His tone was careful, measured, and that, more than his words, helped Sara surface from the haze of sentiment and physical pleasure clouding her judgment.
“I hadn’t considered this.” That was a lie. She had considered this, particularly since having seen Beckman at the cistern. She’d considered little else.
She lifted her face from his shoulder to peer at him in the shadows. “I am not… sophisticated, Beckman. For all the time I spent with Reynard, who was sophisticated, I still did not discover the knack of dallying.”
He kissed her nose. “I am not as proficient at it as you might think. I am attracted to you, regardless of common sense, regardless of the dictates of gentlemanly behavior, regardless of being physically exhausted. I do not think I am going to plow you out of my system, Sara Hunt.”
Somewhere in his words lurked a compliment, but Sara was too overwhelmed by what he offered to puzzle it out.
He would be lovely in bed. Sumptuous, generous, considerate, and good-humored. He’d be patient with her inexperience, tender with her sensibilities, cherishing of her body. How could she not…?
“And if I conceive a child?” Sara asked, some of the bloom wearing off her pleasurable anticipation.
He did not heave out a manly sigh of long-suffering at a question that would douse most men’s passions. He traced her hairline with the side of one thumb, a caress that beguiled with its very simplicity.
“I understand you have a dim view of marriage, Sara. My own experience with it was not encouraging, but I can provide for you and a child easily and well. You could live anywhere you pleased, in fine style, if that’s what you wanted, but I would not want…”
He paused to nuzzle at her throat.
“You would not want…?” Sara prompted, even as she angled her chin to encourage him to continue.
“I would not want to be a stranger to my own child, and I have to tell you”—he bit gently on her earlobe—“I have an illegitimate half sibling, and I cannot relish the thought of bringing bastardy down on any child of mine.”
“Nor would I relish such a prospect,” Sara managed. He was suckling at her earlobe, and God above, the sensations that evoked were strange and wonderful.
“So we’ll take precautions.” Beck left off touching his tongue to the pulse in Sara’s throat, which was fortunate for her sanity. “I will take precautions, and there will be little chance of a child.”
“If we dally.” Sara willed herself to focus on the words, not on the glorious, naughty, unlooked-for sensations he was creating.
“If we dally,” he agreed solemnly. “You’ll think on it and let me know your decision.”
“I will.” Sara sank against him and realized that big, warm hand of his was stroking her calf. In all her years of marriage and fending off the advances of Reynard’s drunken friends, no man had put his hand on that portion of her body. The caress was different, slow, soothing, and yet… His hand shouldn’t be there, and she loved that it was.
His thumb traveled over the joint of her knee, tracing the bones, bringing a melting warmth that traveled up her thigh. Sara rested against him, listening to the sensations her body was experiencing. Who would have thought a knee could be so receptive to tenderness? Who would have known an earlobe was capable of sensation at all?
Beck’s lips traced over Sara’s cheek, and she lifted her face to meet his kiss. When she raised up on her knees, the better to frame his face with her hands and kiss him back, she felt Beck’s hand on the small of her back, holding her against him.
“Let me pleasure you,” Beck whispered, his hand now stroking slowly over her thigh. “Let me touch you, Sara.”
Of course she was letting him touch her, letting him chase away the chill, the darkness, the years and years of isolation, and the self-doubt that never yielded to common sense or stern admonitions. With a start, Sara realized exactly where Beckman sought to touch her, but just as she would have drawn back to protest, he slid a hand around to cup her breast and gently close his fingers over it.
Sara groaned against his neck as heat and arousal coursed through her from that one gentle caress. “I feel…”
“Tell me.” He did it again then set up a soft, slow rhythm of pressure and release on her breast even as Sara felt the backs of his fingers brush over the curls at the apex of her sex.
“Too much,” she breathed. “This is too much.”
“Not enough,” he countered, his fingers closing around her nipple, intensifying the sensations with a more focused caress. “I want you utterly undone.”
When his thumb brushed upward, Sara whimpered with the intensity of the sensation.
“You must not,” she whispered, flinching.
“I want to put my mouth on you here,” Beck rejoined, his whisper growing hoarse as his thumb found her again. “I want to taste you and make you scream with pleasure.”
“Beckman…” Sara’s grip on his hair tightened. “I can’t stand…”
He silenced her by sealing his mouth to hers, using his tongue, his thumb, and his hand to destroy her ability to think, much less speak. She began to rock shamelessly against his hand, her body damp with desire for more of his caresses.
“I want… Beck…”
“Let me give you what you want.” His voice was a low, rasping command. “Stop fighting the pleasure, Sara. Stop fighting yourself.”
He increased the pressure and speed of his thumb, and she stifled a moan against his neck. Her hips picked up the tempo, and then she was lost, overcome with pleasure, keening softly and riding his hand with mindless determination. When her pleasure finally subsided, she was limp in his arms, panting and without words.
Utterly undone.
And despite his own unappeased need, Beck was apparently content to hold her, to stroke her hair and her back, to fit his breathing with hers and to wait for her to regain her equilibrium.
“Love?” He kissed her cheek. “Sara, sweetheart?” He patted her backside gently, and she lifted her head then tucked her nose against his neck.
“What did you do to me?”
“Petted you a bit. Cuddle up, or you’ll take cold.” He tucked her closer, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin against her hair. “Talk to me, sweetheart. A woman gone quiet in her dallying is not a reassuring prospect. Are you all right?”
Sara tried to assay her bodily state and found the results did not lend themselves to articulation. The confusion of her emotional state defied any description whatsoever.
“No. I am not all right, but I can’t be more specific.” Part of what was amiss had to with these affectionate, cherishing little touches being every bit as overwhelming as what had gone before.
“I wasn’t too rough?”
“Of course not.” She let him see her eyes, see the truth of that. “You were…” She hid her face again. “So tender.”
A silence spread, not uncomfortable. Tenderness was the furthest thing from a transgression, and yet Sara felt as discommoded as if Beck had committed some domestic misdemeanor.
“She’s nursing,” Beck said softly. Sara twisted to peer over her shoulder and saw he was right. The filly’s tail was twitching, and her mother was contentedly lipping hay while the baby fed.
“They’ll be fine now, won’t they?” This mattered terribly. If anything should happen to either the mare or the filly now, Sara would lose her mind.
“They should be.” Beck lifted Sara so she wasn’t straddling him anymore but was across his lap instead. She was full grown and well fed, and he moved her around as easily he might lift Heifer. “What about you, Sara? Are you all right?”