“I think,” she said, “that if you could talk right now, you’d offer to marry me first. You’d wait until you laid all my fears to rest before taking me to bed. But I don’t want to cosset my fears any longer, Jonas.”
As she spoke, he felt his pulse pick up. His body grew tense—not with the aching, painful tension that he’d felt in his shoulders before she’d arrived, but with a warm anticipation. He smiled at her, long and slow.
“I want to face what I fear,” she said, and then swallowed. “Tonight.”
For an answer, he picked her up in his arms. She let out a little gasp, but he pulled her close and she hooked her arms about his neck. For one moment, she leaned her forehead against his. For one moment, they traded air, their lungs seeming to work in tandem. And then he kissed her.
This time, there was no bitter to the kiss, just light sweetness, a sweetness that built with every caress they traded.
He wasn’t sure how he made it to his bedroom, kissing her, holding her, wanting her. As soon as he was inside, he undid the laces of her gown, pushing it down over her shoulders. She stepped out of it—and then smiled as he shook it and hung it on a hook in his wardrobe.
“Really, Jonas?” she asked.
He spread his hands, and crooked a finger. She came toward him and undid the buttons of his waistcoat. “You know,” she said, “I was always so intimated by your great height. There’s something about being tall that gives a man an unnatural advantage.” She took off his waistcoat, looked at him… and then winked at him before folding it carefully.
God, he loved her. He couldn’t quite believe she was here, that she was touching him, wanting him. She slid a finger in the waistband of his trousers and then pulled the tails of his shirt out. When she ran her hands up his bare abdomen, he let out a gasp. She gave him a scandalous smile, one that brought his blood to a slow simmer. He took off his shirt, carefully, and set it atop his vest. And then, before she could get those wicked fingers on the waistband of his trousers, he undid the laces of her front-facing corset. It peeled away, leaving her in chemise and drawers.
From here, lit by the flickering light of oil lamp, he could see the devastating silhouette of her body. The curves of her hips, the weight of her br**sts, no longer supported by her corset. He could see the shading of a dark triangle of hair through the thin fabric of her drawers, the darker points of her ni**les. His whole body pulsed with need, the desire to press against hers.
“You’re distinctly good at that,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “But I suppose you’d have to be. If you needed to treat someone in a rush…”
He shook his head.
“No? You didn’t learn to remove women’s clothing through your profession?”
He crossed the room to his desk, and took a letter opener off his desk.
“Jonas?”
He turned back to her, a smile on his face. What he wanted to say was that when he was in a rush—if minutes had made the difference between life and death—he wouldn’t have bothered with laces. But since she hadn’t given him leave to speak yet, he’d have to show her. He stalked up to her, hooked his finger in the neckline of her chemise. She just had a moment to look up at him in confusion, before he set the letter opener against the fabric and sliced it clean through.
That. That was what he would do in a rush, if he needed to get at something. Her skin pebbled in the night air, but not for long.
She gasped. And then he pushed her on the bed, the two halves of her chemise falling to either side of her. He dragged her drawers down, baring her body for him. Her eyes were wide, so wide, and dark. She hadn’t said a word of protest, and so he spread her legs.
She’d said she wanted him carnally.
Before she could think, he set his lips on her sex in a full-mouthed kiss.
Her hips jerked under his tongue. Her hands found his hair. “Oh my God, Jonas,” she gasped. He kissed lightly at first, licking at the edges until her breath stuttered, until he tasted the liquid of her arousal. Then he deepened the kiss, licking up the length of her, finding the hard nub of her clitoris with his tongue.
“Jonas,” she said, “Jonas. That feels so—so—”
He couldn’t speak, and right now, he didn’t want to. He lost himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, her legs clasping around his shoulders, her hands on his scalp. Her sex underneath him, open for him, open for his taste, his tongue. She was open for him to bring her pleasure, and he brought it on her bit by bit, until she trembled beneath him, until she begged incoherently. Until he could taste the edge of her desire, until there was only want in her and no fear.
God, it felt so good. So damned good, just to feel her on his lips, to feel that trembling wave pass through her as she screamed, her back arching, her whole body flushing pink and warm with the orgasm.