It was the night before, all over again—and yet somehow different, somehow more. Last night, James had been possessed with a feverish urgency, some part of him convinced it was a dream, that Violet would disappear from his arms if he paused for even a moment. And his need had been matched by her own—she had clutched him, urged him on, faster, faster.
Now, however, James deliberately slowed himself—after all, they had plenty of time. There were still words to be spoken, hurts to be addressed, but they would do so together. He no longer feared the return of the cold and echoing silence that had occupied the house for so long.
So instead of pressing her back more deeply into her chair and kissing her until she could not breathe, he broke the kiss and rose to his feet, extending a hand toward her. She stared at it blankly, looking disconcerted.
“I am as fond of this chair as any man,” he explained politely, “but it occurred to me that it might make more sense to avail ourselves of the bed that is so conveniently nearby.” He jerked his head in the direction of the piece of furniture in question—one that James in fact had never occupied himself.
Violet, he was delighted to see, blushed. “Of course,” she said, standing and taking his hand with so blatant a display of eagerness that James had to bite back a giddy grin. Instead, he satisfied himself by leading her toward the aforementioned bed before turning her away from him and making short work of the buttons on the back of her gown.
“I don’t recall you being quite so quick at that,” Violet said over her shoulder, a note of suspicion in her voice as he pushed her dress aside and dedicated himself to unlacing her corset.
“It is remarkable what I can achieve when presented with an extremely enticing motivation,” James said.
“So you’ve not been practicing?” He detected a slight hint of un-Violet-like uncertainty in her voice, and he froze, his fingers at the lacings at the base of her spine. He looked up.
“Violet.”
“It has been rather a long time . . .” Her words came out as a rush.
“Good lord, woman, did you see how I nearly fled in terror when Lady Fitzwilliam so much as batted her eyelashes at me?”
“That’s true,” Violet admitted, and he was glad to see a smile curving the corners of her mouth once more.
“Violet, it’s only ever been you,” he said, and freed the lacings, stepping back so that she could fling her corset aside. “I could never even see anyone else.”
“You didn’t seem terribly out of practice last night,” she said lightly, turning and gliding back into the circle of his arms, sliding her own around his neck, but he saw by the teasing glint in her eyes that his words had banished any real concerns.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” he said, and kissed her once more.
It was an all-consuming, full-body kiss, and it seemed like only an instant later—though it must have been several minutes—that James found himself on the bed, shirtless, Violet underneath him, her chemise pulled to her waist, her legs spread wide and his head between them. He moved his lips and tongue with deliberate, torturous slowness, causing Violet’s breath to hitch in her throat in a fashion that would have been gratifying had he had enough reason left to appreciate it. At the moment, however, he felt as though he were slowly being consumed by flames, and his entire world had narrowed to Violet.
Just Violet.
Violet, who was stirring restlessly beneath him, her breathing harsh. “James—” she said, and he was amused to hear the note of impatience mixed with the desperation in her voice. He raised his head.
“Too slow again?” he asked innocently.
“It is a quality I generally appreciate,” she assured him, huffing a breathless half laugh. “But I must say, at the moment—”
“I’ve nowhere to be this afternoon,” he said solemnly. “I didn’t see any reason to rush the proceedings.” The stiffness currently pressing almost painfully against his trousers indicated something else entirely—and Violet took full advantage, undulating her hips upward so that her leg brushed against him and smiling, catlike, at the sharp intake of breath he was unable to stop.
“Violet—”
“Since I seem to be the only one in a hurry,” she said, her tone indicating that she knew perfectly well this was not the case, “it seems only fair that I control the proceedings.”
James arched a brow at her, inwardly gleeful. Even more than the lovemaking itself, he had missed this. Laughing with her. Teasing her. He hadn’t fully realized how much he’d missed it until he’d regained it—and he’d be damned if he’d ever give it up again.
“All right,” he said, making his voice as disinterested as he could, under the circumstances—those circumstances including the fact that another portion of his anatomy was making it quite clear that he was not disinterested in the least. “If you think you can.” He drew back from her slightly, giving her enough space that she might flip him onto his back, which she proceeded to do with alacrity.
She crouched above him, her chemise sliding off one shoulder, showcasing a delectable portion of creamy skin. Her hair was tumbling down in such disarray that he reached up and finished the job, removing pins and tossing them to the floor without a second glance.
“You will be picking those up later,” she said severely, running her hands greedily down his torso, the muscles of his abdomen fluttering under her touch.
“If I can walk,” James replied slyly, and she grinned wickedly at him.
“Was that a challenge?”
“You decide.”
Her decision, though not vocalized, was evidently in the affirmative, as he found a few short minutes later when, having dispensed with his boots and trousers, Violet, straddling his legs, reached into his smalls, took him in hand, and proceeded to take him into her mouth.
His hips arched up as an inarticulate groan burst out of his mouth—he couldn’t see, he couldn’t think, all he could do was feel the wet warmth of her mouth around him, consuming him. She pursed her lips, sucking, and he groaned again, mingling her name with a fair bit of profanity and the merest hint of blasphemy.
Violet raised her head, a wicked glint in her eye. “Did you just mention the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“Probably,” James said, amazed that he even had the capacity for speech at the moment.
“Fair enough,” Violet said, then rededicated herself to the task at hand.
Soon—all too soon—James felt the signs of release drawing near, and with a heroic display of willpower he reached down, cupping her face in his hands, drawing her upward. She slithered up his body, the fabric of her chemise doing nothing so much as heightening the sensations between them, and he pulled her face down to his own, kissing her sloppily, ravenously, with every bit of passion he had in him.
He drew back slightly after a moment, sliding his hands down to her waist and seizing her chemise in both hands as he yanked it over her head. Violet leaned back, raising her arms to assist him in his efforts, and in that moment she was so heartbreakingly beautiful that he felt as though the very breath had been sucked from his body. She straddled him, the candlelight casting a flickering light upon the expanse of smooth skin laid out before him, and arched her back slightly, presenting her breasts for him like a gift.