She did not want to look back on her life and wish she’d had one night with Ewan, with the man she loved. Because Lorrie knew she loved him. She’d thought she loved Francis, but that feeling had been paltry—nothing but infatuation with charm and good looks. Ewan had no carefully crafted charm, no boyish good looks, but he was true and honest and flawed. And she loved him. It was that simple. Lorrie loved him because of his flaws, not in spite of them. And fifty years from now, she would look back on this night and know that for one brief moment, she had loved and been loved in return.
He hadn’t said he loved her, but Lorrie looked at him over her shoulder now and no words were necessary. He didn’t need to say the words. She could see his feelings written on his face. She shivered at the predatory look in his eyes as he swept his gaze down her body. He wanted her as fervently as she wanted him.
He made a low sound, almost a growl in his throat, and then his hand was on her hip. His bare skin on hers, that place where no other man had ever touched, burned. He took her with both hands and pushed her against the wall again, the cool wood making her breasts pucker and long for the inferno of heat behind her.
His body pressed against hers, and his hands coiled in her hair, pushing it over her shoulders. His hot, wet mouth was on her neck, then her shoulder, then tracing every single vertebra down the column of her spine.
Her fingers splayed on the wall, and she dug her nails into the wood as his lips made slow progress down her back. Finally, he knelt behind her, his breath warm against the small of her back. His hands slid up and down her thighs, making her tremble with need as they crept closer to her center. His lips trailed down her bottom, kissing the curve as his hands slid up to part her legs.
She knew the pleasure he could give her now, and her body ached for it. With the gentlest pressure, she parted for him, moaning softly when his fingers tangled against her damp curls.
She knew this was wanton. She’d always imagined her deflowering would take place in a bed, in the dark, with her nightgown ruched to her waist. But this would be no hurried coupling in the shadows, and when his fingers stroked over her small, sensitive nub, she felt more vulnerable than she ever had.
“Ewan,” she breathed.
He made a sound, like a low rumble of pleasure.
“Ewan, I…” She caught her breath as his fingers teased at her center, making her want to buck her hips. “I…love you.”
“Yes,” he said, the stubble of his jaw brushing against her rump.
That was the closest he had ever come to acknowledging his feelings for her, and her heart jumped at the same time her body convulsed. Her knees went weak, but Ewan braced her, his fingers plying her until he had wrung every last bit of pleasure from her.
This time had not been the violent climax she’d experienced in his chamber, but a long, sweet rise that left her brow damp and her body flushed.
Hands on her waist, he turned her around, pushing the back he had just claimed against the wall. His eyes seemed to drink her in as she struggled to catch her breath. One hand touched her hard nipple and she shuddered. The pink tip was sensitive, and the one finger he ran over it seemed to tug at a string inside her.
Heat flooded her body again, making her legs wobble. She put her hands on his chest, as much for support as for the pleasure of touching that hard, honed body. Then she leaned against him, rubbing her breasts over his chest, and had the satisfaction of hearing him inhale sharply. She took her time exploring his back and his chest, finally resting her hands on the fall of his trousers. They bulged with the force of his erection, with the proof of his desire for her. But when she tried to unfasten the fall, his hands caught hers.
“Not like this,” he said, his voice even rougher than usual.
“Then how?” she asked. “Show me.” She leaned back against the wall, expecting and hoping for another thorough inspection by his lips, but instead he swept her up in his arms. She laughed at the unexpected rush of dizziness as her feet left the floor and dangled over his arm. He walked to the bed, kissing her, then laying her down gently on top of the bedclothes. He knelt, his knee between her calves, and reached for his trousers. Then he hesitated, looking at her face uncertainly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, barely able to resist pulling him down on top of her. She wanted the feel of his body on top of hers, his hard muscles against her softness.
“Nothing. You are perfect.”
She shook her head. “You are perfect. Look at you.” She gestured to his chest. “You are like a marble statue in a museum. Touch me again. I’m cold.”
He reached for her, then paused again.
Lorrie’s heart caught. Dear God, please do not let him stop. She would die from needing his touch if he had changed his mind.
“Touch me, Ewan.” She took his hand, placed it on her abdomen, then slid it up to the curve of her breast. His hand fisted. She shook her head. “Don’t stop.”
“I don’t know how to go on.”
Lorrie blinked. “Have you never—”
“I have, but…” He seemed to struggle for words, to search for the right words. “I never cared.” He shook his head. “That sounds wrong.”
Lorrie smiled, love for him rushing through her all over again. “I mean something to you,” she said. “This means something.” She gestured to him and then to herself.
He nodded.
“Show me what I mean to you.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She waved a hand. “You would never hurt me. And if there’s some pain, it will be worth it to have you inside me.”
He made a low groaning sound. “You make me lose control.”
She smiled. “Good. Take off the rest of your clothes.”
She thought he would take her then. His blue eyes flashed fire, and sharp arousal pierced her. But he seemed to rein his need in, determined to go slowly and cautiously. He put his hand on the fall of his trousers. “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not a complete innocent,” she said. “I have seen statues, you know.”
He made a noncommittal sound, obviously unimpressed with her knowledge of male anatomy. And then he flicked the fall open, and he sprang free, and she understood why he’d cautioned her.
He was as large there as he was everywhere else.
He rose and removed the rest of his clothing, and though Lorrie wanted to enjoy the view of him entirely naked, she could not quite drag her gaze from his magnificent manhood. It jutted proudly from a thatch of blond hair between his legs, hair slightly darker than that on his head. His organ was thick and the skin darker than the rest of him, the tip slightly pink and slick.
She blew out a slow breath as he first knelt, then changed his mind and lay down beside her.
“You’re scared.” His body was inches from hers, but he didn’t touch her. She wanted to roll into his warmth, but she couldn’t quite find the courage to move.
“A little. You’re larger than the statues.”
“I’ll dress.”
She grabbed his shoulder before he could roll away. “No.” She wrapped her arms around him, moving closer to him until her body was flush with his. His organ lay hard against her belly. The sensation was rather pleasant. “I want you, Ewan Mostyn. Just like this. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, no one else I want to give myself to.”