“Here,” he panted, taking one of her hands and wedging it between them, right where their bodies joined. “Touch yourself here.”
His hands took her hips again, and he thrust even deeper. As he moved within her, her trapped fingertips rubbed back and forth over the swollen nub at the crest of her sex, giving her just the friction she needed. Her climax built in the distance, gathering strength. In her mind’s eye, she saw it coming, as if she were viewing a wave from the shore. An imminent, devastating swell of pleasure. It awed her—frightened her, even—as it loomed near, inescapable and intense. Then the wave broke, crashing over and through her body as he kept up his steady, powerful rhythm.
She cried his name. She might have cried a few joyous tears, as well.
He cursed.
With an urgent gasp, he pulled free of her body. She reached for him, tangling her grip with his as he stroked himself the remaining distance to release. His seed jetted against her belly, a burst of welcome heat in the cooling cove.
His temple pressed against hers as he brought her close. His labored breath crashed hot against her ear. “Hold me.”
Oh, Bram.
She lashed her bare arms and legs around his body, clutching him as close as she could. Kissing his shoulders, his throat, his jaw, his ear. Running her fingers through his damp, clipped hair. Rocking him, just a little. Back and forth, in time with the waves.
A flood of tenderness rushed from her heart and spread through her entire body, suffusing even her fingers and toes with warmth. She brought him closer still, wanting him to feel it. As if she could wrap him in a blanket of affection and hold him there forever. He had so much pride, and so much family honor, wrapped up in returning to war. How could she possibly entice him to stay? She was going to try her damnedest, but the day might come quite soon when she would have to let him go.
But for tonight, he’d asked her to hold him, and Susanna was going to do just that. Hold on to this passionate connection they shared. Hold on to this transcendent, if all too fleeting, joy.
Hold on to him. Just as long as she possibly could.
Twenty-two
Really. The man was impossible. When Susanna managed to get her hands on him, she was going to fling him off the bluffs herself.
It was late afternoon, almost evening. After a long day overseeing progress in the village, she ought to be heading home, making sure her father had eaten something today. Instead, she huffed all the way up to the castle ruins. On the way, she passed Corporal Thorne drilling the majority of the militiamen on the flat. Straight lines, straighter posture, a respectable unity of rhythm. Not perfect yet, but they’d made formidable progress in the past week. At marksmanship, she had all but a few of them loading and shooting in under twenty seconds now.
A few minutes’ more walking, and she reached the castle.
“Where is your lord?” she asked a lone volunteer standing sentry at the ancient, crumbling gatehouse. She recognized him as one of Bram’s farm recruits.
“Beg pardon, miss. I . . . I don’t believe he’s available.”
“What do you mean, he’s not available? He’s found time to devil me with these ridiculous orders all day.” In her fist, she clutched his latest handwritten missive. “This is the third one he’s sent this afternoon alone. I know he’s here.”
“He’s here,” the man hedged, “but . . .”
“Lord Rycliff!” she called, striding past the soldier.
Dinner greeted her as she crossed the bailey, with a friendly bleat and a questing nudge at her pocket.
“Someone’s been spoiling you.” Pausing to spare the lamb a brief pat, she passed into the grassy, open center of the castle grounds, drew to a halt, and lifted her voice. “Lord Rycliff, I need a word.”
“Up here, Miss Finch.”
She tilted her head to view the keep.
“On the parapet,” he called.
Shading her eyes, she let her gaze climb higher still. From atop the southwest turret, between the crenellated notches of the battlement, he lifted a hand in salutation. The sinking, amber sun lit him from the back, bathing him in a glowing corona of light. Like a halo of fire—perfectly befitting the handsome, tormenting devil.
“I’d appreciate if you’d come down, my lord,” she called. “We need to talk.”
“It’s my turn on watch.”
“You’re the commander. Can’t you make it someone else’s turn?”
“I don’t shirk my duty that way, Miss Finch.”