One that he seized, of course.
He took his time, his lips moving over her skin, and all the while Violet undulated above him until he knew with perfect clarity that if he had to wait a moment longer to be inside her he was going to explode.
“Violet,” he said hoarsely, and moved his hands down her supple body until he had seized her slim waist and lifted her, moved her back. “I need—” he began, but interrupted himself with a strangled groan as Violet took him in hand, then sank down on top of him. The feeling of her, wet and warm and tight around him, was nearly enough to make him spend right then and there—but he was not a green boy of fifteen. He knew how to take his time.
And so he did.
His hips rose to meet hers in powerful thrusts, and Violet leaned forward as she moved, bracing her hands on either side of his head, her own head thrown back. He arched up and placed a series of kisses along the column of her throat, loving the way she gasped, then groaning as she inadvertently tightened around him.
He slid his hand down to the space between them, his thumb striking up a rhythm that first made her gasp, then moan. Her rhythm faltered as she became lost to her own pleasure, and in an instant he had surged up and flipped them, his thrusts becoming more erratic. He leaned down and kissed her, his tongue slipping easily against her own, his thumb still caressing her heated flesh, and in another moment she had convulsed around him, her strangled cry muffled against his lips. The feeling of her spasming around him was enough to trigger his own release; he groaned as the heat rushed through his body before he collapsed atop her with a muffled oath.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke—James, for his part, did not think himself capable of stringing two words together. All he could do was lie there and relish the feeling of his own heart pounding against hers. It was perhaps the best thing he had ever felt.
After a minute, she stirred beneath him and he quickly lifted himself onto his elbows so as not to crush her with his weight. She murmured something incomprehensible in protest, her eyes still closed, and he took advantage of the slight distance he had put between them to stare down into her face—so familiar to him, and yet so achingly lovely that he knew he would never tire of gazing at it.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips, gently at first, but with increasing ardor when her mouth opened beneath his and she flicked her tongue against his own. He broke off after a moment with a muffled half laugh, half groan, and rolled over so that he was lying on his back beside her, still winded from their exertions. He felt her arm move slightly against his, then her slim hand sliding against his own, lacing their fingers together.
“That was . . .” she said at last, but then failed to complete her sentence. He wondered if she, too, lacked the capacity for fully logical speech at the moment.
“Yes,” he said, and lifted her hand to his own mouth so that he might press a kiss against it.
She turned onto her side to face him and he followed suit, so that they found themselves nose to nose, their legs tangled together. He reached out and brushed one of her sweat-dampened curls away from her face. “You’re so beautiful,” he said softly—not to compliment her, not because of what they had just done, but simply because it was the truth, and in that moment it needed to be uttered so desperately that he had no way to keep the words within him.
She smiled at him, her eyes overly bright. “Why?” she said, and he knew that she was not referring to his previous words.
He sighed. “I saw my father in the park this morning,” he said, surprised to hear that his tone was not as bitter as it usually was when the duke arose as a topic of conversation.
Violet’s brow furrowed. “Oh?” Nothing more—and he was grateful for it. He knew she was curious, he knew the questions must be about to burst from within her—because she was Violet, and that was her way—but here she was, waiting patiently all the same.
“Indeed,” he said shortly, then softened his tone, reaching a hand out to trace down her impossibly soft cheek.
“Did you discuss anything important?” she asked, and he bit back a smile at her attempts to make her tone casual, to disguise the impatience lurking just beneath the surface.
He hesitated a moment—they had in fact discussed something of rather great importance, and yet he still felt that it had so little to do with the matter at hand that it was scarcely worth mentioning. He did not wish to linger upon his conversation with the duke, not when he had already allowed his father to determine so much about his relationship with Violet. “Not particularly,” he said, telling himself it wasn’t a lie. It didn’t feel like a lie—his encounter with his father, to his mind, had nothing at all to do with the love he felt for his wife in this moment, and he had no desire to muddy things between them by bringing his father into it. “But speaking with him—it made me realize that I was allowing him to dictate my life. I was letting him win.”
“It doesn’t have to be a competition,” she said softly, her eyes sad.
“I know,” he said, touching her cheek gently. “I know that now.”
“I missed you,” she whispered. “I don’t ever want to miss you that much again.”
“I missed you, too.” He leaned forward, kissed her forehead. “I hated sitting in the same room and feeling as though you were miles away from me.”
“I’m not miles away now,” she said, her gentle smile slanting into something slightly saucy, her silky foot stroking against his leg. They still had more to discuss, some small voice in his mind reminded him—he needed to prove his trust to her—but even the best intentions could be thwarted by an enticing, naked wife.
He rolled her onto her back in a single smooth motion, bracing himself on his elbows as he bent over her, smiling down into her eyes.
“And thank God for that.”
Sixteen
It was some indeterminate amount of time later that the distant sound of a clock tolling the hour brought them back to themselves.
“Good lord!” Violet said, sitting up all at once. “I’m supposed to be having tea with my mother in half an hour!”
“Send her a note saying you’ve taken ill,” James said, making no move to budge from his recumbent position. His arms were crossed behind his head, the sheet bunched at his waist, and Violet spent a silent moment casting an appreciative glance at the abdominal muscles on display.
After a moment’s admiration, however, she shook her head sadly. “It won’t do. She’ll only make a fuss and I shall never be rid of her. It’s better to go see her now.” She slid her feet to the floor. “And you need to go, too, unless you wish to give Price an awful shock. I hate to think what the sight of you in all your naked glory should do to her delicate sensibilities.”
“Price has nothing like delicate sensibilities,” James grumbled. “She is employed by you, after all.” But nonetheless, he rose, collected his garments from the various spots on the floor in which they had landed in his rather hasty attempt to disrobe, and, after placing one last lingering kiss upon Violet’s lips, departed through her dressing room to his own set of rooms.
Half an hour later, Violet was on her way down the stairs, Price’s rather choice remarks about ladies who inexplicably found their hair in disarray in the middle of the afternoon ringing in her ears. She was only a quarter of the way down the staircase, however, when Wooton opened the front door to reveal Jeremy standing on the steps.