Stormswept (32 page)

He wanted to tear the clothes off her, to devour those luscious breasts as he thrust into her delectable body over and over and . . .

Mustn’t do that . . . mustn’t scare her. Must make her want me. Like she used to.

He skimmed his hands over her gown, unlacing and unpinning what he could, desperate to have her naked so he could make her desire him. But it had been too damned long since he’d undressed her, and she was wearing far too many clothes. Despite what he’d told her, he’d been celibate since he’d left her. No one had been able to tempt him.

Except Juliana, and he was ready to explode with wanting her. He fumbled with her corset laces, cursing when he couldn’t unknot them.

Juliana was touched by his ineptness. Perversely, it made her desire him more. “Let me,” she whispered and worked loose the knots of her front-laced corset.

That she felt almost as much urgency as he terrified her. After his fury, she didn’t want to need him so much.

“Take it off,” he said hoarsely as she undid the last knot.

A shiver passed through her, for his words echoed those
of their first night together after his return. Yet as he lifted his hands to drag the shift and corset down her with aching slowness, she knew this wasn’t at all like that night.

His eyes were still that intense blue, raking hotly over her bared breasts and belly, and his brow was still furrowed with concentration. But when he grazed his fingers over her skin, it was with a gentleness near to reverence. “How can you have grown only more lovely in six years?”

He’d never denied that he found her attractive. Still, his words gratified her female urge to be admired, and she smiled in feline satisfaction.

With a scorching look, he dragged his finger down to the waistband of her petticoat.

“Take the rest of it off,” he said in a husky voice. “I want to see all of you.”

She started to obey, then paused. “Only if you remove your waistcoat.”

He quickly acquiesced, going one step further to remove his shirt.

“Well?” He tugged at the waistband. “I’m waiting, my darling.”

Suddenly shy, she removed everything else, hiding her blushing face from him as her shift slid to the floor last, leaving her naked.

She heard his quick indrawn breath, felt the heat of his gaze on her. Then he caught her up in his arms and strode to the sofa. Laying her down, he knelt beside her. She swallowed when she saw the desire flaming in his eyes.

He ran his thumb over her lips. “You have nothing to fear from me. I want only to please you.”

“And not yourself?”

“Aye, and that, too. Surely you won’t deny me that. I’ve spent too many nights longing to touch your ‘sweet body that from faith can guile.’ ”

She recognized the lines from Robin Ddu’s poem. “Oh, unfair. You know I can’t resist when you quote poetry to me.”

His low chuckle echoed down deep inside her. “I know.” He kissed her forehead. “ ‘Your brow like a daisy bright.’ ” He swept her hair off her shoulder to fan out on the upholstery. “ ‘Your hair like a tongue of gold.’ ”

Then he kissed her neck, before running his tongue down the slope of her breast to curl it about her nipple. “ ‘Your throat’s upright growth, / Your breasts, full spheres both.’ ”

He tugged at her nipple with his teeth, shooting such sparks through her that she whimpered and clutched his shoulders. His mouth inched lower as he trailed his tongue in a line down her belly to her navel, dipping it there before sliding lower.

“Your belly like a ripened peach,” he said, then sucked the skin lightly into his mouth, making her squirm beneath him.

“Those aren’t . . . Ddu’s words,” she choked out as his lips brushed the edges of her silky triangle of hair.

“Nay, those are mine.” He skirted the aching place between her legs to press a kiss to her thigh. “Your thighs smooth as polished beech.”

“That’s enough,” she said as his tongue spiraled higher and higher toward the spot no man had ever kissed.

“Poetry?” he rasped. “Or this?”

Then using his fingers to part the delicate folds of skin, he darted his tongue over the nub he found there, and she thought she’d die.

It was like being stroked by lightning, courted by sunshine, and caressed by moonlight all at once. The heat made her buck beneath him, trying to get more, yet afraid she’d never get enough to satiate the tension he was building with each flick of his tongue.

He shifted to crouch over the sofa, his tongue licking up at her like flame, laving her, teasing her. She thrust against his hot mouth, wanting something she couldn’t fathom, feeling the tension lengthen and stretch and grow tauter by the second.

“Oh . . . Rhys . . . Rhys . . .”

His mouth suddenly left her and she moaned, undulating against the sofa in a fruitless attempt to ease her craving.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he ground out as he tore off his breeches and drawers.

Suddenly, she was looking at his erect shaft.

She stared at it in blatant fascination. On her first night with him, she’d been too shy to actually look at the part of him that had thrust up inside her. But age had made her curious.

Pushing up onto one elbow, she reached out to stroke the smooth skin. When he groaned and thrust against her hand, she encircled him with her fingers. With a curse, he clasped her wrist.

“If you touch me like that, I’ll explode.” Then he climbed on top of her. “And I want to explode inside you.”

She grew warm again. That was what she wanted. Rhys inside her.

He nudged her legs apart. “I need you, Juliana. God, how I need you.”

She caught her breath. The first time they’d made love, he’d said,
I love you.

Then he eased into her, making her forget everything but the present. “Christ, you’re tight as a virgin.” Satisfaction flashed across his face. “Tight as that first time . . .”

“You’ve been the only one to touch me.” She moaned, half in distress, half in pleasure when he began to move in slow, enticing strokes.

“And I will always be the only one to touch you,” he vowed, his face darkening as he quickened his thrusts. “Oh God . . . Juliana . . . it’s been so long.”

The sense of invasion began to lessen as his movements drew the silken tension taut in her again. She strained against him, clutching his behind to anchor him between her thighs. She felt his muscles flex as he lunged against her, inside her, filling her so fully she cried out with the thrill of it.

“That’s it, my darling.” He plunged to the very heart of her. “If you only knew how incredible you feel.”

She knew how incredible
he
felt, driving into her like thunder, bringing her closer to the dark explosion lying in wait for her. Each time their bodies slammed together, she went a little insane, twisting beneath him as she tried to seal herself more to him.

He bent to kiss her mouth, stabbing his tongue in perfect rhythm with the thrusts of his hips. She met every kiss
with her own wild hunger. She wanted to devour him, to trap him in her heart so he could never doubt her again.

The words
I love you
burned the back of her throat, but pride kept her silent. Instead she yielded her body completely to him, sure that one day she’d be able to give him the words, too.

When the explosion finally hit, she wasn’t prepared for the pure, white heat of it . . . the power that hurtled through her, shattering all her control. She gasped and surged up, feeling her body pulse against his as the force shuddered through her, in her, around her.

“
Cariad! 
” He drove into her one last time. His body convulsed and he spilled his seed inside her. “By thunder, you’re mine . . . all mine . . .”

Muttering Welsh endearments, he collapsed atop her to bury his face in her neck. She felt spent, drained of both will and strength. There was something deeply satisfying about being in his arms, knowing that she’d just pleasured him and found her own enjoyment. His weight upon her contented her.

After several moments of lying there with limbs entangled as their heartbeats slowed, Rhys kissed her jaw. “Now that, my darling, was the way to tame a monster.”

“Mmm.” She skimmed her fingers down his back. “I shall have to try it more often.”

A mischievous smile crossed his lips. “A great deal more often. In fact . . .” He pushed up against her.

Good Lord, he was growing hard again. “Is it normal for a man to be lusty again so soon after lovemaking?”

His gaze burned into hers. “Six years is a long time.
And contrary to those ugly words I said to you our first night together after my return, you were the only woman I wanted in all that time. The only woman I craved.”

Something unknotted inside her at his confession. It had driven her mad, thinking of all the women who must have pleasured him in America.

“So I have all that hunger for you stored up inside. And it’ll take me at least six more years to reduce it to a manageable level.” He slid off her and held out his hand. “But what I wish to do with you requires a more comfortable setting. Let’s continue this in our bedchamber. We’ve got all day, and all night, and I intend to use every minute of it.”

The thought of spending the day in bed with Rhys made her heart pound all over again. Taking his hand, she rose from the sofa.

They drew on a minimum of clothing between quick kisses. When they left the salon, no one was around, but as soon as they took a few steps, Mrs. Roberts rushed up the stairs. She’d obviously been waiting in the hall below.

“Milady, are you all right?” the housekeeper asked in alarm as she noted Juliana’s dishabille.

“I’m fine.” She couldn’t repress the lilt in her voice as she gazed up at Rhys. “Go back to the kitchen. Everything is fine.”

The housekeeper hesitated as Rhys and Juliana swept past. As they reached their bedchamber, Juliana paused. “Oh, and Mrs. Roberts, tell the servants I will personally dismiss anyone who ventures up here in the next few hours.”

Rhys chuckled as he drew her into their room. “Aren’t
you worried about what the servants will think, my lady wife?”

“They’ll think I’ve decided to share a bed with my husband,” she said, echoing his words of a few days past. “I should hope they’d realize that.”

With a crow of triumph, he caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

Three things are reckoned wealth:

A woman—sunshine—health—

And in the heaven’s dower

(Save God) a maid’s the flower.

—DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “THE GREY FRIAR”

J
uliana stared up at the threatening clouds. Just what they didn’t need for the harvest—a thunderstorm. She hoped that since it was near dusk, the men were close to being finished.

She ordered the footmen to hurry loading the carts with the feast that the farmers expected the squire to provide as reward for their work. But her mind wasn’t on that.

In the two weeks since Rhys had carried her into their bedchamber, much had changed between them. True to his word, Rhys had treated her as his wife from that moment. He’d given her all the freedom and privileges a wife deserved and more, for he’d made her his equal partner in running the estate.

Their days were busy and full. She usually rose before Rhys and attended to breakfast. Then they went their separate
ways, having found the tasks that suited them best and appropriated them accordingly. Sometimes they lunched together, sometimes not. And they took the occasional ride in the late afternoon.

It wasn’t until evening that they truly had time for themselves. Dinner was leisurely. They played backgammon or chess. Sometimes they read. And afterward . . .

Her cheeks flushed as she helped a footman slide a large pan on top of another and secure it in place. Some nights Rhys peeled her gown slowly from her, lavishing kisses over every inch he bared, then lingering over her body for what seemed like hours as he brought her to the heights of pleasure. Other nights, they tore off each other’s clothes and came together like animals, writhing and straining in their haste.

She’d grown to know every inch of him . . . every scar, blemish, and muscle. She loved how he clutched his pillow in sleep, how he stretched his legs and groaned when he awoke, then opened his eyes with a slow smile meant only for her. She loved everything about him.

She loved
him
, period.

A splinter pricked her finger, and with a frown she sucked off the drop of blood. She still didn’t know how he felt about her. He often said that he needed her. That he desired her. But never that he loved her.

It wouldn’t have bothered her so much, if not for one thing—they never spoke of what had happened years ago. The one time she’d brought it up, he’d refused to discuss it. He’d insisted upon putting the past behind him; he’d said it didn’t matter what had happened.

But it did. She could feel it in the wary way he sometimes looked at her, in the sudden shuttering of his expression whenever his impressment was mentioned. He still couldn’t bring himself to trust her. Or love her.

She helped a footman spread an oilcloth over the cart. She
had
made progress with her husband. When she’d accidentally mentioned Stephen yesterday, he hadn’t exploded or baited her with questions about Lord Devon’s courtship of her. And in time—