The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
would accept him, if her feelings matched his in spite of the impossibilities that lay beyond these moments.
The Vienna post, the duty he must do to attain it, and whatever else he hid behind his smiles and blue gaze had existed before this and they would exist after this. She would not worry over what she couldn’t change. Instead, she would be thankful she was walking into this with eyes wide open. She would not be ambushed by reality on the other side of midnight. If there could only be now, then so be it. She would take now over never any night.
Claire rose from the bed, the decision made before her bare feet touched the cool floor. She crossed the room to him, arms encircling his neck with wondrous ease, her lips feathering his mouth. ‘Yes, Jonathon, I will have you.’ The pleasure, the pain, she would have all of it, for as long as it lasted.
His mouth was on her then, hard and fierce in its claiming. He tasted of victory and exultant relief. A thrill ran through her. He had wanted this badly. She could feel the tension of his body uncoil beneath her hands, only to be replaced with a new sort of anticipation. The afternoon’s passion surged back in force between them. It would be temptingly easy to rush this, to pick up where they’d left off before being expelled from the bookshop, instead of savouring the opportunity to start from the beginning once more. But Jonathon would not be rushed.
He slowed the tempo of their kiss, cradling the nape of her neck in the cup of his hand, the press of his mouth lingering and languorous, their bodies moving into one another as the kiss deepened. He was all heat and hard planes against her. She revelled in the feel of him through the thin fabric of her night rail. This was so much better than feeling him through the limitations of gowns and undergarments. Perhaps she could make it even better for him.
She broke the kiss for a moment, her eyes meeting his as her hands worked the knot of his cravat until the cloth came loose. She gave him a coy smile. ‘You are wearing too many clothes.’
He gave a sly grin in return. ‘What else do you plan to divest me of?’
She smoothed the shoulders of his dark coat and pretended to contemplate the question. ‘Definitely this. It must go at once. The waistcoat, too.’ She pushed the coat back and he helped remove it but she didn’t miss the ripped seam. ‘Your tailor will shoot you for this.’
Jonathon’s gaze landed on her, hot and intent. ‘I’ll tell him it was worth it.’
Claire swallowed, basking in the compliment, a lump forming in her throat, blocking words. She let her fingers speak for her, slipping the buttons of his waistcoat through their holes. It was much easier to get the waistcoat off than the coat. But here she hesitated. Only trousers and shirt remained.
‘What next? Perhaps my shirt?’ came the wicked suggestion, Jonathon’s voice soft at her ear.
‘Absolutely,’ Claire answered boldly, stepping away to resume her place on the bed. ‘Why don’t you take it off for me so I can watch?’
He made her a small bow. ‘As you wish, my lady.’ But it was as he wished and he wished to play with her a bit. She saw it in the tilt of his smile, the flare of mischief in his eyes. She settled against the pillows and turned up her lamp to give the room a modicum of light. She didn’t want to miss a moment of this. He made a show of slowly removing the fasteners at his cuffs, the collar, pulling the tails of his shirt from his trousers until at last the shirt was loose.
She imagined sliding her hands beneath it and running them up the bare planes of his chest, imagined the feel of his skin against the palms of her hands. Then, he slipped the shirt off and she imagined no more. He stood before her, half-naked, his shirt tossed to a pile on the floor, hands on narrow hips, blue eyes challenging her. ‘Do you like what you see?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He was gorgeous. Fully clothed, he’d merely been handsome. The adjective hardly did this man, with his firm abdomen and sculpted chest, justice. She patted the space on the bed beside her. It was her turn to tease. ‘It’s still a bit dark in here. I can’t quite see. Come a little closer.’
He took the invitation, stretching out alongside her, his head propped in his hand. He couldn’t get much closer than this. ‘Do I please you, Claire?’
She gave a little laugh, her hand trailing across his chest in exploration and wonder. ‘How could you not? You’re beautiful.’ She raised her gaze to his, her voice an honest, quiet whisper. ‘You’ve always been beautiful to me.’ Her hand traced a fine line along his shoulder and stilled. ‘Scars and all,’ she ventured softly, the importance of the moment hitting her full force. To be naked, even partially naked with another, was to expose oneself in intimate ways. ‘Was this from the war?’
‘From the war, from my stubborn foolishness.’ She knew, as did most of London, that he’d come home wounded, dangerously so. There’d been a time when it had not been clear he would live. But knowing it was not the same as seeing it.
She retraced the line with her hand, this time noting how close the scar was to his chest. A scant few inches had separated life from death. He had healed well, but the scar would be with him always. ‘It looks painful.’
‘Terribly. Although I’m told under normal circumstances it would have been a fairly minor wound. The bullet didn’t exit. Still, it could have been pulled out and I could have been stitched up. But the bullet I was shot with was rusty. That makes it poisonous all on its own. A horrible infection followed.’ Jonathon tried to laugh, not wanting to inflict that horror on Claire. ‘Fortunately, I don’t remember it. I was delirious, out of my head with fever once the infection truly set in.’
‘That was when they sent you home?’ Her question was quiet.
‘I don’t remember much of that either. I am told there was some concern I wouldn’t make it home. I raved in French the whole trip back.’ He took her hand away from the scar and raised it to his lips. ‘I don’t want to talk about the war tonight, Claire.’ Or any night, Claire thought with a flash of intuition. As a rule, people shied away from topics that were unpleasant and Jonathon took great pains to always be pleasant. There were secrets there, perhaps even nightmares. But he was right, tonight was for other things.
He reached for her and she went easily, letting him draw her flush against him so that their lengths matched. His mouth found hers perhaps as much to start the pleasure as to stop the words, the questions. His hand slid beneath her night rail, warm against her leg, the fabric rucking up as his hand progressed up her thigh. He murmured against the column of her neck, ‘You are beautiful, too, Claire. Far too beautiful for the likes of me.’
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Such flattery, Jonathon.’ But for the night she would believe it. He made her feel beautiful, wanted, with his words, with his touch. His fingers skimmed the place between her thighs and her body wept with delight and with knowledge. This was what he’d meant to do in the bookshop, to touch her like this, to conjure this sensation from her. She was glad now the shopkeeper had caught them. She wanted to savour the sensations, wanted to linger over the pleasure.
He touched her again. This time his stroke was insistent, no mere skimming graze, and her body seemed to leap to life. ‘Mmm...’ A slow moan escaped her lips, her legs parted, following the logic that surely more access meant more pleasure. She was not wrong. Jonathon cupped her mons, stroked her, building a slow, hot fire within and all the while she felt her core weeping, preparing for something more. Warmth pooled in her low and potent, waiting to be loosed. Her hips arched upwards, seeking the ‘more’. Jonathon’s fingers parted her, exposed her and she gasped at the intimate intrusion—shocking and exquisite in its boldness. His thumb teased the tiny bean hidden within and her body went wild with a thousand sensations, one word chorusing in her mind again, again, again!
With each pass, each stroke, she soared, she wept until she could feel her own slickness against Jonathon’s hand. The pleasure became too much. Her body pressed into Jonathon’s hand, her body crying with contradictions, wanting more and yet wanting release. It was too much. It was not enough. Jonathon knew. Each stroke brought her closer to whatever she sought until she was there at last. Soaring, falling, shattering,