“Of me?”
“Of intimacy.” She swallowed. “I need it to be different than it was with him.”
She killed it. She ruined it, she brought the shadow of her ex-husband into the bedroom, and now Richard would have the burden of being different from him without knowing what it was like. It was unfair and selfish. He would walk away from her.
“Do you want me?” Richard asked.
“Yes.” He had no idea how much.
Richard pulled off his tunic. Underneath, his body rippled with strong, carved muscle, his bronzed skin lightened with old scars. She watched mute as he took off his shoes. His pants followed. He was aroused.
Oh gods, he was so aroused.
Richard sat on the bed, leaned against the carved wooden headboard, and rested his muscular arms on its top edge. His spare, hard body looked almost decadent against the sheets.
“Come,” he invited.
She stared at him, her eyes wide.
“You want it different. Come, make it different.”
“Me?”
“You.”
He was giving her control. She wasn’t sure what to do with it.
She would do something.
Charlotte stripped, shook her head, letting her blond hair fall over her in a cloud, and sat on the bed.
He was looking at her with such unrestrained, almost feral need, that she blushed. All of his brakes were gone. This was Richard without manners, without proper etiquette, without restraint. She thought he was ice. She had no idea he was fire.
The awkwardness fled, leaving sheer excitement.
“What can I do?” she asked him.
“Anything you wish.”
Anything she wished. She raised her hand and touched his chest, drawing her fingers along the narrow hollow between the hard panes of his pectoral muscles. He strained, his body tightening under her touch, but kept his hands on the headboard. She felt so free and . . . wanton. Yes. That was the word.
Charlotte slid her fingers lower, caressing the hard bulges of his abdominal muscles, sliding her hand lower, past his navel, tracing the long line of dark hair pointing down.
“Richard?”
His voice was strained. “Yes?”
“How good is your control?”
“How good do you need it to be?” His voice sounded strained. His biceps bulged as he gripped the headboard.
“Can you keep your hands on that headboard?”
“If you want me to, yes.”
She touched the smooth head of his shaft, and he flexed in response, raising himself slightly off the covers.
“Let’s find out,” she whispered.
She stroked the hard length of him and lowered her head to kiss his neck. The rasp of his stubble scratched her tongue. She tasted a hint of sweat and soap. He groaned. She smiled and kissed him again, his lips, his chest, running her tongue over his nipples, over his hard stomach. An insistent liquid heat spread between her legs. She really could do anything. He would let her. She had complete control. Her excitement spiked.
She trailed a line down from his navel with the tip of her tongue, feeling the muscles tense, like hardened steel under the skin.
She slipped his shaft into her mouth.
His back arched, as he flexed his arms, lifting himself and her. The headboard creaked.
She licked him, testing his discipline. His body shuddered. He groaned again. “You may not want to . . . do . . . that. It’s been a while for me.”
“For me, too.” She straddled him, her breasts inches from his lips. She felt him press between her legs. He was looking at her, his gaze like a heated caress. Everything about him was so unbelievably erotic, from his strong muscular body, to the way his skin, warmed by the fire, burned under her touch, to the way he looked at her.
She tilted her hips. The hot hard length of him slid inside her in a rush of pleasure, stretching her from the inside. Charlotte gasped, arching her back, feeling the full extent of him inside her. She felt tight, but flexible, pliant, warm, and so impatient for more.
“Gods, I want you,” he growled.
She began to rock forward, sliding over him. It felt like heaven, but she wanted more.
“Touch me now,” she whispered. “Please.”
He pushed off the bed, grasping her hips, grinding up, deeper into her. His mouth found her breast, then her nipple, still cool from the shower. His tongue slid over it, and she tightened in response, the rush of sensation so intense it almost hurt. He sucked on her, and she shivered atop him, bending back, riding him faster. Her joints turned liquid.
He slipped his hand down between her legs and touched the sensitive knot of nerves there. Bliss cascaded through her.
“Please,” she moaned. “Please.”
He kept caressing her, his fingers skillful, adding just the right amount of pressure, matching her movement. The combined sensation overwhelmed her, lifting her higher and higher. Her head swam, but she felt every moment, every caress, as she was hovering on the precipice.
Her breath was coming in quick whimpers. His body was so hard under her, each muscle taut with strain. He let out a masculine half growl, born of pure lust. It triggered some deep feminine instinct inside her that told her his pleasure was as intense as hers.
And then the waves of euphoria crested inside her, met, and she fell over the cliff. All the strength went out of her spine. She slumped forward, her eyes wide, lost in erotic bliss.
He flipped her back onto the covers. She kissed him, running her hands down his back. He pinned her down, pretending to keep her from moving, and looked at her, her mouth, her breasts, the swell of her hips. There was something so deeply gratifying in the look of male satisfaction on his face. She realized that he must’ve wanted her for a long time, and now he had finally gotten her.
“I want you,” she whispered.
“Are you mine, Charlotte?”
“Yes.”
“You should’ve said no. Now you’re mine, and I won’t let you go.”
He thrust into her, building to a smooth, rapid rhythm. She melted, matching his thrusts, once again desperate for that peak of pleasure. She didn’t close her eyes. She watched his face, drinking in every moment of his pleasure. He kept thrusting, his whole body taut with tension, the muscles of his back strong like hard cables under her fingers. He reveled in her. Moments later, she climaxed again, the aftershocks of an orgasm rocking her. His body went hard, a tremor gripped him, and he emptied himself into her with a satisfied male groan.
She held on to him, not wanting to let go. He turned, shifting his weight onto the bed, and they lay wrapped in each other. She felt so happy, so heartbreakingly happy.
“Can it be like this again?” she asked.
“It can be however you want it to be,” he told her, and kissed her lips.
She closed her eyes and smiled.
* * *
“YOU never told me why you do this. Why you went after the slavers.”
Richard turned his head and looked at her. Charlotte lay on her stomach on the covers, still naked and completely his. That glorious hair spilled over her back like a silken waterfall. Her face, neck, and arms had a tan, but her breasts and the swell of her butt were pale, and the intimate bare stretch of that pale skin seemed intensely sexual. She lay next to him, content, perhaps even happy, completely at ease, looking at him with her silver eyes. Like sunlight shining through the rain, he thought.
Mmm. Mine. My Charlotte.
He’d made her happy, he’d made her moan and ask for more of him. If it was at all in his power, he would make it so it would always be like this.
It could always be like this, a quiet voice whispered inside him. He could take her with him and disappear. Just walk away. Nobody would blame him. Nobody but the ghosts in his memories.
Richard reached over and stroked her shoulder.
“Do you remember the girl at the Camarine Mansion? The one who met us?”
“You look alike. Is she your daughter?”
“She’s my niece. Her name is Sophie.”
“The Sophie? The one you were saving when you were delirious?”
He nodded. “My grandparents had several children. My father was the oldest son, and Gustave, my uncle, was the second oldest. Our family was involved in a feud. In the Mire, everyone feuds with somebody. Our feud was old, with deep roots.”
“Is that why your father was shot in the market?”
“Yes. I was too young to take care of the family, still a child by the Mire’s standards, and Gustave was a much better fit. He became the head of our clan. He had two daughters, Cerise, who is now married to Earl Camarine’s best friend, and Sophie.”
“So you’re her cousin?”
“Technically. Our relationship was always more that of an uncle and niece. I’m old enough to be her father. Gustave was often busy. One day, he had gone out and taken his wife and Cerise with him. Sophie came to see me. She wanted to take a boat down the river to Sicktree, the nearest town. Her mother’s birthday was coming up, and she wanted to sell some wine and buy her a gift.”
Telling the story was like cutting open the old wound deep inside him. He was surprised it still hurt that much, after so many years. “Celeste, my second cousin, was going with her. I didn’t see the harm in it. Celeste was a capable young woman and a good shot. In the Mire, everybody knows everybody, and our family had a dangerous reputation. Nobody except for the feuding family would dare to bother them, and our feud had cooled to a smolder. I told them to go ahead.
“About twenty minutes out, a group of slavers found them. They put a bullet into Celeste’s head. She pitched into the water, and Sophie went in after her. When Sophie broke the surface, the slavers hit her over the head with an oar and hauled her into their boat.”
Charlotte moved closer to him, wrapping her fingers around his.
“Slavers were unheard of in the Mire. The border with Louisiana is the only place they could enter, and it’s guarded too tightly. Someone on the Dukedom’s side had to have let the slavers in for that raid. We never found out who or why. The girls didn’t come home, and that evening, we went out on the river and found Celeste’s body. We began combing the swamp, but we had no idea who had taken Sophie or why.”