“So this is what passion feels like,” she whispered.
“Yes.” He withdrew nearly all the way, then slowly sank deep once again, a silken caress that ignited the same fire inside her he’d lit earlier. “And this…” Another long, slow stroke, another wet, satiny slide of his body into hers. His smooth thrusts quickened, deepened into driving jolts, each one edging her nearer to release. Her fingers bit into his shoulders, then with a startled cry, she arched beneath him as sweet, hot pulses of pleasure washed through her. She felt his entire body tighten, then, gathering her close, he buried his face in the crook where her neck and shoulders met and he poured himself into her.
When his shudders subsided, he drew in several shaky breaths, then raised his head. Cassandra’s eyes fluttered open. He looked as dazed and sated as she felt, and an aching tenderness pervaded her system.
She rested one hand against his cheek. “So that is what making love feels like.”
He turned his head to kiss her palm. “I’d have to say yes, but in truth I’ve never known it to be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Exquisite.”
He moved, as if he intended to roll off her, and she tightened her arms and legs around him. “Don’t go. The feel of you on me, in me, is, to use your word, exquisite.” Her gaze searched his, then she said softly, “My…relations with Westmore were very…impersonal. He never made love to me as you just did. He considered coming to my bed a chore and merely spilled his seed in me as quickly as he could get it over with in order to beget his heir.”
Unmistakable anger flared in his eyes. “Any man lucky enough to have you who would do less than worship you is an ass,” he stated in an emphatic voice.
Her bottom lip trembled, and he leaned down to lightly run his tongue over it. She gasped softly and pulled his head down for a slow, deep kiss. When he lifted his head, she said in a tentative voice, “The skill with which you touched me…clearly you’ve had…much experience.”
For the space of several heartbeats, he regarded her through serious eyes, then said quietly, “No one, ever, has touched my heart as you have, Cassie.”
Her fingers lightly traced his scar. “Jealousy is not an emotion I’ve had cause to experience for a very long time, but I find I’m jealous of every woman who’s ever touched you. Of every woman who will touch you in the future.” Indeed, the thought of him being with another woman like this, buried inside her, sharing confidences, cramped her insides and dulled her vision with a red haze.
“Cassie…let’s not waste what little time we have thinking of any future beyond the next few hours.”
He was right, of course. “Very well.” She stretched sinuously beneath him and smiled when he skimmed one hand down her torso. “I find the inexhaustible nature of your interest in my body very enjoyable,” she said.
“Excellent, because my interest is far from slaked.”
“I was just thinking something similar with regard to you.”
He brushed a light kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know when I’ve ever heard better news.”
She drew a long, deep, contented breath, and caught the faint whiff of roses, which prompted her to ask, “What else do you have in that satchel?”
“A blanket, a bottle of wine, and some strawberries-to combine with your dinner tray to make a picnic for us.”
Moisture dampened her eyes at his thoughtfulness. “The picnics we used to share were some of the happiest days of my life.”
“Mine as well. Then, after I feed you, I intend to make love to you-properly now that the edge is off.” He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Next time will be even better. Less rushed. And the third time better still.”
“Show me,” she said, seeking his lips for another open-mouthed kiss. “Show me everything.”
He did. Until she finally fell asleep in his arms just as the mauve of dawn broke through the window. And when she awoke, he was gone, a single slip of paper resting on the pillow that still bore the indent from where he’d lain. With shaking fingers, she picked up the missive and read the brief message.
I will never forget last night. Forgive me for leaving this way, but I cannot bear to say good-bye.
Her vision blurred, and a tear plopped onto the paper. Ethan was gone. And the empty loneliness was back.
Chapter Seven
Ethan reined in Rose, and after giving his winded, sweaty mare an affectionate pat on the neck, he stared across the beach at the glittering blue expanse of St. Ives Bay. He’d been riding hard since the muted shades of dawn lit the sky, trying in vain to exorcise the memories of last night from his mind. Now, several hours later, bright sunshine gleamed, without a cloud in sight to break the endless azure. Yet how could the sun possibly be shining? Cassie was gone. Surely the weather should have been gray and gloomy, topped off with a cold drizzle-to match his mood.
His gaze slowly tracked down the beach, along the route they’d walked yesterday, pausing for a long moment at the outcropping of rocks where they’d kissed. An emptiness and longing such as he’d never known twisted inside him, one that intertwined with fingers of anger. At himself-for allowing her to stay. For sampling that which he would never have again. For inflicting upon himself this gut-wrenching agony. Maybe it was better to never experience paradise than to do so and know in your soul that nothing would ever again be that good.
He’d missed her before yesterday-with a deep ache that never completely subsided-yet it was an ache he’d learned to live with.
But now, now that he’d held her, tasted her, laughed with her, made love with her, held her while she slept, how could he hope to learn to live with this ache? This debilitating pain that made it feel as if his heart had disintegrated into dust and blown away. That left a hollow space in his chest that nothing could ever hope to fill.
He withdrew her handkerchief from his pocket and stared at the embroidered initials, dark blue letters that matched her eyes. His fingers curled, crushing the material in his fist, and he squeezed his eyes closed. How the bloody hell was it possible to feel so numb, yet hurt so badly?
How could he ever hope to erase her from his memory now? She used to live only in his mind. His heart. His soul. But now the scent of her, the taste and feel of her, were all branded under his skin. So deeply that no other woman would ever be able to erase the imprint-not that any other woman ever had, but at least part of him had always held out hope that perhaps someday he’d find someone who could. Who’d be able to offer more than a fleeting encounter that only served to temporarily ease his loneliness.
Yet now that hope had been trampled. Because he’d discovered the difference between having sex to relieve a physical need and making love to the woman who owned his heart. And soul.
Even worse, all the places that he used to consider his sanctuaries were now steeped in recollections of Cassie. His inn. His stables. This stretch of beach he frequented nearly every day. There was now nowhere to go to escape the memories.
After a final look at the white-capped water, he turned Rose-named for Cassie’s favorite scent-back toward the stables. After currying the mare, he returned to the tack room. He’d just finished putting away his supplies when a voice behind him asked, “May I have a word with ye, Ethan?”
He turned and saw Delia regarding him from the doorway with an indecipherable expression. Based on her pale face and the way her fingers pleated her gray work gown, he suspected something was amiss.