
