He didn’t know what to say—the fact that she’d known, that she’d given up the evening’s amusement to be with him. Her thoughtfulness wasn’t any sort of surprise, but still . . . His heart insisted it meant so much more.
And she was so damned beautiful. Whatever gown or costume she’d been meant to wear for the theatrical, it had been hung away again. She wore one of her simplest, everyday frocks. But her hair was still put up in careful coils and ringlets, like an artifact of the revelry she’d forfeited tonight.
He drew close and caught a lock of that lovely golden hair, wrapping it around his finger. “I’m sorry you missed the outing.”
“I’m not sorry.” She swallowed hard. “I mean, it couldn’t be helped.”
“Of course it could. You needn’t have stayed home. I know you were looking forward to seeing your sister and your friends.”
“I was mostly looking forward to you.”
He skimmed a touch down her cheek, overwhelmed—and at a loss to imagine what he’d ever done to deserve those words. To deserve this woman.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, then. Perhaps I should get some plates and—“
He pulled her into a kiss.
He was hungry, yes. Hungry for her. His soul was starved for just this.
He’d been returning to this house, to this very room, every night of his life. But this was the first time in a long time it felt like truly coming home.
She was soft and welcoming. She smelled so damned good.
He cinched an arm tight about her slender waist, trapping her arms against his bare chest. Her fingertips explored, stroked, caressed. And then slowly slid upward, until she wreathed her arms about his neck and held him tight.
They kissed and touched. He put a hand to her breast, kneading and shaping. She sighed, arching into his caress. Begging for more. He pulled her up against him, insinuating one thigh between her legs. She rewarded him with a husky moan and a deep, demanding kiss.
It was night. They were alone, and no one was going to interrupt them. In the other room, a bed beckoned. He was already half undressed. It didn’t take a fortune-teller to see where this was going.
He murmured, “If you don’t want this . . .”
He couldn’t even complete the sentence. Want this, he silently pleaded. Want this—want me, want this life we could share—as much as I want you.
“I want this,” she whispered. Her hips rolled against the firm slope of his thigh, sending streaks of raw lust through him. “Aaron, I . . . I want it so much.”
“I had a question I meant to ask you tonight.”
“I know.” Her blue eyes tipped up, meeting his gaze directly. “I came here to say yes.”
He didn’t even make a reply.
Because there was nothing left to say. If she wanted him, he was hers. Tonight, tomorrow, always.
He swept her off her feet and into his arms. Her little shriek of laughter delighted him. He’d been wanting to do that since the first.
As he laid her down, he wished he had a better bed. A plusher mattress on a hardwood frame. Softer linens and quilts. But none of these misgivings were enough to dampen his lust. Not in the least. As he slid a hand under her skirts, his c**k felt like a rod of steel in his trousers. He hadn’t known this pitch of erotic desperation since he was a youth of sixteen.
Nevertheless, he resolved to take things slowly. He knew her pleasure must come first, or it wasn’t likely to happen at all.
As he fumbled with the hooks down the back of her frock, nerves swarmed him like agitated bees. He hoped to God he could make this good for her. He’d never bedded a virgin. Hell, he hadn’t been with any woman in quite some time.
He’d spent his youth working too hard to chase after girls. Eventually, a friendly widow in the next village had taken him in hand—and taken him in plenty of other ways, teaching him the lay of the female landscape. They’d had an easy friendship, but he’d broken it off when he’d started courting the schoolteacher. And after the schoolteacher had dropped him, he’d wasted a few evenings carousing in town to soothe his wounded pride.
And that was the sum of it.
Here he was, a virile, red-blooded man of seven-and-twenty, and he could count his lovers on one hand. His hand, of course, being the most familiar lover of all.
Diana’s hands were a welcome improvement. They were soft. So soft, and so wonderfully curious. As he tugged down the bodice of her frock, she skimmed inquisitive touches up his arms, across his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. Awakening his every nerve and whipping his heartbeat to a gallop.
He removed her frock and carefully laid it aside, leaving her clad in a sweet, simple chemise and stockings. Silk stockings, from the feel of them. He ran a hand up her calf, imagining the feel of her legs locked around his waist. Just the thought made him groan with anticipated pleasure.
“You like them?” she asked. “They’re my best.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t change when you decided to stay home.” He touched the edge of her ribbon garter, but he didn’t untie it.