He exhibited more of his infernal patience. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, Orion, I am sure.” About the larger picture—the situation with Jules, Aunt Melisande’s backhanded support, the dreaded prospect of becoming Aunt Meli’s companion—Ann was in a welter of bewilderment. But in this bed, in Orion Goddard’s arms, she knew exactly who and what she wanted.
“So be it,” he said, kissing her forehead with an odd solemnity. “But you tell me if I’m blundering, Annie. You pinch my arse, pull my hair, bite my ear. I can get carried away.”
“Your version of lovemaking sounds like a brawl.” A glorious brawl. Ann would have elaborated on that point, except that Orion hitched closer.
“Hold me,” he whispered, tucking an arm under Ann’s neck. He murmured something in French—she caught the verb rêver, to dream—and the moment did take on the quality of a reverie. She closed her eyes the better to savor the sensation of Orion easing his way into her body. He stole forward by minute increments, then slipped away, then gently pressed forward again.
“You are driving me mad, Orion.”
“Good.”
Ann came to appreciate his delicacy, for her body had an adjustment to make. He seemed to sense even that, going still, hilted inside her, while he treated her to wicked, heated kisses. His tongue had skills other than the ability to taste, and so, Ann discovered, did hers.
She was exploring that skill when he resumed a slight rocking of his hips, and something about the angle he’d taken was different. More maddening.
“Move with me, Annie. Take what you need.”
She never took. Never demanded, never insisted, but her self-restraint deserted her when Orion levered up on his arms and began thrusting in earnest.
“This is the part where you get carried away?” Ann managed.
“This is the part where we get carried away.”
He knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly how to ply Ann’s body so desire rose to a galloping need, then beyond that, to a transcendent pleasure. She arched up at the same moment he tucked close, and she battered him with the cataclysm storming through her.
He might have laughed softly, the wretch, while Ann pressed her cheek to the rough warmth of his chest and shuddered under an intensity of sensation. She had glimpsed these feelings before, fleetingly, glancingly, but with Orion, she became another creature entirely, luminous with bodily joy.
The magnificence faded like summer thunder, and Orion gathered her close. She needed his embrace to keep her from flying into a million iridescent pieces, and she needed his arms around her because tears threatened.
“Catch your breath,” he said, stroking her hair. “I certainly need to catch mine.”
How gracious he was, particularly for a man who’d denied himself satisfaction, the better to please his lover.
Ann burrowed closer, a greater act of surrender than even what had passed before. “I am all in a muddle.” Scattered to the four winds and keenly dreading what a reassembling of wits and dignity would entail. I need this. I need this man.
But she did not need the complications that came with such an admission.
“Let’s undo you a little more.” Orion eased back, and Ann nearly shrieked at him not to leave her yet. She should have trusted him, for he surged forward again, setting up a steady rhythm. “This is not like tea biscuits, Annie, where you must be careful not to overindulge in company. Gobble me up, devour me, and with a little time and inspiration, you can have me all over again.”
She had no breath with which to argue, because when she’d hiked her knees the better to wiggle closer to him, he’d taken hold of her foot, his grasp warm and firm. As the abyss of satisfaction loomed before her again, he pressed his thumb into her arch, and several forms of pleasure coalesced.
She relaxed into completion, let it wash through her rather than struggling to endure it, and the result was a relief so profound as to defy words. She was satisfied, whole, at peace.
Spent and amazed, to use Orion’s words.
“I have been selfish,” she said before sleep could drag her under.
“You have been magnificent, but now I must be selfish. Kiss me farewell.”
She kissed him, languid heat threatening to flare into another bonfire, even as he slid from her body. He pressed near, rocking against her slowly.
“Someday…” He drifted into French again, the words too soft for Ann to translate. His pleasure came quietly while she hugged him close, grateful that she’d been spared his more tender sentiments.
Ann didn’t have a lot of experience, but she had enough to know that Orion Goddard was special. For the closeness he offered her, for the spectacular pleasure, and the simple consideration of a shawl draped over her knees, she would give up much.
Not everything, but much. Much indeed, and that was a problem.
A first encounter with a new lover was supposed to be a little awkward, a little sweet, and something to be got through as pleasurably as possible. The true indulgence came later, when habits and needs were familiar, and the lovemaking could be adventurous or comforting at the whim of the lovers.
Not so, making love with Ann Pearson.
She held nothing back, not her kisses, not her passion, not her affection. Rye had withdrawn, of course, and she’d clung to him through the inevitable mess and lassitude. Her hands were marvelous—both callused and tender, a novel sensation—and she was comfortable with silence. She’d pulled the covers up over his shoulders, stroked his hair, even let him doze off.
When had he ever, ever, ever fallen asleep in a lover’s arms? The words sounded romantic, the reality was fifteen stone of weary lout snoring away atop his lady. Rye had awoken to the feel of Ann’s hands moving on his back, the fragrance of lilacs teasing his nose.
In addition to the lovely sense of repletion, he’d also felt—the word both fascinated and unnerved him—safe. With Ann, he felt safe. Safe enough to doze off, safe enough to linger.
Safe from what or whom? He pondered that question while wrapped around Ann spoon-fashion, inordinately pleased that he wasn’t the only one who’d needed a nap.
He was dreaming of gingerbread when Ann stirred in his embrace, faced him, and tucked a leg over his hip. “You are so warm and lavender-y. I dreamed of Provence, and I have never been there.”
I’ll take you. She would delight in the herbs, the sunshine, and garden-scented breezes.
“Would you like to go?” A wedding journey came to mind, more evidence that Rye had lost his wits. One tumble, however glorious, did not a betrothal make when a man’s business was faltering and his enemies massing their forces.
“My home is in England. A cook cannot gallivant about the Continent on a whim, and who would look after Hannah in my absence?”
“I did not mean leave this minute, I meant…” A long courtship, perhaps? Hannah would be apprenticed for the next seven years.
Ann regarded him in the dim light of the bedroom. “I know what you meant. It’s a sweet thought. I think of taking you to see my little manor. Papa left me land in Surrey, and he was wise enough not to sell off all of our trees. We have a proper wood, where I fought every battle in history and lived out every fairy tale ever told by old women to fractious grandchildren.”