Him.
He was smiling, so she just went by instinct, turned to the bed and climbed onto it. His hand brushed over her bottom and she thought she heard a little groan, like a curse. She lay down slowly and then turned over.
He was there, on the edge of the bed, his eyes dark. “What would you like now, madame?”
“Kisses,” she said, stretching again. She’d discovered that if her hands were over her head her breasts looked bigger.
He crawled toward her and she couldn’t take her eyes from his. She was shivering all over. He swung a leg over hers and she was trembling so hard she was afraid he would see so she put on her French smile and said, “Monsieur?” Which happened to be the only word she could think of.
“Poppy,” he said, and then his mouth came to hers. It was like a gift. They’d kissed hundreds of times before, years’ worth of brisk kisses and longer kisses, but never like this. Never when her desire met his, when his mouth tasted like the sweetest nectar. Never when she—not he!—pulled him against her body.
“Do you want the candles snuffed?” he whispered into her neck.
Poppy wasn’t listening. She’d discovered that even running her fingers over the muscles in his back made currents of desire sing in her blood.
“The candles?”
“Hush,” she whispered. And then: “Kiss me again.”
Finally, some time later, with a gasp: “Harder!”
There were so many discoveries. That laughter was part of it all, the way Fletch laughed when he was kissing the sweet slope of her breast and she thought he might make better use of his time.
“You told me that I should tell you what I want,” she said, catching her breath. And then with a little moan, “Oh—”
Fear was part of it, too. Because Fletch was laughing and panting and afraid, all at once. Afraid it was some sort of a dream that had caught him waking, because the reality of it was so much better than all those dreams he’d had. She twisted under his hands and sobbed a little, and even screamed, but she was so Poppy at the same time. She told him one thing, and then forgot and started her own explorations. And when he tried to push her back into place so that he could minister to her, and drive her mad with desire as he planned, she got fierce and before he knew it, he found himself flat on his back with his little wife doing her best to drive every logical thought out of his body.
“I meant—I want to—” he gasped, his body arched at the feeling of her soft lips kissing him everywhere, even biting him, tasting him, exploring him.
“Quiet,” she said, and he humored her (all right, he lost his mind for a while), until finally he flipped her over and didn’t entertain any more objections. Just feasted himself on her sweet apples of breasts, memorizing the way she squealed when he used his teeth, just a little bit, the way she tasted when he kissed his way down her body.
Until neither one of them could stand it any more, when she was sobbing for his possession, and fire was raging in his legs—and yet he was afraid, afraid it wouldn’t be right, she wouldn’t like it—
Afraid—
She pulled him down onto her curvy velvet little body and said in her fiercest tone, “Fletch, if you don’t make love to me right now—” But then she arched against him and seemed to lose track of her threat.
And just like that, he forgot his idiotic worries. By some miracle, some Christmas miracle, he had their wedding night back. It was their first time.
He rubbed against her, teasing her, kissing her.
She started scolding him again, his sweet little shrewish wife, and so he finally took her face in his and kissed her while he sank into her…the first time, the best time, the only time.
Poppy looked up at him and to her horror, felt tears coming to her eyes. French seductresses didn’t cry while they were making love. She knew that. She sniffed and tried to think French thoughts, but then her own Fletch kissed the tears away and drove into her again and then she stopped worrying about tears and Gallic attitudes. It was all she could do to catch the rhythm and join the dance.
At first it felt like some sort of frustrating game in which she was behind on the count. Fletch was moving, deep and strong and steady, and she was twisting under him, trying to get that pressure, the pressure she wanted—
When suddenly she realized that she was doing it again. She was letting him lead the dance, bring everything to the table. A little arch in her back and a surge back at him and, oh God, the pressure was there, it was delicious, it was building. He made a low sound in his throat and his head fell back.
It was Fletch and Poppy. Not just Fletch, and not just her.
The tears came in earnest this time, because how could she not? Their bodies were moving in unison, hard and sweaty and real. Fletch was saying things about love too. They were hoarse, and breathless, but real.
She was moving faster, closer to him, tears in her mouth when he was kissing her no, they were kissing each other—and then faster, until she couldn’t think, until with a shuddering cry, she let go and flew into perfect, perfect pieces. Sweaty, messy, dirty pieces.
Perfect.
Chapter 49
The next night
“Christmas Eve night,” Villiers said. He could hardly hear his own voice, it was so low. He didn’t bother to think about what that meant: he knew. Every exhausted bone in his aching body knew. And accepted it. “Will you read me that story again?”
Somehow this slight girl with the long nose, this intelligent, wrathful old maid of a virgin had become the only person he wanted to see at his bedside. Earlier that day Benjamin’s widow, Harriet, had sat with him and he couldn’t remember what he wanted to say. Until he finally said he was sorry.
Harriet cried, but he didn’t know why and couldn’t summon up the strength to care.
Charlotte insulted him, and shouted at him, and looked as if she might cry, but she never did. “Did I tell you that I’m marrying you?” he murmured.
Her smile was so faint that he could hardly see it. “If you survive I might take you at your word, and marry you out of revenge. But I’m sure you’ll back away once you come to your senses.”
“You can sue for breach of promise.”
“How much do you think I’ll get?”
It was hard to think, like swimming in treacle, but so much fun to have a conversation with a joke to it, that he made himself concentrate. “I’m rich. I wouldn’t settle for less than thirty-six thousand pounds.”
“That much?”
He felt a flash of pride. “See? You should rethink your foolishness and marry me anyway.”
“Too old for me,” she snapped. “And look at you. Thin as a twig.”
He could make a lewd joke, but he couldn’t seem to think of one. They never told you that desire fled at the shadow of death. There was a lot no one told you. “Will you read me that story again?” he said.
“Which?”
“It’s His birthday to night.”
“It’s a magical night,” she said, smiling. “My grandmother used to tell me all sorts of stories about it. To night is the one time all year that the animals can talk to each other.”
“Shakespeare said the same,” Villiers observed. And then found the words in his head, like some sort of benediction: “The bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.” He paused. “Something else there, I think. And then ‘ No fairy takes, no witch has power to charm, so hallowed and so gracious is the time.’”