She ran a thumb over his mouth, silencing him. He caught it between his lips and grazed it with his teeth. The pull of his mouth on the sensitive pad of her finger squeezed her insides, sent a bolt of heat to her center.
The war had walled him off, divided him, more than he even knew. The past had divided Frances as well, from many people.
But she need not let it divide her from Henry. Even the walls of Jericho had fallen, given enough faith and the work of a fine soldier. Had not she and Henry agreed to be soldiers together?
Besides, she never had cared about walls between her and her desire. She rushed headlong, willing to be crushed. She grazed his earlobe with her teeth and murmured, “Let’s do it again.”
His whole body jolted, galvanized, and his face turned wondering and wicked at once.
It was easier to tumble into his physical thrall and ensnare him the same way.
So she’d thought. But as she held his face in her hands, kissed his mouth, murmured she knew not what into his ears, she could have cried with loneliness even as she turned for him to slip her dress from her body.
Nineteen
A finger traced the line of Henry’s cheekbone, then drew along his jaw. His skin prickled and woke at the touch.
He was not asleep, but drifting as he lay. His body was full and satisfied. His thoughts sank under a glossy foam of sensation.
He would never get tired of the way Frances touched him. Her fingers, slim and strong, skated over his skin with gentle certainty. It felt as if she knew what she wanted, and the knowledge was precious to her. He was.
Thank God.
He’d had much to be thankful for in recent weeks. More than he had expected, certainly, when he’d taken on a rash quest for a noble wife who would serve as a prize of war, proving that he was still whole and unchanged.
He wasn’t, though. He’d been broken apart in a storm, but the pieces of him that survived were the strongest.
And now he had everything he wanted, did he not? It was difficult to credit. Yet he lay in Frances’s bed; she was curled against his side, and her fingers mapped the contours of his body, tracing his boundaries, seeking another adventure.
He turned his head away. “I owe you everything,” he murmured into the soft press of her down pillow, letting the feathers smother his words. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to hear him. His debt was shamefully great.
The questing finger traced down his neck; then the whole hand splayed over his chest, and Frances pulled herself more closely to him. “What was that?”
Um. “I said, ‘I’ll go this evening.’” How was he to think properly with her touching him?
She stroked his chest, nails raking lightly through the dusting of hair. “And what does that mean? You’ll stay in my bed all day?”
“That plan suits me if it does you.”
“Certainly.” Her hand slid down his chest and stomach, found his already-waking shaft. His hips jerked at the touch. “Before you go this evening, would you like to come this afternoon?”
Henry groaned. “Brilliant and witty. There is no matching you.”
“I think we match rather well.” Her mouth began to wander downward, curious and hot, and his toes clenched.
“I will agree with anything you say when you—oh, God. Yes. God. I do believe I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
She lifted her head and gave her kiss-swollen lips a lick. Henry shivered. “You seem so perfectly correct all the time, Frances. No one knows what wicked depths you have, do they?”
Her smile tipped sideways. “No. No one knows.” She slid up the bed and nestled behind him again, her body a comma against his. Her voice was muffled against the damp skin of his back. “I was still correct, though, wasn’t I?”
“You have no idea how much. But it’s my turn to correct you now, I think.” It was difficult to turn on the narrow confines of the bed without pinning his nerveless arm at an awkward angle. He could hardly tell when it was trapped beneath him.
But all things seemed possible now. He pushed himself upright and looked at his lady, tangled in the sheets.
There were deep shadows under her eyes, fragile and ashy as ground peach-black. He had not noticed this earlier. Obviously his vision had been too fogged by lust.
“Are you all right?”
She turned onto her back and looked up at him. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You look tired.”
Her mouth quirked. “That’s hardly complimentary.”
Henry bent his head to her neck, noticing that her eyes closed as soon as he pressed his mouth to her skin. “I mean,” he said between kisses, “only that”—he caught the sheet in his teeth and tugged it downward—“you do not look as if you want to be importuned again.”
Frances smiled. “What a way to describe our lovemaking. Have I importuned you, then?”
“Of course not.” He stared shamelessly at her breasts. “Men are always willing to take more than women want to give. It’s not fair, but it’s the way of the world.” He wondered if she was too tired to let him taste her.
Her eyes opened at his words, glassy and distant. He had never seen such an expression on her face before. “That is not always the way of the world.”
He did not know what she meant, but it was hard to think too deeply. She had not covered herself, and as he watched, her nipples tightened into hard points. His mouth felt dry. He wanted to drink her in.
He turned on the bed, slid off the end and kneeled on the floor. With a quick tug on the sheet, he laid Frances completely bare.
She raised herself onto her elbows. “What are you doing?”
“Whatever you’ll let me do.”
Her cheeks blushed the dark, warm red of minium. Her lips were red too, from kisses, caresses. With her hair tousled, her skin flushed, her body laid out before him like a banquet of sensation, she looked magnificent. He wished he had a way to capture this moment forever. This was erotic and spiritual together. This was right.
Frances shut her eyes for a moment, looking as though she were trying to persuade herself into something. Then she opened them, a self-conscious smile on her face. “All right. I’ll let you do anything.”
“Really?” His cock grew fully hard.
“Oh, yes. Anything. Are you feeling creative? You may cut my hair, choose my clothes, bathe me in bergamot—ulp.”
Henry had tugged at her leg until she slid farther down the bed toward him.
“Those are all fascinating offers,” he said. “But not precisely what I had in mind right now.”
With his elbow, he nudged her knees apart. “Damned useful things, elbows,” he murmured, and Frances let out a shaky laugh.
He slid a finger within her, then another, and she sank back onto the bed, already trembling. One lick where she was slickest, and the tremors turned to shudders.
“Henry, please, please.” Her voice was faint, as though she wanted something she was afraid to ask for.
He could well guess what she wanted. His fingers moved within her, and she moaned. Surely she would fly apart at any second. Then he would slide within her, feel her inner muscles clenching at him. To give her pleasure was as sweet as finding his own.
He tongued her, drew on her, worked his fingers in her, waiting for her to crest so they could be joined.
But she slipped down instead, her body stilling under his touch. He tried to pull her up again, working his fingers and mouth harder—no, she gave a gasp, but her sleek wetness was drying up. He withdrew his fingers, plucked at her sensitive bud with them. Too late somehow. She was already paling and subsiding, her swollen flesh losing its arousal.