Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (10 page)

She knew he was teasing. That in truth, he would probably heal quickly. But the specter of infection lingered over all wounds. And once a cut went foul, there was little anyone could do.

“Grant,” she whispered, worry in the word.

His expression immediately sobered. “I was only teasing.” Then he huffed loudly. “Keep your kisses if it makes you look so tragic.”

“Terribly tragic!” she shot back. But then she leaned over, bracing her arm on the far side of his head. Their faces were a foot apart. “You’re horribly ugly, you know. I shall have to do this with my eyes closed.”

“It’s the only respectable way anyway. Imagine trying to keep them open. You’d be cross-eyed and staring at my ear.”

“Well, your ear isn’t that hideous. I suppose I could look at it if I had to.”

“Don’t risk it,” he said in a terribly serious voice. “You never know what imperfection might appear, then you would come away with a sudden horror of ears. And those, my dear, you can’t avoid no matter what you do. Everyone has them.”

“Very true,” she said as she lowered closer to his lips. “I suppose I shall just have to close my eyes then.”

He reached up, his fingers slowly winding behind her neck, massaging gently before slipping into her hair. She’d kept the style simple, pinning up the sides, while the rest curled lazily down her back. Her locks were rather short anyway, and so she thought the look acceptable.

Apparently, he found it very acceptable because his hand slipped upward to cup the back of her head. He didn’t pull her down, but he coaxed her with his fingertips. And his lips teased her with his nearness. But what really caught her were his eyes. Dark brown with flecks of gold. They called to her. It wasn’t the gold. That was more an accent, a lightness that made the dark brown all the richer. She sunk into the fine mink of those eyes, felt them surround her and hold her safe. How odd to feel as if his eyes held her safe, but they did.

Then she touched her lips to his. Her eyes drifted closed. Not on purpose. Truth be told, she could stare into his eyes for years. But she wanted to experience his mouth without distraction. She wanted to enjoy the touch of his lips, the heat of his breath mixing with hers, and most of all, the thrust of his tongue against hers.

His lips were soft. That was a bit of a surprise as everything else about him was cut so lean. But the feel was exquisite—like the finest velvet—as he moved against her mouth. She thought at first that he was murmuring something, but the shift of his mouth was not so coarse as to form words. No, it felt more like a silent song in his kiss. A high tremble counterpoint to the darker, harder beat of his mouth.

She stilled against him, her breath suspended to feel more. But she could not hold herself apart for long. The temptation to join him was too strong. So she did. She brushed her lips against his. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, needing to feel his heat mix with her own.

His tongue dashed out—a strong, bold melody against her mouth. She matched it as she pressed harder against him, uninterested in the lighter notes now. She wanted the heavy beat of his thrusting tongue. He thrust, she played, and suddenly, this song was not enough.

She was a widow. She knew the orchestral dance of bodies. His mouth, her mouth, they were simply the prelude. The dance of one instrument. She pulled back, her eyes opening as she searched his. “How much does it hurt?” she rasped.

He blinked, a frown pulling his face tight. “No pain,” he whispered. Then his eyes blazed darker, his meaning scandalous. “Just fullness, Irene.”

She swallowed. “And I am so empty.”

She knew what she was asking, knew that what she wanted was immoral. But it had been so long, and she had spent much too long as a shell of a woman.

“Do you want…” He cut off his words with a swallow. “Be sure, Irene. Do you want… me?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate. Then when he searched her face, she repeated herself. “Yes, Grant. Please.”

His face split into a sudden grin, even as his nostrils flared, and his eyes became dark with hunger. But he didn’t move. “I’ve dreamed of this, you know.”

“What?”

“Every night since we danced in that inn, I have thought of you in my bed.”

Her lips curved, flattered. A little relieved as well because she had spent a few nights in fantasies of him. “Those aren’t exactly dreams,” she said.

He released a low rumble. “Oh yes, they were. You tormented my sleep.”

She pulled back, not really intending to go anywhere. “Well, if you think it torment.”

He tightened his grip on her head, his other hand wending around her back. “I think you owe me another kiss, Irene.”

She arched her brow and started to lean down, but this time his tightened fingers held her back. “Not so fast,” he said.

“Grant?”

His grin widened. “I get to pick the where of that kiss.”

“You do?” she asked.

“I do.” And then he slowly—firmly—rolled her down onto the bed.

Grant did not love music. He didn’t hate it, of course, but his soul loved the things he saw. The soaring architecture of a building. The intricate pattern woven into fabric. And the beautiful lines of a woman. He adored the arch of a cheek, echoed in the line of a brow. He worshipped the fullness of a woman’s mouth, as puckered and ripe as what glistened between her thighs.

So it was disconcerting when he heard music as he looked at Irene. At first he thought it a new manifestation of his madness, but this song was
her
, and that did not feel insane. It felt beautiful. And if he were going insane, then he did not care. So he focused on her as she lay beneath him, her eyes filled with promise, her mouth red and plump in invitation. He felt her breath—soft, sweet gasps—as he slowly stroked a hand over her breasts. But what he heard was a rapid staccato of a melody, high and tight and much too fast.

To counter that sound, he stroked in long, languid caresses. Her ballgown was soft as it shaped her breasts, but it was not nearly the whisper of her skin. Like one long note, he traced from her neck across her shoulders, and down to circle that ruby of a nipple. Then he remembered he wanted to trace that same path with his lips and tongue. So he leaned down, edging light nips and swirling notes along the melody of her neck and chest. Her breath hitched, adding its own accent to what he did. And he felt her clutch his arms and shift her legs restlessly.

Her heartbeat fluttered against his lips, and her gasps became urgent. But it was too quick—the movements of her pelvis beneath him too urgent. He was mesmerized by the sounds he heard as he looked at her, the song of their exploration. But she was rushing things, and he did not like it. So he pulled back, gentling her with his fingertips along the sweep of her neck.

“Easy, easy.”

She looked at him, her expression almost frenzied. “Mr. Grant,” she panted, desperation in the sound.

It was that name that shocked him. He had been called Mr. Grant for five years now, but it had been like five years in a prison. There had been no pleasure, no relaxation in that time. Only work, the endless march of numbers and fabric. Sturdy fabric, coarse fabric, and the beautiful designs of his luxury goods. The name Mr. Grant fit with work and textiles.

That this woman with her soft pants and white skin could whisper that name in the midst of her passion was like a ray of sunlight patterned across the mill floor. A reminder of beauty, a whisper of inspiration, and something that he’d learned to cherish as the gift from God that it was.

Except she was more than a ray of light. She was a whole rainbow of sound and beauty, and it was all given to Mr. Grant. Not just Grant, the spoiled aristocrat who’d once taken women with a careless abandon, but to Mr. Grant, the worker. The gift left him breathless.

At his silence, she began to frown. “Is it your side? Are you in pain?”

Yes. No.
How to explain? “No pain,” he finally rasped out. “I just… please, this is so new.”

She blinked, obviously startled. “But I thought… I mean, I assumed…”

He flashed a rueful smile. “Sex is not new, Irene. It is you. So fresh…” He shook his head. “I have no words.”

She touched his cheek. “I am certainly not fresh or new. I am not a virgin, you know. You needn’t be careful with me.”

That would be like going rough with a perfect rose. He would not do it. It offended him down to his soul. But he didn’t know how to say that, especially since his logical side pointed out that he had often enjoyed rough bed sport. Perhaps she was one such woman. But he couldn’t do it. Not now. And so he said something else, hoping to satisfy them both.

He trailed his fingers along the edge of her bodice, watching as her skin blossomed pink under his touch. “May I take this off you? Please, may I undress you?”

She frowned down at herself, obviously a little surprised. “Are you sure you are up to it? I don’t wish to cause you pain.”

He smiled with a slow, hungry expression that he knew she’d understand. “I am very up for it.”

She flushed at his double entendre while he silently cursed himself. That had been a crude joke, the note discordant. Grant had adored such bad witticisms, but not Mr. Grant, who had understood that any bastard could be crude. It was a true man who gave respect by being refined.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t offended.”

“I was. By myself. And you deserve better.”

Her lips curved at that. “I assure you, I have heard much worse almost from the cradle. My father enjoyed throwing house parties, and the conversation was decidedly improper.”

Grant grimaced. “You should not have been exposed to that.”

She shrugged. “But I was, and I don’t mind—”

“I mind,” he emphasized as he rolled off her. Then he pulled her up. She went willingly, her lips caught between her teeth in uncertainty. He touched her cheek. “Are you changing your mind? We don’t need to—”

“Oh no!” she gasped. Then her face flamed, and her hands flew to her cheeks. She looked away. “You must think me a wanton, but…” Her voice faded away as she looked at the floor.

“But what? Irene, what we are about to do requires plain speaking beforehand.”

At his encouragement, she dropped her hands from his face. “It has been years since anyone touched me,” she said softly. “Skin on skin—not through gloves or fabric. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until we danced in the inn.”

He thought back. There had been mounds of fabric between them. Not only clothing, but a bolt of wool wrapped around her.

“Our hands,” she whispered. “I’d taken off my gloves, and you weren’t wearing any.”

So small a thing, and yet she remembered it. He was amazed. So he reached out and stroked again across her bodice. One calloused finger as he meandered a slow pattern on her flesh.

Her mouth opened on a gasp, and she shivered. “It’s the most amazing thing,” she whispered.

“So let us go slowly. Enjoy every second.”

She bit her lip. “It’s so overwhelming. I’m afraid I shall go mad.”

He smiled, his eyes still watching his finger and the flush to her skin. “One can get used to madness.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

He looked at her, replaying his own words in his head. “What? Oh, never mind.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that aloud. Then he slowly turned her around so he could release the buttons of her gown. “I am addled by you.”

He saw the goose bumps on her flesh as he touched the skin above her buttons. On impulse, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her there. This time her sigh came to him as a slower note, an oboe of a sound, rich and woody.

“You want to do this, don’t you?” he whispered against her skin. “You choose this?”

She nodded. “Yes. I didn’t plan this night, but now that it’s here?” She twisted enough to look in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he echoed. No triumph in the word. Just pure happiness, because for Grant, this was a miracle.

So he applied himself to her buttons. He kissed down her back, slipping each one free then anointing the revealed skin with his tongue. And as he slipped her gown off her shoulders, there was so much more to adore. Until he came to her stays.

“Stand,” he said hoarsely. “Let me release you.”

She did without objection, though she smiled. “You make it sound like I’ve been in prison.”

He peeled the gown from her lower body. Years ago, he would have dropped the thing on the floor, but he knew too much of dresses now. He held it so she stepped out of the beautiful thing and then neatly set it aside.

She stood in short corset and shift, and beneath them, stockings and shoes. He stood, barely caring about the pain in his side. He saw her: tall, elegant, with porcelain skin tinted rose.

“What do you see?” she asked. “You are looking so intently.”

“I see a song,” he answered.

“A what?”

“A song,” he said as he stepped up to her. “I cannot explain it, but you make me see music.” He touched the fluttering pulse at her throat. “This is a flute’s trill.” He stepped close to kiss that pulse. “Your shoulders are the strength of the melody—steady notes, perfectly balanced.” He quickly undid the knots of her stays. As they released, he heard her inhale deeply, her torso lifting and expanding like the flow of a harp—up and down—a waterfall of sound.

“So poetic,” she whispered.

“Never before.”

She lifted her arms as he tossed aside the corset. Then before she could think about it, he lifted the shift up and away. She stood before him in nothing but her stockings and shoes. He’d moved behind her, and now his hands circled her narrow waist, slowly drawing her against his naked chest.

Skin to skin, heat to heat. He thought he heard a clash of cymbals the instant they touched. She cried out, and he bent his head—half to hear the sound better, half to nuzzle beneath her ear. Even her scent made sounds. Subtle, earthy sounds. Percussion. He felt the vibrations in his entire soul.

“I don’t hear music,” he said to himself, still struggling with the incredible sounds she engendered in his mind. “Not like this. Not from touching a woman.” He pressed his temple to hers, his hands stroking across her belly, while her abdomen trembled in a waterfall of notes.

She leaned back into him, raising her arms to drape them behind her. She touched his hair, his shoulders. Whatever she could reach. And as she stretched against him, he curled about her. His cock thumped in a steady heartbeat, pulsing for her. His hands strummed her skin—belly, ribs, breasts. Light touches, feathery strokes, and she seemed to hum in response. His head dropped forward, unable to resist tasting her sound, nipping an accent wherever he could touch.

Then he held her breasts, his hands slowly brushing inward to her nipples. She stilled in his arms, her breath suspended, her spine half arched. She was waiting for him to mold her breasts as only a man can. She was of average size, her nipples tight and high. But as he squeezed, she let out a series of sweet gasps. And the more her breath hitched—like the light tap of a triangle—the slower and firmer his stroke.

Until he found her peaks. Hard and tight, her nipples were beads to roll and twist. She cried out as he took them, and her spine rolled against him as he played. Such tiny points, but one touch, and her whole body resonated with sound.

“Oh my!” she cried. “Oh! Oh!”

It was with some shock that he realized she had reached her fulfillment from nipple play alone. Never had he done such a thing to a woman. And never had a woman’s cries sounded like the voice of angels. It was ridiculous! She was just a woman, but the sounds in his head as she shivered in his arms were of such glory he could not comprehend it.

“My God,” he whispered, as he watched her writhe in the mirror. “My God.”

He held her until she sagged against him. Until the crashing booms in his head faded to the soft song of a lute barely played. And then, while she was still boneless in his arms, he reached down and swept her off her feet.

“Grant?” she said in surprise.

He lay her gently down on the bed. Head first, settled lightly on the pillow. Back and hips, then all that long, glorious expanse of legs still encased in her stockings.

“Shh,” he said, knowing that awe still infused his voice. “I have not finished undressing you yet.”

She blinked, but it did little to dispel the languid happiness in her eyes. “You don’t need to maid for me,” she said. “Come up on the bed. I know you haven’t… I mean… I’m sorry I was so quick.”

He flashed her a grin. “Be as quick as you like as often as you like.”

“But—”

“Hush,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her flushed and pert nipple. “I am not even remotely done.”